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Her mind with these is gone, and with it go
The little left behind it to bestow.

Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme?
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme.
Terpsichore, forgive!-at every ball

My wife now waltzes-and my daughters shall; My son- -(or stop-t is 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.

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THE

AGE OF BRONZE.

I.

THE "good old times"-all times when old are good-
Are gone; the present might be if they would;
Great things have been, and are, and greater still
Want little of mere mortals but their will;
A wider space, a greener field, is given

To those who play their "tricks before high heaven."
I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough-for what?-to weep again.

11.

All is exploded-be it good or bad.

Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deem'd him such.
We, we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face-
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea

Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free,

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