Her Courtship.

Miss Kilmansegg took off her leg,And laid it down like a cribbage-peg,For the Rout was done and the riot:The Square was hush’d; not a sound was heard;The sky was gray, and no creature stirr’d,Except one little precocious bird,That chirp’d—and then was quiet.So still without,—so still within;—It had been a sinTo drop a pin—So intense is silence after a din,It seem’d like Death’s rehearsal!To stir the air no eddy came;And the taper burnt with as still a flame,As to flicker had been a burning shame,In a calm so universal.The time for sleep had come at last;And there was the bed, so soft, so vast,Quite a field of Bedfordshire clover;Softer, cooler, and calmer, no doubt,From the piece of work just ravell’d out,For one of the pleasures of having a routIs the pleasure of having it over.No sordid pallet, or truckle mean,Of straw, and rug, and tatters unclean;But a splendid, gilded, carved machine,That was fit for a Royal Chamber.On the top was a gorgeous golden wreath;And the damask curtains hung beneath,Like clouds of crimson and amber;Curtains, held up by two little plump things,With golden bodies and golden wings,—Mere fins for such solidities—Two Cupids, in short,Of the regular sort,But the housemaid call’d them “Cupidities.”No patchwork quilt, all seams and scars,But velvet, powder’d with golden stars,A fit mantle forNight-Commanders!And the pillow, as white as snow undimm’dAnd as cool as the pool that the breeze has skimm’d,Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm’dWith the costliest lace of Flanders.And the bed—of the Eider’s softest down,’Twas a place to revel, to smother, to drownIn a bliss inferr’d by the Poet;For if Ignorance be indeed a bliss,What blessed ignoaance equals this,To sleep—and not to know it?Oh, bed! oh, bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head;But a place that to name would be ill-bred,To the head with a wakeful trouble—’Tis held by such a different lease!To one, a place of comfort and peace,All stuff’d with the down of stubble geese,To another with only the stubble!To one, a perfect Halcyon nest,All calm, and balm and quiet, and rest,And soft as the fur of the cony—To another, so restless for body and head,That the bed seems borrow’d from Nettlebed,And the pillow from Stratford the Stony!To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease,To the Land of Nod, or where you please;But alas! for the watchers and weepers,Who turn, and turn, and turn again,But turn, and turn, and turn in vain,With an anxious brain,And thoughts in a train,That does not run uponsleepers!Wide awake as the mousing owl,Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl,—But more profitless vigils keeping,—Wide awake in the dark they stare,Filling with phantoms the vacant air,As if that Crook-back’d Tyrant CareHad plotted to kill them sleeping.And oh! when the blessed diurnal lightIs quench’d by the providential night,To render our slumber more certain!Pity, pity the wretches that weep,For they must be wretched, who cannot sleepWhen God himself draws the curtain!The careful Betty the pillow beats,And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets,And gives the mattress a shaking—But vainly Betty performs her part,If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart,As well as the couch, want making.There’s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves,Where other people would make preserves,He turns his fruits into pickles:Jealous, envious, and fretful by day,At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,He lies like a hedgehog roll’d up the wrong way,Tormenting himself with his prickles.But a child—that bids the world good night,In downright earnest and cuts it quite—A Cherub no Art can copy,—’Tis a perfect picture to see him lieAs if he had supp’d on a dormouse pie,(An ancient classical dish, by the by)With a sauce of syrup of poppy.Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head,Whether lofty or low its condition!But instead of putting our plagues on shelves,In our blankets how often we toss ourselves,Or are toss’d by such allegorical elvesAs Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition!The independent Miss KilmanseggTook off her independent LegAnd laid it beneath her pillow,And then on the bed her frame she cast,The time for repose had come at last,But long, long, after the storm is pastRolls the turbid, turbulent billow.No part she had in vulgar caresThat belong to common household affairs—Nocturnal annoyances such as theirs,Who lie with a shrewd surmising,That while they are couchant (a bitter cup!)Their bread and butter are getting up,And the coals, confound them, are rising.No fear she had her sleep to postpone,Like the crippled Widow who weeps aloneAnd cannot make a doze her own,For the dread that mayhap on the morrow,The true and Christian reading to baulk,A broker will take up her bed and walkBy way of curing her sorrow.No cause like these she had to bewail,But the breath of applause had blown a gale,And winds from that quarter seldom failTo cause some human commotion;But whenever such breezes coincideWith the very spring-tideOf human pride,There’s no such swell on the ocean!Peace, and ease, and slumber lost,She turn’d, and roll’d, and tumbled and toss’dWith a tumult that would not settle:A common case, indeed, with suchAs have too little, or think too much,Of the precious and glittering metal.Gold!—she saw at her golden footThe Peer whose tree had an olden root,The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot,The handsome, the gay, and the witty—The Man of Science—of Arms—of Art,The man who deals but at Pleasure’s mart,And the man who deals in the City.Gold, still gold—and true to the mould!In the very scheme of her dream it told;For, by magical transmutation,From her Leg through her body it seem’d to go,Till, gold above, and gold below,She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toeTo her organ of Veneration!And still she retain’d through Fancy’s art,The Golden Bow and Golden Dart,With which she had play’d a Goddess’s part,In her recent glorification:And still, like one of the self-same brood,On a Plinth of the self-same metal she stoodFor the whole world’s adoration.And hymns and incense around her roll’d,From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold,—For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroll’dAs a horse without a bridle:What wonder, then, from all checks exempt,If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamtShe was turn’d to a Golden Idol?

So still without,—so still within;—It had been a sinTo drop a pin—So intense is silence after a din,It seem’d like Death’s rehearsal!To stir the air no eddy came;And the taper burnt with as still a flame,As to flicker had been a burning shame,In a calm so universal.

The time for sleep had come at last;And there was the bed, so soft, so vast,Quite a field of Bedfordshire clover;Softer, cooler, and calmer, no doubt,From the piece of work just ravell’d out,For one of the pleasures of having a routIs the pleasure of having it over.

No sordid pallet, or truckle mean,Of straw, and rug, and tatters unclean;But a splendid, gilded, carved machine,That was fit for a Royal Chamber.On the top was a gorgeous golden wreath;And the damask curtains hung beneath,Like clouds of crimson and amber;

Curtains, held up by two little plump things,With golden bodies and golden wings,—Mere fins for such solidities—Two Cupids, in short,Of the regular sort,But the housemaid call’d them “Cupidities.”

No patchwork quilt, all seams and scars,But velvet, powder’d with golden stars,A fit mantle forNight-Commanders!And the pillow, as white as snow undimm’dAnd as cool as the pool that the breeze has skimm’d,Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm’dWith the costliest lace of Flanders.

