He was a critic upon operas, too,

And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin;
And no Venetian audience could endure a
Song, scene, or air, when he cried "seccatura !"

XXXII.

His "bravo" was decisive, for that sound
Hush'd" Academie" sigh'd in silent awe;
The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around,

For fear of some false note's detected flaw.
The "prima donna's " tuneful heart would bound,
Dreading the deep damnation of his "bah!"
Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto,

Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto.

XXXIII.

He patronised the Improvisatori,

Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as Italians can be, though in this their glory

Must surely yield the palm to that which France has, In short, he was a perfect cavaliero,

And to his very valet seem'd a hero.

XXXIV.

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous;
So that no sort of female could complain,
Although they're now and then a little clamorous,
He never put the pretty souls in pain;

His heart was one of those which most enamour us,
Wax to receive, and marble to retain.

He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cool.

XXXV.

No wonder such accomplishments should turn
A female head, however sage and steady-
With scarce a hope that Beppo could return,

In law he was almost as good as dead, he
Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern,
And she had waited several years already,
And really if a man won't let us know
That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so.

XXXVI.

Besides, within the Alps, to every woman,
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin,)
'T is, I may say, permitted to have two men ;
I can't tell who first brought the custom in,
But" Cavalier Serventes are quite common,
And no one notices nor cares a pin ;
And we may call this (not to say the worst)
A second marriage which corrupts the firs!.

XXXVII.

The word was formerly a "Cicisbeo,"

But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ;
The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo," (")

For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ;
In short it reaches from the Po to Teio,

And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent.

But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses!
Or what becomes of damage and divorces?

XXXVIII.

However, I still think, with all due deference
To the fair single part of the Creation,
That married ladies should preserve the preference
In tête-à-tête or general conversation

And this I say without peculiar reference
To England, France, or any other nation
Because they know the world, and are at ease,
And being natural, naturally please.

XXXIX.

"T is true, your budding Miss is very charming,
But shy and awkward at first coming out,
So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming,
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's harm in
What you, she, it, or they, may be about,
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

66

(1) Cortejo" is pronounced "Corteho," with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural. It means what there is as yet no precise name for in England, though the practice is as common as in any tramontane country whatever.

XL.

But Cavalier Servente " is the phrase
Used in politest circles to express
This supernumerary slave, who stays
Close to the lady as a part of dress,
Her word the only law which he obeys.

His is no sinecure, as you may guess;
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call,
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl.

XLI.

With all its sinful doings, I must say,

That Italy's a pleasant place to me,
Who love to see the Sun shine every day,

And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree
Festoon'd, much like the back scene of a play,
Or melodrame, which people flock to see,
When the first act is ended by a dance
In vineyards copied from the south of France.

XLII.

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out,

Without being forced to bid my groom be sure
My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about,
Because the skies are not the most secure ;
I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route,
Where the green alleys windingly allure,
Reeling with grapes red wagons choke the way,-
In England 't would be dung, dust, or a dray.

XLIII.

I also like to dine on becaficas,

To see the Sun set, sure he 'll rise to-morrow, Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, But with all Heaven t' himself; that day will break as Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers.

XLIV.

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin,

With syllables which breathe of the sweet South,

And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in,

That not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural,
Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

XLV.

I like the women too, (forgive my folly),

From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy,
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael, (1) who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us?. - in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below? (2)

XLVII.

66 England! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government, (but that is not it);

I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus, (when we 've got it)

I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 't is not too late;

(1) For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, see his Lives.

(2)

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially

Of women, would be understood to say,

He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;

Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he
Appear to have offended in this lay,

Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets
Would seem unfinish'd, like their untrimm'd bonnets.

(Signed)

PRINTER'S DEVIL.

XI.VIII.

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any;

Have no objection to a pot of beer;
I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

Digression is a sin, that by degrees
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,
And, therefore, may the reader too displease
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind,
And caring little for the author's ease,
Insists on knowing what he means, a hard
And hapless situation for a bard.

LI.

Oh that I had the art of easy writing

What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing

Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ;

And, sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism.

LII.

But I am but a nameless sort of person,
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels)
And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on,
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,