The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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THE BALL. |
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
THE BALL.
The Ball Room emulates the light of day—
All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay;
Each instrument to finest tones is set,
For leader of quadrilles is Collinet.
So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair,
All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there.
Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along,
Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng;
The Highland chieftain, in his tartan plaid,
And some like warriors of the old crusade.
Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes,
And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes;
Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews,
Peasants and players, in costumes out of use.
Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor,
Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more,
But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail,
And future generations tell the tale,
How their great ancestors had danc'd with lords,
Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words;
And many a smile which in the dance was seen,
May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green:
For such a sly insidious imp is Love,
He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove;
Where peasants dance upon the festive day,
He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away.
In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind,
And wounds in parties of the most refin'd;
Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair,
But often sends his strongest arrows there.
Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers,
Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers;
While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep—
Their only tears are those which daisies weep.
But oh, may none who figured at this ball,
Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall;
But on this night, should any hearts be joined,
May such through life know happiness refined;
And when they with fantastic dresses part,
Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart,
In which, when worldly cares the passions try,
May love increase, till death dissolve the tie!
All there is mirth, and ev'ry one is gay;
Each instrument to finest tones is set,
For leader of quadrilles is Collinet.
So oddly dressed the young, the old, the fair,
All kingdoms seem to have sent dancers there.
Kings, emperors, and sultans skip along,
Monks, robbers, and banditti swell the throng;
311
And some like warriors of the old crusade.
Here, one a Quaker's modest dress assumes,
And, there, a Spanish don, with waving plumes;
Chinese and Indians, Persians, Turks, and Jews,
Peasants and players, in costumes out of use.
Hundreds of fancy dresses, rich or poor,
Were worn that night, which shall be worn no more,
But hang for cent'ries like old coats of mail,
And future generations tell the tale,
How their great ancestors had danc'd with lords,
Or with a duke or countess chang'd blithe words;
And many a smile which in the dance was seen,
May end in chaise, a ring, and Gretna Green:
For such a sly insidious imp is Love,
He haunts the ball-room, palace, and the grove;
Where peasants dance upon the festive day,
He plays his pranks unseen, and soars away.
In wildest haunts he melts the savage mind,
And wounds in parties of the most refin'd;
Spares not the innocent nor beauteous fair,
But often sends his strongest arrows there.
Many who felt his dart in fragrant bowers,
Now rest in peace, their graves bedeck'd with flowers;
While those they died for, feel no sorrow deep—
Their only tears are those which daisies weep.
But oh, may none who figured at this ball,
Conceal the wound, fade, and untimely fall;
312
May such through life know happiness refined;
And when they with fantastic dresses part,
Beneath may each one find a virtuous heart,
In which, when worldly cares the passions try,
May love increase, till death dissolve the tie!
How changed old Ebor, since the Roman foe
Entered her gates, and laid her glories low!
Her warriors slain, or carried captive far,
Who knew no dance except the dance of war;
Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn,
That called them to the chase at early morn;
While this, in war-songs, raised their courage high,
They rushed to battle, not afraid to die.
Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung,
The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung;
The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head,
While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled;
Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home,
Beating their swords against the shields of Rome;
While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears,
And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears;
But now, no foreign foes approach her walls,
No Danish ruffians revel in her halls;
Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance;
Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
Adorn'd in fancy dresses, show their skill
To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille.
Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke,
And arms! to arms! the piercing trumpet spoke.
To arms! to arms! the rattling drums reply—
The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh.
They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu,
But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew.
The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field,
With breasts unarm'd—their valour was their shield;
And Europe's shield these warriors proved to be;
For on their helms danced fame and victory.
Entered her gates, and laid her glories low!
Her warriors slain, or carried captive far,
Who knew no dance except the dance of war;
Who heard no chords but from the harp or horn,
That called them to the chase at early morn;
While this, in war-songs, raised their courage high,
They rushed to battle, not afraid to die.
Where now the ball-room is with grandeur hung,
The fall of foes old Ebor's daughters sung;
The pheasants' feathers then adorned each head,
While they rejoiced that ev'ry foe was fled;
Dancing, they hailed the conq'ring warriors home,
Beating their swords against the shields of Rome;
While some brave chief the captur'd eagles bears,
And glitt'ring trophies hang on bloody spears;
But now, no foreign foes approach her walls,
No Danish ruffians revel in her halls;
Rusted the warrior's spear, the sword and lance;
Instead of fighting, England's sons can dance,
313
To trip the waltz, or figure the quadrille.
