Her Last Will.

Who hath not met with home-made bread,A heavy compound of putty and lead—And home-made wines that rack the head,And home-made liqueurs and waters?Home-made pop that will not foam,And home-made dishes that drive one from home,Not to name each mess,For the face or dress,Home-made by the homely daughters?Home-made physic that sickens the sick;Thick for thin and thin for thick;In short each homogeneous trickFor poisoning domesticity?And since our Parents, call’d the First,A little family squabble nurst,Of all our evils the worst of the worstIs home-made infelicity.There’s a Golden Bird that claps its wings,And dances for joy on its perch, and singsWith a Persian exultation:For the Sun is shining into the room,And brightens up the carpet-bloom,As if it were new, bran new, from the loom,Or the lone Nun’s fabrication.And thence the glorious radiance flamesOn pictures in massy gilded frames—Enshrining, however, no painted Dames,But portraits of colts and fillies—Pictures hanging on walls, which shine,In spite of the bard’s familiar line,With clusters of “Gilded lilies.”And still the flooding sunlight sharesIts lustre with gilded sofas and chairs,That shine as if freshly burnish’d—And gilded tables, with glittering stocksOf gilded china, and golden clocks,Toy, and trinket, and musical box,That Peace and Paris have furnish’d.And lo! with the brightest gleam of allThe glowing sunbeam is seen to fallOn an object as rare as splendid—The golden foot of the Golden LegOf the Countess—once Miss Kilmansegg—But there all sunshine is ended.Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim,And downward cast, yet not at the limb,Once the centre of all speculation;But downward drooping in comfort’s dearth,As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth—Whence human sorrows derive their birth—By a moral gravitation.Her golden hair is out of its braids,And her sighs betray the gloomy shadesThat her evil planet revolves in—And tears are falling that catch a gleamSo bright as they drop in the sunny beam,That tears ofaqua regiathey seem,The water that gold dissolves in;Yet, not filial grief were shedThose tears for a mother’s insanity;Nor yet because her father was dead,For the bowing Sir Jacob had bow’d his headTo Death—with his usual urbanity;The waters that down her visage rill’dWere drops of unrectified spirit distill’dFrom the limbeck of Pride and Vanity.Tears that fell alone and uncheckt,Without relief, and without respect,Like the fabled pearls that the pigs neglect,When pigs have that opportunity—And of all the griefs that mortals share,The one that seems the hardest to bearIs the grief without community.How bless’d the heart that has a friendA sympathising ear to lendTo troubles too great to smother!For as ale and porter, when flat, are restoredTill a sparkling bubbling head they afford,So sorrow is cheer’d by being pour’dFrom one vessel into another.But friend or gossip she had not oneTo hear the vile deeds that the Count had done,How night after night he rambled;And how she had learnt by sad degreesThat he drank, and smoked, and worse than these,That he “swindled, intrigued, and gambled.”How he kiss’d the maids, and sparr’d with John!And came to bed with his garments on;With other offences as heinous—And broughtstrangegentlemen home to dine,That he said were in the Fancy Line,And they fancied spirits instead of wine,And call’d her lap-dog “Wenus.”Of “making a book” how he made a stirBut never had written a line to her,Once his idol and Cara Sposa;And how he had storm’d, and treated her ill,Because she refused to go down to a mill,She didn’t know where, but remember’d stillThat the Miller’s name was Mendoza.How often he waked her up at night,And oftener still by the morning light,Reeling home from his haunts unlawful;Singing songs that shouldn’t be sung,Except by beggars and thieves unhung—Or volleying oaths that a foreign tongueMade still more horrid and awful!How oft, instead of otto of rose,With vulgar smells he offended her nose,From gin, tobacco, and onion!And then how wildly he used to stare!And shake his fist at nothing, and swear,—And pluck by the handful his shaggy hair,Till he look’d like a study of Giant DespairFor a new Edition of Bunyan!For dice will run the contrary way,As well is known to all who play,And cards will conspire as in treason;And what with keeping a hunting-box,Following fox—Friends in flocks,Burgundies, Hocks,From London Docks;Stultz’s frocks,Manton and Nock’sBarrels and locks,Shooting blue rocks,Trainers and jocks,Buskins and socks,Pugilistical knocks,And fighting cocks,If he found himself short in funds and stocksThese rhymes will furnish the reason!His friends, indeed, were falling away—Friends who insist on play or pay—And he fear’d at no very distant dayTo be cut by Lord and by cadger,As one, who has gone, or is going, to smash,For his checks no longer drew the cash,Because, as his comrades explain’d in flash,“He had overdrawn his badger.”Gold, gold—alas! for the goldSpent where souls are bought and sold,In Vice’s Walpurgis revel!Alas! for muffles, and bulldogs, and guns,The leg that walks, and the leg that runs,—All real evils, though Fancy ones,When they lead to debt, dishonour, and duns,Nay, to death, and perchance the devil!Alas! for the last of a Golden race!Had she cried her wrongs in the market-place,She had warrant for all her clamour—For the worst of rogues, and brutes, and rakes,Was breaking her heart by constant aches,With as little remorse as the Pauper, who breaksA flint with a parish hammer!

Home-made physic that sickens the sick;Thick for thin and thin for thick;In short each homogeneous trickFor poisoning domesticity?And since our Parents, call’d the First,A little family squabble nurst,Of all our evils the worst of the worstIs home-made infelicity.

There’s a Golden Bird that claps its wings,And dances for joy on its perch, and singsWith a Persian exultation:For the Sun is shining into the room,And brightens up the carpet-bloom,As if it were new, bran new, from the loom,Or the lone Nun’s fabrication.

And thence the glorious radiance flamesOn pictures in massy gilded frames—Enshrining, however, no painted Dames,But portraits of colts and fillies—Pictures hanging on walls, which shine,In spite of the bard’s familiar line,With clusters of “Gilded lilies.”

And still the flooding sunlight sharesIts lustre with gilded sofas and chairs,That shine as if freshly burnish’d—And gilded tables, with glittering stocksOf gilded china, and golden clocks,Toy, and trinket, and musical box,That Peace and Paris have furnish’d.

And lo! with the brightest gleam of allThe glowing sunbeam is seen to fallOn an object as rare as splendid—The golden foot of the Golden LegOf the Countess—once Miss Kilmansegg—But there all sunshine is ended.

Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim,And downward cast, yet not at the limb,Once the centre of all speculation;But downward drooping in comfort’s dearth,As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth—Whence human sorrows derive their birth—By a moral gravitation.

Her golden hair is out of its braids,And her sighs betray the gloomy shadesThat her evil planet revolves in—And tears are falling that catch a gleamSo bright as they drop in the sunny beam,That tears ofaqua regiathey seem,The water that gold dissolves in;

Yet, not filial grief were shedThose tears for a mother’s insanity;Nor yet because her father was dead,For the bowing Sir Jacob had bow’d his headTo Death—with his usual urbanity;The waters that down her visage rill’dWere drops of unrectified spirit distill’dFrom the limbeck of Pride and Vanity.

Tears that fell alone and uncheckt,Without relief, and without respect,Like the fabled pearls that the pigs neglect,When pigs have that opportunity—And of all the griefs that mortals share,The one that seems the hardest to bearIs the grief without community.

How bless’d the heart that has a friendA sympathising ear to lendTo troubles too great to smother!For as ale and porter, when flat, are restoredTill a sparkling bubbling head they afford,So sorrow is cheer’d by being pour’dFrom one vessel into another.

But friend or gossip she had not oneTo hear the vile deeds that the Count had done,How night after night he rambled;And how she had learnt by sad degreesThat he drank, and smoked, and worse than these,That he “swindled, intrigued, and gambled.”

How he kiss’d the maids, and sparr’d with John!And came to bed with his garments on;With other offences as heinous—And broughtstrangegentlemen home to dine,That he said were in the Fancy Line,And they fancied spirits instead of wine,And call’d her lap-dog “Wenus.”

Of “making a book” how he made a stirBut never had written a line to her,Once his idol and Cara Sposa;And how he had storm’d, and treated her ill,Because she refused to go down to a mill,She didn’t know where, but remember’d stillThat the Miller’s name was Mendoza.

How often he waked her up at night,And oftener still by the morning light,Reeling home from his haunts unlawful;Singing songs that shouldn’t be sung,Except by beggars and thieves unhung—Or volleying oaths that a foreign tongueMade still more horrid and awful!

How oft, instead of otto of rose,With vulgar smells he offended her nose,From gin, tobacco, and onion!And then how wildly he used to stare!And shake his fist at nothing, and swear,—And pluck by the handful his shaggy hair,Till he look’d like a study of Giant DespairFor a new Edition of Bunyan!

For dice will run the contrary way,As well is known to all who play,And cards will conspire as in treason;And what with keeping a hunting-box,Following fox—Friends in flocks,Burgundies, Hocks,From London Docks;Stultz’s frocks,Manton and Nock’sBarrels and locks,Shooting blue rocks,Trainers and jocks,Buskins and socks,Pugilistical knocks,And fighting cocks,If he found himself short in funds and stocksThese rhymes will furnish the reason!

His friends, indeed, were falling away—Friends who insist on play or pay—And he fear’d at no very distant dayTo be cut by Lord and by cadger,As one, who has gone, or is going, to smash,For his checks no longer drew the cash,Because, as his comrades explain’d in flash,“He had overdrawn his badger.”

Gold, gold—alas! for the goldSpent where souls are bought and sold,In Vice’s Walpurgis revel!Alas! for muffles, and bulldogs, and guns,The leg that walks, and the leg that runs,—All real evils, though Fancy ones,When they lead to debt, dishonour, and duns,Nay, to death, and perchance the devil!

Alas! for the last of a Golden race!Had she cried her wrongs in the market-place,She had warrant for all her clamour—For the worst of rogues, and brutes, and rakes,Was breaking her heart by constant aches,With as little remorse as the Pauper, who breaksA flint with a parish hammer!

Now the Precious Leg while cash was flush,Or the Count’s acceptance worth a rush,Had never excited dissension;But no sooner the stocks began to fall,Than, without any ossification at all,The limb became what people callA perfect bone of contention.For alter’d days brought alter’d ways,And instead of the complimentary phrase,So current before her bridal—The Countess heard, in language low,That her Precious Leg was precious slow,A good ‘un to look at but bad to go,And kept quite a sum lying idle.That instead of playing musical airs,Like Colin’s foot in going up-stairs—As the wife in the Scottish ballad declares—It made an infernal stumping.Whereas a member of cork, or wood,Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good,Without the unbearable thumping.P’rhaps she thought it a decent thingTo show her calf to cobbler and king,But nothing could be absurder—While none but the crazy would advertiseTheir gold before their servants’ eyes,Who of course some night would make it a prize,By a Shocking and Barbarous Murder.But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff,The Leg kept its situation.For legs are not to be taken off,By a verbal amputation.And mortals when they take a whim,The greater the folly the stiffer the limbThat stand upon it or by it—So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg,At her marriage refused to stir a peg,Till the Lawyers had fasten’d on her LegAs fast as the Law could tie it.Firmly then—and more firmly yet—With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat,The Proud One confronted the Cruel:And loud and bitter the quarrel aroseFierce and merciless—one of those,With spoken daggers, and looks like blows,In all but the bloodshed a duel!Rash, and wild, and wretched, and wrong,Were the works that came from Weak and Strong,Till madden’d for desperate matters,Fierce as tigress escaped from her den,She flew to her desk—’twas open’d—and then,In the time it takes to try a pen,Or the clerk to utter his slow Amen,Her Will was in fifty tatters!But the Count, instead of curses wild,Only nodded his head and smiled,As if at the spleen of an angry child;But the calm was deceitful and sinister!A lull like the lull of the treacherous sea—For Hate in that moment had sworn to beThe Golden Leg’s sole Legatee,And that very night to administer!

For alter’d days brought alter’d ways,And instead of the complimentary phrase,So current before her bridal—The Countess heard, in language low,That her Precious Leg was precious slow,A good ‘un to look at but bad to go,And kept quite a sum lying idle.

That instead of playing musical airs,Like Colin’s foot in going up-stairs—As the wife in the Scottish ballad declares—It made an infernal stumping.Whereas a member of cork, or wood,Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good,Without the unbearable thumping.

P’rhaps she thought it a decent thingTo show her calf to cobbler and king,But nothing could be absurder—While none but the crazy would advertiseTheir gold before their servants’ eyes,Who of course some night would make it a prize,By a Shocking and Barbarous Murder.

But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff,The Leg kept its situation.For legs are not to be taken off,By a verbal amputation.And mortals when they take a whim,The greater the folly the stiffer the limbThat stand upon it or by it—So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg,At her marriage refused to stir a peg,Till the Lawyers had fasten’d on her LegAs fast as the Law could tie it.

Firmly then—and more firmly yet—With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat,The Proud One confronted the Cruel:And loud and bitter the quarrel aroseFierce and merciless—one of those,With spoken daggers, and looks like blows,In all but the bloodshed a duel!

Rash, and wild, and wretched, and wrong,Were the works that came from Weak and Strong,Till madden’d for desperate matters,Fierce as tigress escaped from her den,She flew to her desk—’twas open’d—and then,In the time it takes to try a pen,Or the clerk to utter his slow Amen,Her Will was in fifty tatters!

But the Count, instead of curses wild,Only nodded his head and smiled,As if at the spleen of an angry child;But the calm was deceitful and sinister!A lull like the lull of the treacherous sea—For Hate in that moment had sworn to beThe Golden Leg’s sole Legatee,And that very night to administer!

’Tis a stern and startling thing to thinkHow often mortality stands on the brinkOf its grave without any misgiving;And yet in this slippery world of strife,In the stir of human bustle so rife,There are daily sounds to tell us that LifeIs dying, and Death is living!Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy,Bright as they are with hope and joy,How their souls would sadden instanter,To remember that one of those wedding bells,Which ring so merrily through the dells,Is the same that knellsOur last farewells,Only broken into a canter!But breath and blood set doom at nought—How little the wretched Countess thought,When at night she unloosed her sandal,That the Fates had woven her burial-cloth,And that Death, in the shape of a Death’s Head Moth,Was fluttering round her candle!As she look’d at her clock of or-molu,For the hours she had gone so wearily through,At the end of a day of trial—How little she saw in her pride of primeThe dart of Death in the Hand of Time—That hand which moved on the dial!As she went with her taper up the stair,How little her swollen eye was awareThat the Shadow which follow’d was double!Or when she closed her chamber door,It was shutting out, and for evermore,The world—and its worldly trouble.Little she dreamt, as she laid asideHer jewels—after one glance of pride—They were solemn bequests to Vanity—Or when her robes she began to doff,That she stood so near to the putting offOf the flesh that clothes humanity.And when she quench’d the taper’s light,How little she thought as the smoke took flight,That her day was done—and merged in a nightOf dreams and duration uncertain—Or along with her own,That a Hand of BoneWas closing mortality’s curtain!But life is sweet, and mortality blind,And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kindIn concealing the day of sorrow;And enough is the present tense of toil—For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil—And the mind flies back with a glad recoilFrom the debts not due till to-morrow.Wherefore else does the Spirit flyAnd bid its daily cares good-bye,Along with its daily clothing?Just as the felon condemn’d to die—With a very natural loathing—Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes,From his gloomy cell in a vision elopesTo a caper on sunny gleams and slopes,Instead of the dance upon nothing.Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,While Death still nearer and nearer crept,Like the Thane who smote the sleeping—But her mind was busy with early joys,Her golden treasures and golden toys:That flash’d a brightAnd golden lightUnder lids still red with weeping.The golden doll that she used to hug!Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!Her godfather’s golden presents!The golden service she had at her meals,The golden watch, and chain, and seals,Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,And her golden fishes and pheasants!The golden guineas in silken purse—And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurseOf the Mayor in his gilded carriage—And London streets that were paved with gold—And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old—With each golden thingTo the golden ringAt her own auriferous Marriage?And still the golden light of the sunThrough her golden dreams appear’d to run,Though the night, that roared without, was oneTo terrify seamen or gipsies—While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,As though she enjoy’d the tempest’s birth,In revenge of her old eclipses.But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spellThat time had lately embitter’d—The Count, as once at her foot he knelt—That foot, which now he wanted to melt!But—hush!—’twas a stir at her pillow she felt—And some object before her glitter’d.’Twas the Golden Leg!—she knew its gleam!And up she started and tried to scream,—But ev’n in the moment she started—Down came the limb with a frightful smash,And lost, in the universal flashThat her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,The Spark, call’d Vital, departed!* * * * * *Gold, still gold! hard, hard yellow, and cold,For gold she had lived, and she died for gold—By a golden weapon—not oaken;In the morning they found her all alone—Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone—But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,And the “Golden Bowl was broken!”Gold—still gold! it haunted her yet—At the Golden Lion the Inquest met—Its foreman a carver and gilder—And the Jury debated from twelve till threeWhat the Verdict ought to be,And they brought it in as Felo de Se,“Because her own Leg had kill’d her!”

Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy,Bright as they are with hope and joy,How their souls would sadden instanter,To remember that one of those wedding bells,Which ring so merrily through the dells,Is the same that knellsOur last farewells,Only broken into a canter!

But breath and blood set doom at nought—How little the wretched Countess thought,When at night she unloosed her sandal,That the Fates had woven her burial-cloth,And that Death, in the shape of a Death’s Head Moth,Was fluttering round her candle!

As she look’d at her clock of or-molu,For the hours she had gone so wearily through,At the end of a day of trial—How little she saw in her pride of primeThe dart of Death in the Hand of Time—That hand which moved on the dial!

As she went with her taper up the stair,How little her swollen eye was awareThat the Shadow which follow’d was double!Or when she closed her chamber door,It was shutting out, and for evermore,The world—and its worldly trouble.

Little she dreamt, as she laid asideHer jewels—after one glance of pride—They were solemn bequests to Vanity—Or when her robes she began to doff,That she stood so near to the putting offOf the flesh that clothes humanity.

And when she quench’d the taper’s light,How little she thought as the smoke took flight,That her day was done—and merged in a nightOf dreams and duration uncertain—Or along with her own,That a Hand of BoneWas closing mortality’s curtain!

But life is sweet, and mortality blind,And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kindIn concealing the day of sorrow;And enough is the present tense of toil—For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil—And the mind flies back with a glad recoilFrom the debts not due till to-morrow.

Wherefore else does the Spirit flyAnd bid its daily cares good-bye,Along with its daily clothing?Just as the felon condemn’d to die—With a very natural loathing—Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes,From his gloomy cell in a vision elopesTo a caper on sunny gleams and slopes,Instead of the dance upon nothing.

Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,While Death still nearer and nearer crept,Like the Thane who smote the sleeping—But her mind was busy with early joys,Her golden treasures and golden toys:That flash’d a brightAnd golden lightUnder lids still red with weeping.

The golden doll that she used to hug!Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!Her godfather’s golden presents!The golden service she had at her meals,The golden watch, and chain, and seals,Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,And her golden fishes and pheasants!

The golden guineas in silken purse—And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurseOf the Mayor in his gilded carriage—And London streets that were paved with gold—And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old—With each golden thingTo the golden ringAt her own auriferous Marriage?

And still the golden light of the sunThrough her golden dreams appear’d to run,Though the night, that roared without, was oneTo terrify seamen or gipsies—While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,As though she enjoy’d the tempest’s birth,In revenge of her old eclipses.

But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spellThat time had lately embitter’d—The Count, as once at her foot he knelt—That foot, which now he wanted to melt!But—hush!—’twas a stir at her pillow she felt—And some object before her glitter’d.

’Twas the Golden Leg!—she knew its gleam!And up she started and tried to scream,—But ev’n in the moment she started—Down came the limb with a frightful smash,And lost, in the universal flashThat her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,The Spark, call’d Vital, departed!* * * * * *Gold, still gold! hard, hard yellow, and cold,For gold she had lived, and she died for gold—By a golden weapon—not oaken;In the morning they found her all alone—Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone—But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,And the “Golden Bowl was broken!”

