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 Love As Ever Look'D In At A Marriage! Ccxlii. Another Crash - And Away They Dash'D, And The Gilded Carriage And Footmen Flash'D From The Eyes Of The Gaping People - Who Turn'D To Gaze At The Toe-And-Heel Of The Golden Boys Beginning A Reel, To The Merry Sound Of A Wedding Peal From St. James'S Musical Steeple. Ccxliii. Those Wedding Bells! Those Wedding Bells! How Sweetly They Sound In Pastoral Dells From 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 Lost In Town-Made Riot And Racket. Ccxliv. The Wedding Peal, How Sweetly It Peals With 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, - With A Harsh And Discordant Overture To The Harmony Meant To Come After! Ccxlv. But Hence With Discord - Perchance, Too Soon To Cloud The Face Of The Honeymoon With A Dismal Occultation! - Whatever Fate'S Concerted Trick, The Countess And Count, At The Present Nick, Have A Chicken, And Not A Crow, To Pick At A Sumptuous Cold Collation. Ccxlvi. 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. Ccxlvii. 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 Flavor And Hue; With Fruits From The Worlds Both Old And New; And Fruits Obtain'D Before They Were Due At A Discount Most Usurious. Ccxlviii. For Wealthy Palates There Be, That Scout What Is In Season, For What Is Out, And Prefer All Precocious Savor: For Instance, Early Green Peas, Of The Sort That Costs Some Four Or Five Guineas A Quart; Where The Mint Is The Principal Flavor. Ccxlix. 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'D Their Purses By Pursy-Verance. Ccl. Men, By Popular Rumor 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. Ccli. For The Time Was Come - And The Whisker'D Count Help'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 View, As If They Had Come To Buy It! Cclii. Then Away! Away! With All The Speed That Golden Spurs Can Give To The Steed, - Both Yellow Boys And Guineas, Indeed, Concurr'D To Urge The Cattle - Away They Went, With Favors White, Yellow Jackets, And Panels Bright, And Left The Mob, Like A Mob At Night, Agape At The Sound Of A Rattle. Ccliii. 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 Win That Hill, Named After One Of Her Kin, The Hill Of The Golden Farmer! Ccliv. 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'R Of Opulence End In Breaking! Her Honeymoon. Cclv. 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 Range, Is The Moon - So Call'D - Of Honey! Cclvi. 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. Cclvii. To The Loving, A Bright And Constant Sphere, That Makes Earth'S Commonest Things Appear All 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 Splendor. Cclviii. 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 Favor'D With Fortune'S Boons One Of The Most Delightful Of Moons, For It Brightens Their Pewter Platters And Spoons Like A Silver Service Of Savory'S! Cclix. For All Is Bright, And Beauteous, And Clear, And The Meanest Thing Most Precious And Dear When 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 Garlick Hill To Mount Pleasant! Cclx. Love That Sweetens Sugarless Tea, And Makes Contentment And Joy Agree With 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 Match To Dance At A Penny Wedding! Cclxi. Oh, Happy, Happy, Thrice Happy State, When Such A Bright Planet Governs The Fate Of 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 Bliss As Mortality Ever Recovers! Cclxii. There'S Strength In Double Joints, No Doubt, In Double X Ale, And Dublin Stout, That The Single Sorts Know Nothing About - And A Fist Is Strongest When Doubled - And Double Aqua-Fortis, Of Course, And Double Soda-Water, Perforce, Are The Strongest That Ever Bubbled! Cclxiii. There'S Double Beauty Whenever A Swan Swims On A Lake, With Her 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 Sky When A Double Rainbow Is Glowing! Cclxiv. 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 Scores For Its Warmth To The Tender-Chested. Cclxv. There'S A Twofold Sweetness In Double Pipes; And A Double Barrel And Double Snipes Give 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 Knocks, Are Gentility'S Double Measure. Cclxvi. There'S A Double Sweetness In Double Rhymes, And A Double At Whist And A Double Times In 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. Cclxvii. 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 Tooth Is Wisdom'S Adopted Dwelling! Cclxviii. But Double Wisdom, And Pleasure, And Sense, Beauty, Respect, Strength, Comfort, And Thence Through Whatever The List Discovers, They Are All In The Double Blessedness Summ'D, Of What Was Formerly Doubled-Drumm'D, The Marriage Of Two True Lovers! Cclxix. 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 Expect Such Weather As Seamen Call Dirty! Cclxx. 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 Day To Flowers, As Welcome As Flowers In May, And The Trout In The Stream Was Springing! Cclxxi. But What Were The Hues Of The Blooming Earth, Its Scents - Its Sounds - Or The Music And Mirth Of 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? Cclxxii. And What Were Joys Of The Pastoral Kind To A Bride - Town-Made - With A Heart And A Mind With 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. Cclxxiii. She Could Not Please The Pigs With Her Whim, And The Sheep Wouldn'T Cast Their Eyes At A Limb For 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 Swopp'D The Thistle He Cropp'D For Her Leg, Including The Garter! Cclxxiv. 