Chapter LIX: The Waltz

Published in 1813 and described by its author as an "Apostrophic
Hymn".

Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms
Are now extended up from legs to arms;
Terpsichore!--too long misdeem'd a maid--
Reproachful term--bestow'd but to upbraid--
Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine,
The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.
Far be from thee and thine the name of prude;
Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued;
Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly,
If but thy coats are reasonably high;
Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield:
Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field,
And own--impregnable to _most_ assaults,
Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz".

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar,
The whisker'd votary of waltz and war,
His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots;
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes:
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners
A modern hero fought for modish manners;
On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,
Cock'd, fired, and miss'd his man--but gain'd his aim:
Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.
Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz,
The latter's loyalty, the former's wits,
To "energize the object I pursue",
And give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine
(Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine),
Long be thine import from all duty free,
And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee;
In some few qualities alike--for hock
Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock.
The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

O Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below.
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d--d debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still--for George the Third is left!
Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides:
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us--so be pardon'd all our faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"
Back to thy theme--O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_),
Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg was chill'd to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise,
Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies;
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend.
She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes:
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch,
Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match;
And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news,
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's;
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind,
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,
Of Heynè, such as should not sink the packet.

Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight,
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate,
The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand,
And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.
Not decent David, when, before the ark,
His grand _pas-seul_ excited some remark,
Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought;
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread,
Her nimble feet danced off another's head;
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck,
Display'd so much of _leg_, or more of _neck_,
Than thou ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!

To you, ye husbands of ten years whose brows
Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse;
To you of nine years less, who only bear
The budding sprouts of those that you _shall_ wear,
With added ornaments around them roll'd
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold:
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match;
To you, ye children of--whom chance accords--
_Always_ the ladies, and _sometimes_ their lords;
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week;
As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide,
To gain your own, or snatch another's bride;--
To one and all the lovely stranger came,
And every ball-room echoes with her name.

Endearing Waltz! to thy more melting tune
Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon.
Scotch reels, avaunt! and country dance forego
Your future claims to each fantastic toe!
Waltz, Waltz alone, both legs and arms demands,
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne'er before--but--pray "put out the light".
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far, or I am much too near;
And true, though strange, Waltz whispers this remark,
"My slippery steps are safest in the dark!"
But here the Muse with due decorum halts,
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz.

Observant travellers of every time!
Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime!
Oh, say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round,
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound;
Can Egypt's Almas--tantalizing group--
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop--
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne?
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Galt's,
Each tourist pens a paragraph for "Waltz".

Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore,
With George the Third's--and ended long before!--
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive,
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive!
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host;
Fools' Paradise is dull to that you lost.
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake;
No stiff-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape
Goats in their visage, women in their shape):
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd,
But more caressing seems when most caress'd;
Superfluous hartshorn and reviving salts;
Both banished, by the sovereign cordial, "Waltz".

Seductive Waltz!--though on thy native shore
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore:
Werter--to decent vice though much inclined,
Yet warm, not wanton; dazzled, but not blind--
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Staël,
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball;
The fashion hails--from countesses to queens,
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes;
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads,
And turns--if nothing else--at least our _heads_;
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce,
And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce.
Gods! how the glorious theme my strain exalts,
And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of "Waltz!"

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her _début_:
The court, the Regent, like herself, were new,
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards;
New ornaments for black and royal guards;
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread;
New coins (most new) to follow those that fled;
New victories--nor can we prize them less,
Though Jenky wonders at his own success;
New wars, because the old succeed so well,
That most survivors envy those who fell;
New mistresses--no, old--and yet 'tis true,
Though they be _old_, the _thing_ is something new;
Each new, quite new--(except some ancient tricks),
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new sticks!
With vests or ribbons, deck'd alike in hue,
New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue;
So saith the muse! my ----, what say you?
Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain
Her new preferments in this novel reign;
Such was the time, nor ever yet was such:
Hoops are _no more_, and petticoats _not much_:
Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays,
And tell-tale powder--all have had their days.
The ball begins--the honours of the house
First duly done by daughter or by spouse,
Some potentate--or royal or serene--
With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Glo'ster's mien,
Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush
Might once have been mistaken for a blush,
From where the garb just leaves the bosom free,
That spot where hearts were once supposed to be;
Round all the confines of the yielded waist,
The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced;
The lady's in return may grasp as much
As princely paunches offer to her touch.
Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip,
One hand reposing on the royal hip:
The other to the shoulder no less royal
Ascending with affection truly loyal!
Thus front to front the partners move or stand,
The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand;
And all in turn may follow in their rank,
The Earl of--Asterisk--and Lady--Blank;
Sir--Such-a-one--with those of fashion's host,
For whose blest surnames--_vide Morning Post_
(Or if for that impartial print too late,
Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)--
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow,
The genial contact gently undergo;
Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk,
If "nothing follows all this palming work".
True, honest Mirza!--you may trust my rhyme--
Something does follow at a fitter time;
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man
In private may resist him--if it can.