And the bed—of the Eider’s softest down,’Twas a place to revel, to smother, to drownIn a bliss inferr’d by the Poet;For if Ignorance be indeed a bliss,What blessed ignoaance equals this,To sleep—and not to know it?

Oh, bed! oh, bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head;But a place that to name would be ill-bred,To the head with a wakeful trouble—’Tis held by such a different lease!To one, a place of comfort and peace,All stuff’d with the down of stubble geese,To another with only the stubble!

To one, a perfect Halcyon nest,All calm, and balm and quiet, and rest,And soft as the fur of the cony—To another, so restless for body and head,That the bed seems borrow’d from Nettlebed,And the pillow from Stratford the Stony!

To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease,To the Land of Nod, or where you please;But alas! for the watchers and weepers,Who turn, and turn, and turn again,But turn, and turn, and turn in vain,With an anxious brain,And thoughts in a train,That does not run uponsleepers!

Wide awake as the mousing owl,Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl,—But more profitless vigils keeping,—Wide awake in the dark they stare,Filling with phantoms the vacant air,As if that Crook-back’d Tyrant CareHad plotted to kill them sleeping.

And oh! when the blessed diurnal lightIs quench’d by the providential night,To render our slumber more certain!Pity, pity the wretches that weep,For they must be wretched, who cannot sleepWhen God himself draws the curtain!

The careful Betty the pillow beats,And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets,And gives the mattress a shaking—But vainly Betty performs her part,If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart,As well as the couch, want making.

There’s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves,Where other people would make preserves,He turns his fruits into pickles:Jealous, envious, and fretful by day,At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey,He lies like a hedgehog roll’d up the wrong way,Tormenting himself with his prickles.

But a child—that bids the world good night,In downright earnest and cuts it quite—A Cherub no Art can copy,—’Tis a perfect picture to see him lieAs if he had supp’d on a dormouse pie,(An ancient classical dish, by the by)With a sauce of syrup of poppy.

Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed!That heaven upon earth to the weary head,Whether lofty or low its condition!But instead of putting our plagues on shelves,In our blankets how often we toss ourselves,Or are toss’d by such allegorical elvesAs Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition!

The independent Miss KilmanseggTook off her independent LegAnd laid it beneath her pillow,And then on the bed her frame she cast,The time for repose had come at last,But long, long, after the storm is pastRolls the turbid, turbulent billow.

No part she had in vulgar caresThat belong to common household affairs—Nocturnal annoyances such as theirs,Who lie with a shrewd surmising,That while they are couchant (a bitter cup!)Their bread and butter are getting up,And the coals, confound them, are rising.

No fear she had her sleep to postpone,Like the crippled Widow who weeps aloneAnd cannot make a doze her own,For the dread that mayhap on the morrow,The true and Christian reading to baulk,A broker will take up her bed and walkBy way of curing her sorrow.

No cause like these she had to bewail,But the breath of applause had blown a gale,And winds from that quarter seldom failTo cause some human commotion;But whenever such breezes coincideWith the very spring-tideOf human pride,There’s no such swell on the ocean!

Peace, and ease, and slumber lost,She turn’d, and roll’d, and tumbled and toss’dWith a tumult that would not settle:A common case, indeed, with suchAs have too little, or think too much,Of the precious and glittering metal.

Gold!—she saw at her golden footThe Peer whose tree had an olden root,The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot,The handsome, the gay, and the witty—The Man of Science—of Arms—of Art,The man who deals but at Pleasure’s mart,And the man who deals in the City.

Gold, still gold—and true to the mould!In the very scheme of her dream it told;For, by magical transmutation,From her Leg through her body it seem’d to go,Till, gold above, and gold below,She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toeTo her organ of Veneration!

And still she retain’d through Fancy’s art,The Golden Bow and Golden Dart,With which she had play’d a Goddess’s part,In her recent glorification:And still, like one of the self-same brood,On a Plinth of the self-same metal she stoodFor the whole world’s adoration.

And hymns and incense around her roll’d,From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold,—For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroll’dAs a horse without a bridle:What wonder, then, from all checks exempt,If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamtShe was turn’d to a Golden Idol?

When leaving Eden’s happy landThe grieving Angel led by the handOur banish’d Father and Mother,Forgotten amid their awful doom,The tears, the fears, and the future’s gloom,On each brow was a wreath of Paradise bloom,That our Parents had twined for each other.It was only while sitting like figures of stone,For the grieving angel had skyward flown,As they sat, those Two in the world alone,With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven,That scenting the gust of happier hours,They look’d around for the precious flow’rs,And lo!—a last relic of Eden’s dear bow’rs—The chaplet that Love had woven!And still, when a pair of Lovers meet,There’s a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet,That savours still of that happy retreatWhere Eve by Adam was courted:Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove,Woo’d their mates in the boughs above,And the Serpent, as yet, only sported.Who hath not felt that breath in the air,A perfume and freshness strange and rare,A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,When young hearts yearn together?All sweets below, and all sunny above,Oh! there’s nothing in life like making love,Save making hay in fine weather!Who hath not found amongst his flow’rsA blossom too bright for this world of ours,Like a rose among snows of Sweden?But to turn again to Miss Kilmansegg,Where must Love have gone to beg,If such a thing as a Golden LegHad put its foot in Eden!And yet—to tell the rigid truth—Her favour was sought by Age and Youth—For the prey will find a prowler!She was follow’d, flatter’d, courted, address’d,Woo’d, and coo’d, and wheedled, and press’d,By suitors from North, South, East, and West,Like that Heiress, in song, Tibbie Fowler!But, alas! alas! for the Woman’s fate,Who has from a mob to choose a mate!’Tis a strange and painful mystery!But the more the eggs, the worse the hatch;The more the fish, the worse the catch;The more the sparks, the worse the match;Is a fact in Woman’s history.Give her between a brace to pick,And mayhap, with luck to help the trick,She will take the Faustus, and leave the Old Nick—But her future bliss to baffle,Amongst a score let her have a voice,And she’ll have as little cause to rejoice,As if she had won the “Man of her choice”In a matrimonial raffle!Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope,Fulfilling the adage of too much rope,With so ample a competition,She chose the least worthy of all the group,Just as the vulture makes a stoop,And singles out from the herd or troopThe beast of the worst condition.A Foreign Count—who came incog.,Not under a cloud, but under a fog,In a Calais packet’s fore-cabin,To charm some lady British-born,With his eyes as black as the fruit of the thorn,And his hooky nose, and his beard half-shorn,Like a half-converted Rabbin.And because the Sex confess a charmIn the man who has slash’d a head or arm,Or has been a throat’s undoing,He was dress’d like one of the glorious trade,At least when Glory is off parade,With a stock, and a frock, well trimm’d with braidAnd frogs—that went a-wooing.Moreover, as Counts are apt to do,On the left-hand side of his dark surtout,At one of those holes that buttons go through,(To be a precise recorder,)A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap,About an inch of ribbon mayhap,That one of his rivals, whimsical chap,Described as his “Retail Order.”And then—and much it help’d his chance—He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance,Perform charades, and Proverbs of France—Act the tender, and do the cruel;For amongst his other killing parts,He had broken a brace of female hearts,And murder’d three men in duel!Savage at heart, and false of tongue,Subtle with age, and smooth to the young,Like a snake in his coiling and curling—Such was the Count—to give him a niche—Who came to court that Heiress rich,And knelt at her foot—one needn’t say which—Besieging her castle ofSterling.With pray’rs and vows he open’d his trench,And plied her with English, Spanish, and French,In phrases the most sentimental:And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch,With now and then an Italian touch,Till she yielded, without resisting much,To homage so continental.And then—the sordid bargain to close—With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose,And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes,And his beard and whiskers as black as those,The lady’s consent he requited—And instead of the lock that lovers beg,The count received from Miss KilmanseggA model, in small, of her Precious leg—And so the couple were plighted!But, oh! the love that gold must crown!Better—better, the love of the clown,Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown,As if all the fairies had dress’d her!Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth,Except that he never will part on earthWith his true love’s crooked tester!Alas! for the love that’s linked with gold!Better—better a thousand times told—More honest, happy, and laudable,The downright loving of pretty Cis,Who wipes her lips, though there’s nothing amiss,And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss,In which her heart is audible!Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright,Who loves—as she labours—with all her might,And without any sordid leaven!Who blushes as red as haws and hips,Down to her very finger-tips,For Roger’s blue ribbons—to her, like stripsCut out of the azure of Heaven!

It was only while sitting like figures of stone,For the grieving angel had skyward flown,As they sat, those Two in the world alone,With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven,That scenting the gust of happier hours,They look’d around for the precious flow’rs,And lo!—a last relic of Eden’s dear bow’rs—The chaplet that Love had woven!

And still, when a pair of Lovers meet,There’s a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet,That savours still of that happy retreatWhere Eve by Adam was courted:Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove,Woo’d their mates in the boughs above,And the Serpent, as yet, only sported.

Who hath not felt that breath in the air,A perfume and freshness strange and rare,A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,When young hearts yearn together?All sweets below, and all sunny above,Oh! there’s nothing in life like making love,Save making hay in fine weather!

Who hath not found amongst his flow’rsA blossom too bright for this world of ours,Like a rose among snows of Sweden?But to turn again to Miss Kilmansegg,Where must Love have gone to beg,If such a thing as a Golden LegHad put its foot in Eden!

And yet—to tell the rigid truth—Her favour was sought by Age and Youth—For the prey will find a prowler!She was follow’d, flatter’d, courted, address’d,Woo’d, and coo’d, and wheedled, and press’d,By suitors from North, South, East, and West,Like that Heiress, in song, Tibbie Fowler!

But, alas! alas! for the Woman’s fate,Who has from a mob to choose a mate!’Tis a strange and painful mystery!But the more the eggs, the worse the hatch;The more the fish, the worse the catch;The more the sparks, the worse the match;Is a fact in Woman’s history.

Give her between a brace to pick,And mayhap, with luck to help the trick,She will take the Faustus, and leave the Old Nick—But her future bliss to baffle,Amongst a score let her have a voice,And she’ll have as little cause to rejoice,As if she had won the “Man of her choice”In a matrimonial raffle!

Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope,Fulfilling the adage of too much rope,With so ample a competition,She chose the least worthy of all the group,Just as the vulture makes a stoop,And singles out from the herd or troopThe beast of the worst condition.

A Foreign Count—who came incog.,Not under a cloud, but under a fog,In a Calais packet’s fore-cabin,To charm some lady British-born,With his eyes as black as the fruit of the thorn,And his hooky nose, and his beard half-shorn,Like a half-converted Rabbin.

And because the Sex confess a charmIn the man who has slash’d a head or arm,Or has been a throat’s undoing,He was dress’d like one of the glorious trade,At least when Glory is off parade,With a stock, and a frock, well trimm’d with braidAnd frogs—that went a-wooing.

Moreover, as Counts are apt to do,On the left-hand side of his dark surtout,At one of those holes that buttons go through,(To be a precise recorder,)A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap,About an inch of ribbon mayhap,That one of his rivals, whimsical chap,Described as his “Retail Order.”

And then—and much it help’d his chance—He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance,Perform charades, and Proverbs of France—Act the tender, and do the cruel;For amongst his other killing parts,He had broken a brace of female hearts,And murder’d three men in duel!

Savage at heart, and false of tongue,Subtle with age, and smooth to the young,Like a snake in his coiling and curling—Such was the Count—to give him a niche—Who came to court that Heiress rich,And knelt at her foot—one needn’t say which—Besieging her castle ofSterling.

With pray’rs and vows he open’d his trench,And plied her with English, Spanish, and French,In phrases the most sentimental:And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch,With now and then an Italian touch,Till she yielded, without resisting much,To homage so continental.

And then—the sordid bargain to close—With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose,And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes,And his beard and whiskers as black as those,The lady’s consent he requited—And instead of the lock that lovers beg,The count received from Miss KilmanseggA model, in small, of her Precious leg—And so the couple were plighted!

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!Better—better, the love of the clown,Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown,As if all the fairies had dress’d her!Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth,Except that he never will part on earthWith his true love’s crooked tester!

Alas! for the love that’s linked with gold!Better—better a thousand times told—More honest, happy, and laudable,The downright loving of pretty Cis,Who wipes her lips, though there’s nothing amiss,And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss,In which her heart is audible!

Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright,Who loves—as she labours—with all her might,And without any sordid leaven!Who blushes as red as haws and hips,Down to her very finger-tips,For Roger’s blue ribbons—to her, like stripsCut out of the azure of Heaven!

’Twas morn—a most auspicious one!From the Golden East, the Golden SunCame forth his glorious race to run,Through clouds of most splendid tinges;Clouds that lately slept in shade,But now seem’d madeOf gold brocade,With magnificent golden fringes.Gold above, and gold below,The earth reflected the golden glow,From river, and hill, and valleyGilt by the golden light of morn,The Thames—it look’d like the Golden Horn,And the Barge, that carried coal or corn,Like Cleopatra’s Galley!Bright as clusters of Golden-rod,Suburban poplars began to nod,With extempore splendour furnish’d;While London was bright with glittering clocks,Golden dragons, and Golden cocks,And above them all,The dome of St. Paul,With its Golden Cross and its Golden Ball,Shone out as if newly burnish’d!And lo! for Golden Hours and Joys,Troops of glittering Golden BoysDanced along with a jocund noise,And their gilded emblems carried!In short, ’twas the year’s most Golden Day,By mortals call’d the First of May,When Miss Kilmansegg,Of the Golden Leg,With a Golden Ring was married!And thousands of children, women, and men,Counted the clock from eight till ten,From St. James’s sonorous steeple;For next to that interesting job,The hanging of Jack, or Bill, or Bob,There’s nothing so draws a London mobAs the noosing of very rich people.And a treat it was for the mob to beholdThe Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold!And the Footman tall and the Coachman bold,In liveries so resplendent—Coats you wonder’d to see in place,They seem’d so rich with golden lace,That they might have been independent.Coats, that made those menials proudGaze with scorn on the dingy crowd,From their gilded elevations:Not to forget that saucy lad(Ostentation’s favourite cad),The Page, who look’d so splendidly clad,Like a Page of the “Wealth of Nations.”But the Coachman carried off the state,With what was a Lancashire body of lateTurn’d into a Dresden Figure;With a bridal Nosegay of early bloom,About the size of a birchen broom,And so huge a White Favour, had Gog been Groom,He need not have worn a bigger.And then to see the Groom! the Count!With Foreign Orders to such an amount,And whiskers so wild—nay, bestial;He seem’d to have borrow’d the shaggy hairAs well as the Stars of the Polar Bear,To make him look celestial!And then—Great Jove!—the struggle, the crush,The screams, the heaving, the awful rush,The swearing, the tearing, the fighting,—The hats and bonnets smash’d like an egg—To catch a glimpse of the Golden Leg,Which between the steps and Miss KilmanseggWas fully display’d in alighting!From the Golden Ankle up to the KneeThere it was for the mob to see!A shocking act had it chanced to beA crooked leg or a skinny:But although a magnificent veil she wore,Such as never was seen before,In case of blushes, she blush’d no moreThan George the First on a guinea!Another step, and lo! she was launched!All in white, as Brides areblanchedWith a wreath of most wonderful splendour—Diamonds, and pearls, so rich in device,That, according to calculation nice,Her head was worth as royal a price,As the head of the Young Pretender.Bravely she shone—and shone the moreAs she sail’d through the crowd of squalid and poor,Thief, beggar, and tatterdemalion—Led by the Count, with his sloe-black eyesBright with triumph, and some surprise,Like Anson on making sure of his prizeThe famous Mexican Galleon!Anon came Lady K., with her faceQuite made up to act with grace,But she cut the performance shorter;For instead of pacing stately and stiff,At the stare of the vulgar she took a miff,And ran, full speed, into Church, as ifTo get married before her daughter.But Sir Jacob walk’d more slowly, and bow’dRight and left to the gaping crowd,Wherever a glance was seizable:For Sir Jacob thought he bow’d like a Guelph,And therefore bow’d to imp and elf,And would gladly have made a bow to himself,Had such a bow been feasible.And last—and not the least of the sight,Six “Handsome Fortunes,” all in white,Came to help in the marriage rite,—And rehearse their own hymneals;And then the bright procession to close,They were followed by just as many BeauxQuite fine enough for Ideals.Glittering men, and splendid dames,Thus they enter’d the porch of St. James’,Pursued by a thunder of laughter;For the Beadle was forced to intervene,For Jim the Crow, and his Mayday Queen,With her gilded ladle, and Jack i’ the Green,Would fain have follow’d after!Beadle-like he hush’d the shout;But the temple was full “inside and out,”And a buzz kept buzzing all round aboutLike bees when the day is sunny—A buzz universal, that interferedWith the right that ought to have been revered,As if the couple already were smear’dWith Wedlock’s treacle and honey!Yet Wedlock’s a very awful thing!’Tis something like that feat in the ring,Which requires good nerve to do it—When one of a “Grand Equestrian Troop”Makes a jump at a gilded hoop,Not certain at allOf what may befallAfter his getting through it!But the count he felt the nervous workNo more than any polygamous Turk,Or bold piratical skipper,Who, during his buccaneering search,Would as soon engage a hand in churchAs a hand on board his clipper!And how did the Bride perform her part?Like any bride who is cold at heart,Mere snow with the ice’s glitter;What but a life of winter for her!Bright but chilly, alive without stir,So splendidly comfortless,—just like a FirWhen the frost is severe and bitter.Such were the future man and wife!Whose bale or bliss to the end of lifeA few short words were to settle—“Wilt thou have this woman?”“I will”—and then,“Wilt thou have this man?”“I will,” and “Amen”—And those Two were one Flesh, in the Angels’ ken,Except one Leg—that was metal.Then the names were sign’d—and kiss’d the kiss:And the Bride, who came from her coach a Miss,As a Countess walk’d to her carriage—Whilst Hymen preen’d his plumes like a dove,And Cupid flutter’d his wings above,In the shape of a fly—as little a LoveAs ever look’d in at a marriage!Another crash—and away they dash’d,And the gilded carriage and footman flash’dFrom the eyes of the gaping people—Who turn’d to gaze at the toe-and-heelOf the Golden Boys beginning a reel,To the merry sound of a wedding-pealFrom St. James’s musical steeple.Those wedding-bells! those wedding-bells!How sweetly they sound in pastoral dellsFrom a tow’r in an ivy-green jacket!But town-made joys how dearly they cost;And after all are tumbled and tost,Like a peal from a London steeple, and lostIn town-made riot and racket.The wedding-peal, how sweetly it pealsWith grass or heather beneath our heels,—For bells are Music’s laughter!But a London peal, well mingled, be sure,With vulgar noises and voices impure,—What a harsh and discordant overtureTo the Harmony meant to come after!But hence with Discord—perchance, too soonTo cloud the face of the honeymoonWith a dismal occultation!—Whatever Fate’s concerted trick,The Countess and Count, at the present nick,Have a chicken, and not a crow, to pickAt a sumptuous Cold Collation.A Breakfast—no unsubstantial mess,But one in the style of Good Queen Bess,Who,—hearty as hippocampus,—Broke her fast with ale and beef,Instead of toast and the Chinese leaf,And—in lieu of anchovy—grampus.A breakfast of fowl, and fish, and flesh,Whatever was sweet, or salt, or fresh;With wines the most rare and curious—Wines, of the richest flavour and hue;With fruits from the worlds both Old and New;And fruits obtain’d before they were dueAt a discount most usurious.For wealthy palates there be, that scoutWhat isinseason, for what isout,And prefer all precocious savour:For instance, early green peas, of the sortThat costs some four or five guineas a quart;Where theMintis the principal flavour.And many a wealthy man was there,Such as the wealthy City could spare,To put in a portly appearance—Men, whom their fathers had help’d to gild:And men, who had had their fortunes to build,And—much to their credit—had richly fill’dTheir purses bypursy-verance.Men, by popular rumour at least,Not the last to enjoy a feast!And truly they were not idle!Luckier far than the chestnut tits,Which, down at the door, stood champing their bits,At a different sort of bridle.For the time was come—and the whisker’d CountHelp’d his Bride in the carriage to mount,And fain would the Muse deny it,But the crowd, including two butchers in blue,(The regular killing Whitechapel hue,)Of her Precious Calf had as ample a viewAs if they had come to buy it!Then away! away! with all the speedThat golden spurs can give to the steed,—Both Yellow Boys and Guineas, indeed,Concurr’d to urge the cattle—Away they went, with favours white,Yellow jackets, and panels bright,And left the mob, like a mob at night,Agape at the sound of a rattle.Away! away! they rattled and roll’d,The Count, and his Bride, and her Leg of Gold—That faded charm to the charmer!Away, through old Brentford rang the din,Of wheels and heels, on their way to winThat hill, named after one of her kin,The Hill of the Golden Farmer!Gold, still gold—it flew like dust!It tipp’d the post-boy, and paid the trust;In each open palm it was freely thrust;There was nothing but giving and taking!And if gold could ensure the future hour,What hopes attended that Bride to her bow’r,But alas! even hearts with a four-horse pow’rOf opulence end in breaking!

Gold above, and gold below,The earth reflected the golden glow,From river, and hill, and valleyGilt by the golden light of morn,The Thames—it look’d like the Golden Horn,And the Barge, that carried coal or corn,Like Cleopatra’s Galley!

Bright as clusters of Golden-rod,Suburban poplars began to nod,With extempore splendour furnish’d;While London was bright with glittering clocks,Golden dragons, and Golden cocks,And above them all,The dome of St. Paul,With its Golden Cross and its Golden Ball,Shone out as if newly burnish’d!

And lo! for Golden Hours and Joys,Troops of glittering Golden BoysDanced along with a jocund noise,And their gilded emblems carried!In short, ’twas the year’s most Golden Day,By mortals call’d the First of May,When Miss Kilmansegg,Of the Golden Leg,With a Golden Ring was married!

And thousands of children, women, and men,Counted the clock from eight till ten,From St. James’s sonorous steeple;For next to that interesting job,The hanging of Jack, or Bill, or Bob,There’s nothing so draws a London mobAs the noosing of very rich people.

And a treat it was for the mob to beholdThe Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold!And the Footman tall and the Coachman bold,In liveries so resplendent—Coats you wonder’d to see in place,They seem’d so rich with golden lace,That they might have been independent.

Coats, that made those menials proudGaze with scorn on the dingy crowd,From their gilded elevations:Not to forget that saucy lad(Ostentation’s favourite cad),The Page, who look’d so splendidly clad,Like a Page of the “Wealth of Nations.”

But the Coachman carried off the state,With what was a Lancashire body of lateTurn’d into a Dresden Figure;With a bridal Nosegay of early bloom,About the size of a birchen broom,And so huge a White Favour, had Gog been Groom,He need not have worn a bigger.

And then to see the Groom! the Count!With Foreign Orders to such an amount,And whiskers so wild—nay, bestial;He seem’d to have borrow’d the shaggy hairAs well as the Stars of the Polar Bear,To make him look celestial!

And then—Great Jove!—the struggle, the crush,The screams, the heaving, the awful rush,The swearing, the tearing, the fighting,—The hats and bonnets smash’d like an egg—To catch a glimpse of the Golden Leg,Which between the steps and Miss KilmanseggWas fully display’d in alighting!

From the Golden Ankle up to the KneeThere it was for the mob to see!A shocking act had it chanced to beA crooked leg or a skinny:But although a magnificent veil she wore,Such as never was seen before,In case of blushes, she blush’d no moreThan George the First on a guinea!

Another step, and lo! she was launched!All in white, as Brides areblanchedWith a wreath of most wonderful splendour—Diamonds, and pearls, so rich in device,That, according to calculation nice,Her head was worth as royal a price,As the head of the Young Pretender.

Bravely she shone—and shone the moreAs she sail’d through the crowd of squalid and poor,Thief, beggar, and tatterdemalion—Led by the Count, with his sloe-black eyesBright with triumph, and some surprise,Like Anson on making sure of his prizeThe famous Mexican Galleon!

Anon came Lady K., with her faceQuite made up to act with grace,But she cut the performance shorter;For instead of pacing stately and stiff,At the stare of the vulgar she took a miff,And ran, full speed, into Church, as ifTo get married before her daughter.

But Sir Jacob walk’d more slowly, and bow’dRight and left to the gaping crowd,Wherever a glance was seizable:For Sir Jacob thought he bow’d like a Guelph,And therefore bow’d to imp and elf,And would gladly have made a bow to himself,Had such a bow been feasible.

And last—and not the least of the sight,Six “Handsome Fortunes,” all in white,Came to help in the marriage rite,—And rehearse their own hymneals;And then the bright procession to close,They were followed by just as many BeauxQuite fine enough for Ideals.

Glittering men, and splendid dames,Thus they enter’d the porch of St. James’,Pursued by a thunder of laughter;For the Beadle was forced to intervene,For Jim the Crow, and his Mayday Queen,With her gilded ladle, and Jack i’ the Green,Would fain have follow’d after!

Beadle-like he hush’d the shout;But the temple was full “inside and out,”And a buzz kept buzzing all round aboutLike bees when the day is sunny—A buzz universal, that interferedWith the right that ought to have been revered,As if the couple already were smear’dWith Wedlock’s treacle and honey!

Yet Wedlock’s a very awful thing!’Tis something like that feat in the ring,Which requires good nerve to do it—When one of a “Grand Equestrian Troop”Makes a jump at a gilded hoop,Not certain at allOf what may befallAfter his getting through it!

But the count he felt the nervous workNo more than any polygamous Turk,Or bold piratical skipper,Who, during his buccaneering search,Would as soon engage a hand in churchAs a hand on board his clipper!

And how did the Bride perform her part?Like any bride who is cold at heart,Mere snow with the ice’s glitter;What but a life of winter for her!Bright but chilly, alive without stir,So splendidly comfortless,—just like a FirWhen the frost is severe and bitter.