Not so at Brussels, when their mirth was broke,
And arms! to arms! the piercing trumpet spoke.
To arms! to arms! the rattling drums reply—
The warriors hear, and know their foes are nigh.
They scarce had time to bid the fair adieu,
But armed, and swiftly on their chargers flew.
The dance forgot, their hearts were on the field,
With breasts unarm'd—their valour was their shield;
And Europe's shield these warriors proved to be;
For on their helms danced fame and victory.
But what has York's grand festival to do
With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo,
Except to tell the great how bless'd they are—
Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war?
For then was many a fair, who loved the brave,
Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave.
And ladies of the purest virtue there,
Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear.
Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet,
And hundreds show the graces of their feet;
Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around,
Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound.
Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known
Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
Old age and wisdom there sat smiling, fain,
And wished to try if they could dance again;
E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned
That such accomplishments they never learned.
With arms, with warriors, or with Waterloo,
Except to tell the great how bless'd they are—
Their joys unbroken by the sounds of war?
For then was many a fair, who loved the brave,
Yet knew not where to find her warrior's grave.
And ladies of the purest virtue there,
Who bath'd a brother's wounds with many a tear.
Not so at York, when cheerful thousands meet,
And hundreds show the graces of their feet;
Secure, the lords and ladies wheel around,
Still keeping time to music's sweetest sound.
Had Solomon been there, he scarce had known
Which lady in the richest splendour shone.
314
And wished to try if they could dance again;
E'en those who durst not rise, most deeply mourned
That such accomplishments they never learned.
Now viols' notes in softest cadence die—
The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry:
For be musician's genius e'er so fine,
It always fails, except improved with wine—
Wine, which gives poetry and music wings,
Inspires with animation all the strings;
Makes each wind instrument have better tone,
And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone.
Now they repose—and what each clime affords
Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords;
And every dainty that can please the fair,
With choicest wines, is in profusion there.
Old York had ransacked every vale and hill,
To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill.
The far-famed band their viols, tune again,
And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain;
With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves,
And fans are waved around like poplar leaves,
In all the colours which the rainbow bears,
When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears.
The dance is o'er, and the musicians dry:
For be musician's genius e'er so fine,
It always fails, except improved with wine—
Wine, which gives poetry and music wings,
Inspires with animation all the strings;
Makes each wind instrument have better tone,
And fills with nobler notes the deep trombone.
Now they repose—and what each clime affords
Is spread for tradesmen, dandies, and for lords;
And every dainty that can please the fair,
With choicest wines, is in profusion there.
Old York had ransacked every vale and hill,
To show her taste, her cook'ry, and her skill.
The far-famed band their viols, tune again,
And glasses, half drunk off, may there remain;
With joy and rapture ev'ry bosom heaves,
And fans are waved around like poplar leaves,
In all the colours which the rainbow bears,
When weeping clouds dissolve in showers of tears.
Had I been there, I might have sung of all
The glory and the grandeur of the ball;
But, fettered fast, far distant forced to stay,
My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way.
No muse I boast, no great poetic skill,
Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille;
But this I know, in humble country reels
Care cannot stick a feather on their heels;
Time wings away, while all forget his speed;
While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed.
The glory and the grandeur of the ball;
315
My weak, blind fancy only dreams the way.
No muse I boast, no great poetic skill,
Nor ever knew a waltz or French quadrille;
But this I know, in humble country reels
Care cannot stick a feather on their heels;
Time wings away, while all forget his speed;
While pleasure lasts, no other thing they heed.
The music bursts again!—the diamond's blaze,
And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze.
Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost,
Such lovely forms could Athens never boast;
The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced,
Had they but seen how British ladies danced;
And great Raphael should there have present been,
To keep through ages the imposing scene,
When those who tripped along no more can move
In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love.
And Grandeur's self lead through each varying maze.
Ere ancient Greece her pride and glory lost,
Such lovely forms could Athens never boast;
The Grecian sculptors had in skill advanced,
Had they but seen how British ladies danced;
And great Raphael should there have present been,
To keep through ages the imposing scene,
When those who tripped along no more can move
In sprightly dance, nor smile the smile of love.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |