The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart:
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims,
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.
O Germany! how much to thee we owe,
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below.
Ere cursed confederation made thee France's,
And only left us thy d--d debts and dances!
Of subsidies and Hanover bereft,
We bless thee still--for George the Third is left!
Of kings the best, and last not least in worth,
For graciously begetting George the Fourth.
To Germany, and highnesses serene,
Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen?
To Germany, what owe we not besides?
So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides:
Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood,
Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud;
Who sent us--so be pardon'd all our faults--
A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz.
But peace to her, her emperor and diet,
Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"
Back to thy theme--O Muse of motion! say,
How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?
Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_),
Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep
To snowy Gottenburg was chill'd to sleep;
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise,
Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies;
While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send,
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend.
She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes:
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch,
Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match;
And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news,
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's;
One envoy's letters, six composers' airs,
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs:
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind,
Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind;
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it,
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet.
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