Such were the future man and wife!Whose bale or bliss to the end of lifeA few short words were to settle—“Wilt thou have this woman?”“I will”—and then,“Wilt thou have this man?”“I will,” and “Amen”—And those Two were one Flesh, in the Angels’ ken,Except one Leg—that was metal.

Then the names were sign’d—and kiss’d the kiss:And the Bride, who came from her coach a Miss,As a Countess walk’d to her carriage—Whilst Hymen preen’d his plumes like a dove,And Cupid flutter’d his wings above,In the shape of a fly—as little a LoveAs ever look’d in at a marriage!

Another crash—and away they dash’d,And the gilded carriage and footman flash’dFrom the eyes of the gaping people—Who turn’d to gaze at the toe-and-heelOf the Golden Boys beginning a reel,To the merry sound of a wedding-pealFrom St. James’s musical steeple.

Those wedding-bells! those wedding-bells!How sweetly they sound in pastoral dellsFrom a tow’r in an ivy-green jacket!But town-made joys how dearly they cost;And after all are tumbled and tost,Like a peal from a London steeple, and lostIn town-made riot and racket.

The wedding-peal, how sweetly it pealsWith grass or heather beneath our heels,—For bells are Music’s laughter!But a London peal, well mingled, be sure,With vulgar noises and voices impure,—What a harsh and discordant overtureTo the Harmony meant to come after!

But hence with Discord—perchance, too soonTo cloud the face of the honeymoonWith a dismal occultation!—Whatever Fate’s concerted trick,The Countess and Count, at the present nick,Have a chicken, and not a crow, to pickAt a sumptuous Cold Collation.

A Breakfast—no unsubstantial mess,But one in the style of Good Queen Bess,Who,—hearty as hippocampus,—Broke her fast with ale and beef,Instead of toast and the Chinese leaf,And—in lieu of anchovy—grampus.

A breakfast of fowl, and fish, and flesh,Whatever was sweet, or salt, or fresh;With wines the most rare and curious—Wines, of the richest flavour and hue;With fruits from the worlds both Old and New;And fruits obtain’d before they were dueAt a discount most usurious.

For wealthy palates there be, that scoutWhat isinseason, for what isout,And prefer all precocious savour:For instance, early green peas, of the sortThat costs some four or five guineas a quart;Where theMintis the principal flavour.

And many a wealthy man was there,Such as the wealthy City could spare,To put in a portly appearance—Men, whom their fathers had help’d to gild:And men, who had had their fortunes to build,And—much to their credit—had richly fill’dTheir purses bypursy-verance.

Men, by popular rumour at least,Not the last to enjoy a feast!And truly they were not idle!Luckier far than the chestnut tits,Which, down at the door, stood champing their bits,At a different sort of bridle.

For the time was come—and the whisker’d CountHelp’d his Bride in the carriage to mount,And fain would the Muse deny it,But the crowd, including two butchers in blue,(The regular killing Whitechapel hue,)Of her Precious Calf had as ample a viewAs if they had come to buy it!

Then away! away! with all the speedThat golden spurs can give to the steed,—Both Yellow Boys and Guineas, indeed,Concurr’d to urge the cattle—Away they went, with favours white,Yellow jackets, and panels bright,And left the mob, like a mob at night,Agape at the sound of a rattle.

Away! away! they rattled and roll’d,The Count, and his Bride, and her Leg of Gold—That faded charm to the charmer!Away, through old Brentford rang the din,Of wheels and heels, on their way to winThat hill, named after one of her kin,The Hill of the Golden Farmer!

Gold, still gold—it flew like dust!It tipp’d the post-boy, and paid the trust;In each open palm it was freely thrust;There was nothing but giving and taking!And if gold could ensure the future hour,What hopes attended that Bride to her bow’r,But alas! even hearts with a four-horse pow’rOf opulence end in breaking!

The moon—the moon, so silver and cold,Her fickle temper has oft been told,Now shady—now bright and sunny—But of all the lunar things that change,The one that shows most fickle and strange,And takes the most eccentric rangeIs the moon—so call’d—of honey!To some a full-grown orb reveal’d,As big and as round as Norval’s shield,And as bright as a burner Bude-lighted;To others as dull, and dingy, and damp,As any oleaginous lamp,Of the regular old parochial stamp,In a London fog benighted.To the loving, a bright and constant sphere,That makes earth’s commonest things appearAll poetic, romantic, and tender:Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump,And investing a common post, or a pump,A currant-bush or a gooseberry-clump,With a halo of dreamlike splendour.A sphere such as shone from Italian skies,In Juliet’s dear, dark liquid eyes,Tipping trees, with its argent braveries—And to couples not favour’d with Fortune’s boonsOne of the most delightful of moons,For it brightens their pewter platters and spoonsLike a silver service of Savory’s!For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear,And the meanest thing most precious and dearWhen the magic of love is present:Love, that lends a sweetness and grace,To the humblest spot and the plainest face—That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place,And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant!Love that sweetens sugarless tea,And makes contentment and joy agreeWith the coarsest boarding and bedding:Love, that no golden ties can attach,But nestles under the humblest thatch,And will fly away from an Emperor’s matchTo dance at a Penny Wedding!Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state,When such a bright Planet governs the fateOf a pair of united lovers!’Tis theirs, in spite of the Serpent’s hiss,To enjoy the pure primeval kiss,With as much of the old original blissAs mortality ever recovers!There’s strength in double joints, no doubt,In double X Ale, and Dublin Stout,That the single sorts know nothing about—And the fist is strongest when doubled—And double aqua-fortis of course,And double soda-water, perforce,Are the strongest that ever bubbled!There’s double beauty whenever a SwanSwims on a Lake with a double thereon;And ask the gardener, Luke or John,Of the beauty of double-blowing—A double dahlia delights the eye;And it’s far the loveliest sight in the skyWhen a double rainbow is glowing!There’s warmth in a pair of double soles;As well as a double allowance of coals—In a coat that is double-breasted—In double windows and double doors;And a double U wind is blest by scoresFor its warmth to the tender-chested.There’s a twofold sweetness in double pipes;And a double barrel and double snipesGive the sportsman a duplicate pleasure:There’s double safety in double locks;And double letters bring cash for the box;And all the world knows that double knocksAre gentility’s double measure.There’s double sweetness in double rhymes,And a double at Whist and a double TimesIn profit are certainly double—By doubling, the Hare contrives to escape;And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape,And a double-reef’d topsail in trouble.There’s a double chuck at a double chin,And of course there’s a double pleasure therein,If the parties were brought to telling:And however our Dennises take offence,A double meaning shows double sense;And if proverbs tell truth,A double toothIs Wisdom’s adopted dwelling!But double wisdom, and pleasure, and sense,Beauty, respect, strength, comfort and thenceThrough whatever the list discovers,They are all in the double blessedness summ’d,Of what was formerly double-drumm’d,The Marriage of two true Lovers!Now the Kilmansegg Moon, it must be told—Though instead of silver it tipp’d with gold—Shone rather wan, and distant, and cold,And before its days were at thirty,Such gloomy clouds began to collect,With an ominous ring of ill effect,As gave but too much cause to expectSuch weather as seamen call dirty!And yet the moon was the “Young May Moon,”And the scented hawthorn had blossom’d soon,And the thrush and the blackbird were singing—The snow-white lambs were skipping in play,And the bee was humming a tune all dayTo flowers, as welcome as flowers in May,And the trout in the stream was springing!But what were the hues of the blooming earth,Its scents—its sounds—or the music and mirthOf its furr’d or its feather’d creatures,To a Pair in the world’s last sordid stage,Who had never look’d into Nature’s page,And had strange ideas of a Golden Age,Without any Arcadian features?And what were joys of the pastoral kindTo a Bride—town-made—with a heart and a mindWith simplicity ever at battle?A bride of an ostentatious race,Who, thrown in the Golden Farmer’s place,Would have trimm’d her shepherds with golden lace,And gilt the horns of her cattle.She could not please the pigs with her whim,And the sheep wouldn’t cast their eyes at a limbFor which she had been such a martyr:The deer in the park, and the colts at grass,And the cows unheeded let it pass;And the ass on the common was such an ass,That he wouldn’t have swapp’dThe thistle he cropp’dFor her Leg, including the Garter!She hated lanes and she hated fields—She hated all that the country yields—And barely knew turnips from clover;She hated walking in any shape,And a country stile was an awkward scrape,Without the bribe of a mob to gapeAt the Leg in clambering over!O blessed nature, “O rus! O rus!”Who cannot sigh for the country thus,Absorb’d in a worldly torpor—Who does not yearn for its meadow-sweet breath,Untainted by care, and crime, and death,And to stand sometimes upon grass or heath—That soul, spite of gold, is a pauper!But to hail the pearly advent of morn,And relish the odour fresh from the thorn,She was far too pamper’d a madam,Or to joy in the daylight waxing strong,While, after ages of sorrow and wrong,The scorn of the proud, the misrule of the strong,And all the woes that to man belong,The Lark still carols the self-same songThat he did to the uncurst Adam!The Lark! she had given all Leipsic’s flocksFor a Vauxhall tune in a musical box;And as for the birds in the thicket,Thrush or ousel in leafy niche,The linnet or finch, she was far too richTo care for a Morning Concert, to whichShe was welcome without any ticket.Gold, still gold, her standard of old,All pastoral joys were tried by gold,Or by fancies golden and crural—Till ere she had pass’d one week unblest,As her agricultural Uncle’s guest,Her mind was made up, and fully imprest,That felicity could not be rural!And the Count?—to the snow-white lambs at playAnd all the scents and the sights of May,And the birds that warbled their passion,His ears and dark eyes, and decided nose,Were as deaf and as blind and as dull as thoseThat overlooked the Bouquet de Rose,The Huille Antique,And Parfum Unique,In a Barber’s Temple of Fashion.To tell, indeed, the true extentOf his rural bias so far it wentAs to covet estates in ring fences—And for rural lore he had learn’d in townThat the country was green, turn’d up with brown,And garnish’d with trees that a man might cut downInstead of his own expenses.And yet had that fault been his only one,The Pair might have had few quarrels or none,For their tastes thus far were in common;But faults he had that a haughty brideWith a Golden Leg could hardly abide—Faults that would even have roused the prideOf a far less metalsome woman!It was early days indeed for a wife,In the very spring of her married life,To be chill’d by its wintry weather—But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do,On Hymen’s turtles that bill and coo—Enjoying their “moon and honey for two”They were scarcely seen together!In vain she sat with her Precious LegA little exposed,à laKilmansegg,And roll’d her eyes in their sockets!He left her in spite of her tender regards,And those loving murmurs described by bards,For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards,And the poking of balls into pockets!Moreover he loved the deepest stakeAnd the heaviest bets the players would make;And he drank—the reverse of sparely,—And he used strange curses that made her fret;And when he played with herself at piquet,She found, to her cost,For she always lost,That the Count did not count quite fairly.And then came dark mistrust and doubt,Gather’d by worming his secrets out,And slips in his conversations—Fears, which all her peace destroy’d,That his title was null—his coffers were void—And his French Château was in Spain, or enjoy’dThe most airy of situations.But still his heart—if he had such a part—She—only she—might possess his heart,And hold his affections in fetters—Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship,Was forced its anchor and cable to slipWhen, seduced by her fears, she took a dipIn his private papers and letters.Letters that told of dangerous leagues;And notes that hinted as many intriguesAs the Count’s in the “Barber of Seville”—In short such mysteries came to light,That the Countess-Bride, on the thirtieth night,Woke and started up in affright,And kick’d and scream’d with all her might,And finally fainted away outright,For she dreamt she had married the Devil!

To some a full-grown orb reveal’d,As big and as round as Norval’s shield,And as bright as a burner Bude-lighted;To others as dull, and dingy, and damp,As any oleaginous lamp,Of the regular old parochial stamp,In a London fog benighted.

To the loving, a bright and constant sphere,That makes earth’s commonest things appearAll poetic, romantic, and tender:Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump,And investing a common post, or a pump,A currant-bush or a gooseberry-clump,With a halo of dreamlike splendour.

A sphere such as shone from Italian skies,In Juliet’s dear, dark liquid eyes,Tipping trees, with its argent braveries—And to couples not favour’d with Fortune’s boonsOne of the most delightful of moons,For it brightens their pewter platters and spoonsLike a silver service of Savory’s!

For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear,And the meanest thing most precious and dearWhen the magic of love is present:Love, that lends a sweetness and grace,To the humblest spot and the plainest face—That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place,And Garlic Hill to Mount Pleasant!

Love that sweetens sugarless tea,And makes contentment and joy agreeWith the coarsest boarding and bedding:Love, that no golden ties can attach,But nestles under the humblest thatch,And will fly away from an Emperor’s matchTo dance at a Penny Wedding!

Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state,When such a bright Planet governs the fateOf a pair of united lovers!’Tis theirs, in spite of the Serpent’s hiss,To enjoy the pure primeval kiss,With as much of the old original blissAs mortality ever recovers!