Gold—still gold! it haunted her yet—At the Golden Lion the Inquest met—Its foreman a carver and gilder—And the Jury debated from twelve till threeWhat the Verdict ought to be,And they brought it in as Felo de Se,“Because her own Leg had kill’d her!”

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!Bright and yellow, hard and cold,Molten, graven, hammer’d and roll’d;Heavy to get, and light to hold;Hoarded, barter’d, bought, and sold,Stolen, borrow’d, squander’d, doled:Spurn’d by the young, but hugg’d by the oldTo the very verge of the churchyard mould;Price of many a crime untold;Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!Good or bad a thousand-fold!How widely its agencies vary—To save—to ruin—to curse—to bless—As even its minted coins express,Now stamp’d by the image of Good Queen Bess,And now of a Bloody Mary.

JOHN TROT he was as tall a ladAs York did ever rear—As his dear Granny used to say,He’d make a grenadier.

A serjeant soon came down to York,With ribbons and a frill;My lads, said he, let broadcast be,And come away to drill.

HIGH AND LOW BORN.

THE WIDOW’S MITE.

But when he wanted John to ‘list,In war he saw no fun,Where what is call’d a raw recruit,Gets often over-done.

Let others carry guns, said he,And go to war’s alarms,But I have got a shoulder-knotImpos’d upon my arms.

For John he had a footman’s placeTo wait on Lady Wye—She was a dumpy woman, tho’Her family was high.

Now when two years had past away,Her Lord took very ill,And left her to her widowhood,Of course more dumpy still.

Said John, I am a proper man,And very tall to see;Who knows, but now her Lord is low,She may look up to me?

A cunning woman told me once,Such fortune would turn up;She was a kind of sorceress,But studied in a cup!

So he walk’d up to Lady Wye,And took her quite amazed,—She thought, tho’ John was tall enough,He wanted to be raised.

But John—for why? she was a dameOf such a dwarfish sort—Had only come to bid her makeHer mourning very short.

Said he, your Lord is dead and cold,You only cry in vain;Not all the Cries of London now,Could call him back again!

You’ll soon have many a noble beau,To dry your noble tears—But just consider this, that IHave follow’d you for years.

And tho’ you are above me far,What matters high degree,When you are only four feet nineAnd I am six foot three.

For tho’ you are of lofty race,And I’m a low-born elf;Yet none among your friends could sayYou matched beneath yourself.

Said she, such insolence as thisCan be no common case;Though you are in my service, sir,Your love is out of place.

O Lady Wye! O Lady Wye!Consider what you do;How can you be so short with me,I am not so with you?

Then ringing for her serving men,They show’d him to the door:Said they, you turn out better now,Why didn’t you before?

They stripp’d his coat, and gave him kicksFor all his wages due;And off, instead of green and gold,He went in black and blue.

No family would take him in,Because of this discharge;So he made up his mind to serveThe country all at large.

Huzza! the Serjeant cried, and putThe money in his hand,And with a shilling cut him offFrom his paternal land.

For when his regiment went to fightAt Saragossa town,A Frenchman thought he look’d too tallAnd so he cut him down!

ONE widow at a grave will sobA little while, and weep, and sigh!If two should meet on such a job,They’ll have a gossip by and by.If three should come together—why,Three widows are good company!If four should meet by any chance,Four is a number very nice,To have a rubber in a trice—But five will up and have a dance!Poor Mrs. C—— (why should I notDeclare her name!—her name was Cross)Was one of those the “common lot”Had left to weep “no common loss;”—For she had lately buried thenA man, the “very best of men,”A lingering truth, discover’d firstWhenever men “are at the worst.”To take the measure of her woe,It was some dozen inches deep—I mean in crape, and hung so low,It hid the drops she didnotweep:In fact, what human life appears,It was a perfect “veil of tears.”Though ever since she lost “her propAnd stay,”—alas! he wouldn’t stay—She never had a tear to mop,Except one little angry drop,From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say;Because, when Mister Cross took flight,It looked so very like a spite—He died upon a washing-day!Still Widow Cross went twice a week,As if “to wet a widow’s cheek,”And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy,—’Twas nothing but a make-believe,She might as well have hoped to grieveEnough of brine to float a navy;And yet she often seem’d to raiseA cambric kerchief to her eye—Adusterought to be the phrase,Its work was all so very dry.The springs were lock’d that ought to flow—In England or in widow-woman—As those that watch the weather know,Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon.But why did Widow Cross take pains,To call upon the “dear remains,”—Remains that could not tell a jot,Whether she ever wept or not,Or how his relict took her losses?Oh! my black ink turns red for shame—But still the naughty world must learn,There was a little German cameTo shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,”At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s!For there an angel’s virtues slept,“Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!”But still her painted face he kept,“Encompass’d in an angel’s frame.”He look’d quite sad and quite deprived,His head was nothing but a hat-band;He look’d so lone, and sounwived,That soon the Widow Cross contrivedTo fall in love with eventhatband;And all at once the brackish juicesCame gushing out thro’ sorrow’s sluices—Tear after tear too fast to wipe,Tho’ sopp’d, and sopp’d, and sopp’d again—No leak in sorrow’s private pipe,But like a bursting on the main!Whoe’er has watch’d the window-pane—I mean to say in showery weather—Has seen two little drops of rain,Like lovers very fond and fain,At one another creeping, creeping,Till both, at last, embrace together:So far’d it with that couple’s weeping!The principle was quite as active—Tear unto tear,Kept drawing near,Their very blacks became attractive.To cut a shortish story shorter,Conceive them sitting tête à tête—Two cups,—hot muffins on a plate,—With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water!The brazen vessel for a while,Had lectured in an easy song,Like Abernethy—on the bile—The scalded herb was getting strong;All seem’d as smooth as smooth could be,To have a cosey cup of tea;Alas! how often human sippersWith unexpected bitters meet,And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,Like sugar, only meet the nippers!The Widow Cross, I should have told,Had seen three husbands to the mould;She never sought an Indian pyre,Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves,But with a proper sense of fire,Put up, instead, with “three removes:”Thus, when with any tender wordsOr tears she spoke about her loss,The dear departed, Mr. Cross,Came in for nothing but his thirds;For, as all widows love too well,She liked upon the list to dwell,And oft ripp’d up the old disasters—She might, indeed, have been supposedA greatshipowner, for she prosedEternally of her Three Masters!Thus, foolish woman! while she nursedHer mild souchong, she talk’d and reckon’dWhat had been left her by her first,And by her last, and by her second.Alas! not all her annual rentsCould then entice the little German,—Not Mr. Cross’s Three Per Cents,Or Consols, ever make himherman;He liked her cash, he liked her houses,But not that dismal bit of landShe always settled on her spouses.So taking up his hat and band,Said he “You’ll think my conduct odd—But here my hopes no more may linger;I thought you had a wedding-finger,But oh!—it is a curtain-rod!”

Poor Mrs. C—— (why should I notDeclare her name!—her name was Cross)Was one of those the “common lot”Had left to weep “no common loss;”—For she had lately buried thenA man, the “very best of men,”A lingering truth, discover’d firstWhenever men “are at the worst.”To take the measure of her woe,It was some dozen inches deep—I mean in crape, and hung so low,It hid the drops she didnotweep:In fact, what human life appears,It was a perfect “veil of tears.”Though ever since she lost “her propAnd stay,”—alas! he wouldn’t stay—She never had a tear to mop,Except one little angry drop,From Passion’s eye, as Moore would say;Because, when Mister Cross took flight,It looked so very like a spite—He died upon a washing-day!

Still Widow Cross went twice a week,As if “to wet a widow’s cheek,”And soothe his grave with sorrow’s gravy,—’Twas nothing but a make-believe,She might as well have hoped to grieveEnough of brine to float a navy;And yet she often seem’d to raiseA cambric kerchief to her eye—Adusterought to be the phrase,Its work was all so very dry.The springs were lock’d that ought to flow—In England or in widow-woman—As those that watch the weather know,Such “backward Springs” are not uncommon.

But why did Widow Cross take pains,To call upon the “dear remains,”—Remains that could not tell a jot,Whether she ever wept or not,Or how his relict took her losses?Oh! my black ink turns red for shame—But still the naughty world must learn,There was a little German cameTo shed a tear in “Anna’s Urn,”At the next grave to Mr. Cross’s!For there an angel’s virtues slept,“Too soon did Heaven assert its claim!”But still her painted face he kept,“Encompass’d in an angel’s frame.”

He look’d quite sad and quite deprived,His head was nothing but a hat-band;He look’d so lone, and sounwived,That soon the Widow Cross contrivedTo fall in love with eventhatband;And all at once the brackish juicesCame gushing out thro’ sorrow’s sluices—Tear after tear too fast to wipe,Tho’ sopp’d, and sopp’d, and sopp’d again—No leak in sorrow’s private pipe,But like a bursting on the main!Whoe’er has watch’d the window-pane—I mean to say in showery weather—Has seen two little drops of rain,Like lovers very fond and fain,At one another creeping, creeping,Till both, at last, embrace together:So far’d it with that couple’s weeping!The principle was quite as active—Tear unto tear,Kept drawing near,Their very blacks became attractive.To cut a shortish story shorter,Conceive them sitting tête à tête—Two cups,—hot muffins on a plate,—With “Anna’s Urn” to hold hot water!

The brazen vessel for a while,Had lectured in an easy song,Like Abernethy—on the bile—The scalded herb was getting strong;All seem’d as smooth as smooth could be,To have a cosey cup of tea;Alas! how often human sippersWith unexpected bitters meet,And buds, the sweetest of the sweet,Like sugar, only meet the nippers!

The Widow Cross, I should have told,Had seen three husbands to the mould;She never sought an Indian pyre,Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves,But with a proper sense of fire,Put up, instead, with “three removes:”Thus, when with any tender wordsOr tears she spoke about her loss,The dear departed, Mr. Cross,Came in for nothing but his thirds;For, as all widows love too well,She liked upon the list to dwell,And oft ripp’d up the old disasters—She might, indeed, have been supposedA greatshipowner, for she prosedEternally of her Three Masters!

Thus, foolish woman! while she nursedHer mild souchong, she talk’d and reckon’dWhat had been left her by her first,And by her last, and by her second.Alas! not all her annual rentsCould then entice the little German,—Not Mr. Cross’s Three Per Cents,Or Consols, ever make himherman;He liked her cash, he liked her houses,But not that dismal bit of landShe always settled on her spouses.So taking up his hat and band,Said he “You’ll think my conduct odd—But here my hopes no more may linger;I thought you had a wedding-finger,But oh!—it is a curtain-rod!”

RUN!—run for St. Clement’s engine!For the Pawnbroker’s all in a blaze,And the pledges are frying and singing—Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!Now where can the turncock be drinking?Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—But he still may tope on, for I’m thinkingThat the plugs are as dry as himself.

The engines!—I hear them come rumbling;There’s the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!What a row there will be, and a grumblingWhen the water don’t start for a run!See! there they come racing and tearing,All the street with loud voices is fill’d;Oh! its only the firemen a-swearingAt a man they’ve run over and kill’d!

How sweetly the sparks fly away now,And twinkle like stars in the sky;It’s a wonder the engines don’t play now,But I never saw water so shy!Why there isn’t enough for a snipe,And the fire is fiercer, alas!Oh! instead of the New River pipe,They have gone—that they have—to the gas!

Only look at the poor little P——’sOn the roof—is there anything sadder?My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,And they won’t be an hour with the ladder!But if any one’s hot in their feet,And in very great haste to be saved,Here’s a nice easy bit in the street,That M‘Adam has lately unpaved!

There is some one—I see a dark shapeAt that window, the hottest of all,—My good woman, why don’t you escape?Never think of your bonnet and shawl:If your dress isn’t perfect, what is itFor once in a way to your hurt?When your husband is paying a visitThere, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!

Only see how she throws out herchaney!Her basons, and teapots, and allThe most brittle ofhergoods—or any,But they all break in breaking their fall:Such things are not surely the bestFrom a two-story window to throw—She might save a good iron-bound chest,For there’s plenty of people below!

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