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The waltz
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.’
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 logs 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.
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!’
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 Gloster’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 strangest 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.