There’s strength in double joints, no doubt,In double X Ale, and Dublin Stout,That the single sorts know nothing about—And the fist is strongest when doubled—And double aqua-fortis of course,And double soda-water, perforce,Are the strongest that ever bubbled!

There’s double beauty whenever a SwanSwims on a Lake with a double thereon;And ask the gardener, Luke or John,Of the beauty of double-blowing—A double dahlia delights the eye;And it’s far the loveliest sight in the skyWhen a double rainbow is glowing!

There’s warmth in a pair of double soles;As well as a double allowance of coals—In a coat that is double-breasted—In double windows and double doors;And a double U wind is blest by scoresFor its warmth to the tender-chested.

There’s a twofold sweetness in double pipes;And a double barrel and double snipesGive the sportsman a duplicate pleasure:There’s double safety in double locks;And double letters bring cash for the box;And all the world knows that double knocksAre gentility’s double measure.

There’s double sweetness in double rhymes,And a double at Whist and a double TimesIn profit are certainly double—By doubling, the Hare contrives to escape;And all seamen delight in a doubled Cape,And a double-reef’d topsail in trouble.

There’s a double chuck at a double chin,And of course there’s a double pleasure therein,If the parties were brought to telling:And however our Dennises take offence,A double meaning shows double sense;And if proverbs tell truth,A double toothIs Wisdom’s adopted dwelling!

But double wisdom, and pleasure, and sense,Beauty, respect, strength, comfort and thenceThrough whatever the list discovers,They are all in the double blessedness summ’d,Of what was formerly double-drumm’d,The Marriage of two true Lovers!

Now the Kilmansegg Moon, it must be told—Though instead of silver it tipp’d with gold—Shone rather wan, and distant, and cold,And before its days were at thirty,Such gloomy clouds began to collect,With an ominous ring of ill effect,As gave but too much cause to expectSuch weather as seamen call dirty!

And yet the moon was the “Young May Moon,”And the scented hawthorn had blossom’d soon,And the thrush and the blackbird were singing—The snow-white lambs were skipping in play,And the bee was humming a tune all dayTo flowers, as welcome as flowers in May,And the trout in the stream was springing!

But what were the hues of the blooming earth,Its scents—its sounds—or the music and mirthOf its furr’d or its feather’d creatures,To a Pair in the world’s last sordid stage,Who had never look’d into Nature’s page,And had strange ideas of a Golden Age,Without any Arcadian features?

And what were joys of the pastoral kindTo a Bride—town-made—with a heart and a mindWith simplicity ever at battle?A bride of an ostentatious race,Who, thrown in the Golden Farmer’s place,Would have trimm’d her shepherds with golden lace,And gilt the horns of her cattle.

She could not please the pigs with her whim,And the sheep wouldn’t cast their eyes at a limbFor which she had been such a martyr:The deer in the park, and the colts at grass,And the cows unheeded let it pass;And the ass on the common was such an ass,That he wouldn’t have swapp’dThe thistle he cropp’dFor her Leg, including the Garter!

She hated lanes and she hated fields—She hated all that the country yields—And barely knew turnips from clover;She hated walking in any shape,And a country stile was an awkward scrape,Without the bribe of a mob to gapeAt the Leg in clambering over!

O blessed nature, “O rus! O rus!”Who cannot sigh for the country thus,Absorb’d in a worldly torpor—Who does not yearn for its meadow-sweet breath,Untainted by care, and crime, and death,And to stand sometimes upon grass or heath—That soul, spite of gold, is a pauper!

But to hail the pearly advent of morn,And relish the odour fresh from the thorn,She was far too pamper’d a madam,Or to joy in the daylight waxing strong,While, after ages of sorrow and wrong,The scorn of the proud, the misrule of the strong,And all the woes that to man belong,The Lark still carols the self-same songThat he did to the uncurst Adam!

The Lark! she had given all Leipsic’s flocksFor a Vauxhall tune in a musical box;And as for the birds in the thicket,Thrush or ousel in leafy niche,The linnet or finch, she was far too richTo care for a Morning Concert, to whichShe was welcome without any ticket.

Gold, still gold, her standard of old,All pastoral joys were tried by gold,Or by fancies golden and crural—Till ere she had pass’d one week unblest,As her agricultural Uncle’s guest,Her mind was made up, and fully imprest,That felicity could not be rural!

And the Count?—to the snow-white lambs at playAnd all the scents and the sights of May,And the birds that warbled their passion,His ears and dark eyes, and decided nose,Were as deaf and as blind and as dull as thoseThat overlooked the Bouquet de Rose,The Huille Antique,And Parfum Unique,In a Barber’s Temple of Fashion.

To tell, indeed, the true extentOf his rural bias so far it wentAs to covet estates in ring fences—And for rural lore he had learn’d in townThat the country was green, turn’d up with brown,And garnish’d with trees that a man might cut downInstead of his own expenses.

And yet had that fault been his only one,The Pair might have had few quarrels or none,For their tastes thus far were in common;But faults he had that a haughty brideWith a Golden Leg could hardly abide—Faults that would even have roused the prideOf a far less metalsome woman!

It was early days indeed for a wife,In the very spring of her married life,To be chill’d by its wintry weather—But instead of sitting as Love-Birds do,On Hymen’s turtles that bill and coo—Enjoying their “moon and honey for two”They were scarcely seen together!

In vain she sat with her Precious LegA little exposed,à laKilmansegg,And roll’d her eyes in their sockets!He left her in spite of her tender regards,And those loving murmurs described by bards,For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards,And the poking of balls into pockets!

Moreover he loved the deepest stakeAnd the heaviest bets the players would make;And he drank—the reverse of sparely,—And he used strange curses that made her fret;And when he played with herself at piquet,She found, to her cost,For she always lost,That the Count did not count quite fairly.

And then came dark mistrust and doubt,Gather’d by worming his secrets out,And slips in his conversations—Fears, which all her peace destroy’d,That his title was null—his coffers were void—And his French Château was in Spain, or enjoy’dThe most airy of situations.

But still his heart—if he had such a part—She—only she—might possess his heart,And hold his affections in fetters—Alas! that hope, like a crazy ship,Was forced its anchor and cable to slipWhen, seduced by her fears, she took a dipIn his private papers and letters.

Letters that told of dangerous leagues;And notes that hinted as many intriguesAs the Count’s in the “Barber of Seville”—In short such mysteries came to light,That the Countess-Bride, on the thirtieth night,Woke and started up in affright,And kick’d and scream’d with all her might,And finally fainted away outright,For she dreamt she had married the Devil!

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