O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore,
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more!
And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will
It is to love the lovely beldames still!
Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite
Satan may spare to peep a single night,
Pronounce--if ever in your days of bliss
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this;
To teach the young ideas how to rise,
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes;
Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame,
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame;
For prurient nature still will storm the breast--
_Who_, tempted thus, can answer for the rest?

But ye, who never felt a single thought,
For what our morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say--would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?
At once love's most endearing thought resign,
To press the hand so press'd by none but thine;
To gaze upon that eye which never met
Another's ardent look without regret;
Approach the lip which all, without restraint,
Come near enough--if not to touch--to taint;
If such thou lovest--love her then no more,
Or give--like her--caresses to a score;
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
The bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore, forgive!--at every ball
My wife _now_ waltzes--and my daughters _shall_;
_My_ son--(or stop--'tis needless to inquire--
These little accidents should ne'er transpire;
Some ages hence our genealogic tree
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)--
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends,
Grandsons for me--in heirs to all his friends.

LX. "THE DEDICATION" IN DON JUAN.

Southey as Poet Laureate was a favourite target for satirical quips
and cranks on the part of Byron. This "Dedication" was not
published until after the author's death.

I.

Bob Southey! You're a poet--Poet-laureate,
And representative of all the race;
Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory
Last--yours has lately been a common case--
And now, my Epic Renegade! what are ye at?
With all the Lakers, in and out of place?
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye
Like "four-and-twenty Blackbirds in a pie;

II.

"Which pie being open'd they began to sing"
(This old song and new simile holds good),
"A dainty dish to set before the King",
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food--
And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing,
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood--
Explaining metaphysics to the nation--
I wish he would explain his Explanation.

III.

You, Bob, are rather insolent, you know
At being disappointed in your wish
To supersede all warblers here below,
And be the only blackbird in the dish;
And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward like the flying fish
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Bob,
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob!

IV.

And Wordsworth, in a rather long "Excursion"
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages),
Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages;
'Tis poetry--at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages--
And he who understands it would be able
To add a story to the Tower of Babel.

V.

You--Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion
From better company, have kept your own
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion
Of one another's minds, at last have grown
To deem as a most logical conclusion,
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone;
There is a narrowness in such a notion,
Which makes me wish you'd change your lakes for ocean.

VI.

I would not imitate the petty thought,
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
For all the glory your conversion brought,
Since gold alone should not have been its price,
You have your salary; was't for that you wrought?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise!
You're shabby fellows--true--but poets still,
And duly seated on the immortal hill.

VII.

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows--
Perhaps some virtuous blushes, let them go--
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
And for the fame you would engross below,
The field is universal, and allows
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow;
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try
'Gainst you the question with posterity.

VIII.

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian Muses,
Contend not with you on the winged steed,
I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need;
And recollect a poet nothing loses
In giving to his brethren their full meed
Of merit, and complaint of present days
Is not the certain path to future praise.

IX.

He that reserves his laurels for posterity
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion)
Has generally no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion;
And although here and there some glorious rarity
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
The major part of such appellants go
To--God knows where--for no one else can know.

X.

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time,
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs,
And makes the word "Miltonic" mean "_sublime_",
_He_ deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
_He_ did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.

XI.

Think'st thou, could he--the blind old man--arise,
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again--again all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,
And heartless daughters--worn--and pale--and poor:
Would _he_ adore a sultan? _he_ obey
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

XII.

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,
Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,
With just enough of talent, and no more,
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd.
And offer poison long already mix'd.

XIII.

An orator of such set trash of phrase
Ineffably--legitimately vile,
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,
Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile;
Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,
That turns and turns to give the world a notion
Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

XIV.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade,
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
Something of which its masters are afraid,
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined,
Conspiracy or Congress to be made--
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind--
A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains,
With God and man's abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind,
Emasculated to the marrow _It_
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind,
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
Eutropius of its many masters,--blind
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
Fearless--because _no_ feeling dwells in ice,
Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

XVI.

Where shall I turn me not to _view_ its bonds,
For I will never _feel_ them:--Italy!
Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee--
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
Have voices--tongues to cry aloud for me.
Europe has slaves--allies--kings--armies still,
And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

XVII.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate,
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
And if in flattering strains I do not predicate,
'Tis that I still retain my "buff and blue";
My politics as yet are all to educate:
Apostasy's so fashionable, too,
To keep _one_ creed's a task grown quite Herculean:
Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra-Julian?

VENICE, September 16, 1818.

THOMAS HOOD.

(1798-1845.)