He and the sombre silent Spirit met—­
    They knew each other both for good and ill;
  Such was their power that neither could forget
    His former friend and future foe; but still
  There was a high, immortal, proud regret
    In either’s eye, as if’t were less their will
  Than destiny to make the eternal years
  Their date of war, and their champ clos the spheres.

  XXXIII.

  But here they were in neutral space:  we know
    From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay
  A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;
    And that “the sons of God”, like those of clay,
  Must keep him company; and we might show
    From the same book, in how polite a way
  The dialogue is held between the powers
  Of Good and Evil—­but ’twould take up hours.

  XXXIV.

  And this is not a theologic tract,
    To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,
  If Job be allegory or a fact,
    But a true narrative; and thus I pick
  From out the whole but such and such an act,
    As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
  ’Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
  And accurate as any other vision.

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!