Written in London 12th January, 1837, on Fraulein Theresa Schmidt, an opera dancer, as Columbine.

Night after night I've fed my eyes,
On sweet "Theresa Schmidt, Fraulein,"
And marvell'd how cold Northern skies
Could mould so fair a Columbine.

No verse, no rhyme could tell my mind,
To vent the praise my heart would breathe,
But she's an English girl I find,
And bears the vulgar name of Smith.

But whatso'er her name may be,
No Roman dancer could surpass,
The way she shows her open C,
And flourishes her jutting arse.

Yes - whatso'er the name she bear.
No graces, no celestial nymphs,
Can grant to men a sight more fair,
Of paradise a clearer glimpse.

Let others rave of Taglioni,
Dancers from Florence or from France,
But give Theresa for my money,
She shines the goddess of the dance.

The sculptor modelling naked truth,
Array'd in Eve's celestial dress,
May find her here in blaze of youth,
In all her native loveliness.

Pure English are the parts she shews,
Although she's call'd Theresa Schmidt;
What's in a name? A bright moss rose
By any other name's as sweet!