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 Gape At The Leg In Clambering Over! Cclxxv. O Blessed Nature, "O Rus! O Rus!" Who Cannot Sigh For The Country Thus, Absorb'D In A Wordly 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! Cclxxvi. But To Hail The Pearly Advent Of Morn, And Relish The Odor 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 Selfsame Song That He Did To The Uncurst Adam! Cclxxvii. The Lark! She Had Given All Leipzig'S Flocks For 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 Rich To Care For A Morning Concert, To Which She Was Welcome Without Any Ticket. Cclxxviii. 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! Cclxxix. And The Count? - To The Snow-White Lambs At Play, And 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 Those That Overlook The Bouquet De Rose, The Huile Antique, The Parfum Unique, In A Barber'S Temple Of Fashion. Cclxxx. To Tell, Indeed, The True Extent Of His Rural Bias, So Far It Went As To Covet Estates In Ring Fences - And For Rural Lore He Had Learn'D In Town That The Country Was Green, Turn'D Up With Brown, And Garnish'D With Trees That A Man Might Cut Down Instead Of His Own Expenses. Cclxxxi. 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 Bride With A Golden Leg Could Hardly Abide - Faults That Would Even Have Roused The Pride Of A Far Less Metalsome Woman! Cclxxxii. 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! Cclxxxiii. In Vain She Sat With Her Precious Leg A Little Exposed, ? La Kilmansegg, 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! Cclxxxiv. Moreover He Loved The Deepest Stake And 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 Play'D With Herself At Piquet, She Found, To Her Cost, For She Always Lost, That The Count Did Not Count Quite Fairly. Cclxxxv. 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 Ch?Teau Was In Spain, Or Enjoy'D The Most Airy Of Situations. Cclxxxvi. 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 Slip When, Seduced By Her Fears, She Took A Dip In His Private Papers And Letters. Cclxxxvii. Letters That Told Of Dangerous Leagues; And Notes That Hinted As Many Intrigues As 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! Her Misery. Cclxxxviii. 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? Cclxxxix. Home-Made Physic That Sickens The Sick; Thick For Thin And Thin For Thick; - In Short Each Homogeneous Trick For Poisoning Domesticity? And Since Our Parents, Call'D The First, A Little Family Squabble Nurst, Of All Our Evils The Worst Of The Worst Is Home-Made Infelicity. Ccxc. There'S A Golden Bird That Claps Its Wings, And Dances For Joy On Its Perch, And Sings With 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. Ccxci. And Thence The Glorious Radiance Flames On 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." Ccxcii. And Still The Flooding Sunlight Shares Its Lustre With Gilded Sofas And Chairs, That Shine As If Freshly Burnish'D - And Gilded Tables, With Glittering Stocks Of Gilded China, And Golden Clocks, Toy, And Trinket, And Musical Box, That Peace And Paris Have Furnish'D. Ccxciii. And Lo! With The Brightest Gleam Of All The Glowing Sunbeam Is Seen To Fall On An Object As Rare As Spendid - The Golden Foot Of The Golden Leg Of The Countess - Once Miss Kilmansegg - But There All Sunshine Is Ended. Ccxciv. 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 Dropping In Comfort'S Dearth, As Gloomy Thoughts Are Drawn To The Earth - Whence Human Sorrows Derive Their Birth - By A Moral Gravitation. Ccxcv. Her Golden Hair Is Out Of Its Braids, And Her Sighs Betray The Gloomy Shades That Her Evil Planet Revolves In - And Tears Are Falling That Catch A Gleam So Bright As They Drop In The Sunny Beam, That Tears Of Aqua Regia They Seem, The Water That Gold Dissolves In; Ccxcvi. Yet, Not In Filial Grief Were Shed Those Tears For A Mother'S Insanity; Nor Yet Because Her Father Was Dead, For The Bowing Sir Jacob Had Bow'D His Head To Death - With His Usual Urbanity; The Waters That Down Her Visage Rill'D Were Drops Of Unrectified Spirit Distill'D From The Limbeck Of Pride And Vanity. Ccxcvii. Tears That Fell Alone And Unchecked, 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 Bear Is The Grief Without Community. Ccxcviii. How Bless'D The Heart That Has A Friend A Sympathising Ear To Lend To Troubles Too Great To Smother! For As Ale And Porter, When Flat, Are Restored Till A Sparkling Bubbling Head They Afford, So Sorrow Is Cheer'D By Being Pour'D From One Vessel Into Another. Ccxcix. But A Friend Or Gossip She Had Not One To Hear The Vile Deeds That The Count Had Done, How Night After Night He Rambled; And How She Had Learn'D By Sad Degrees That He Drank, And Smoked, And Worse Than These, That He "Swindled, Intrigued, And Gambled." Ccc. 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 Brought Strange Gentlemen 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." Ccci. Of "Making A Book" How He Made A Stir, But 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 Still That The Miller'S Name Was Mendoza. Cccii. 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 Tongue Made Still More Horrid And Awful! Ccciii. How Oft, Instead Of Otto 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 Despair For A New Edition Of Bunyan! Ccciv. 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'S Barrels And Locks, Shooting Blue Rocks, Trainers And Jocks, Buskins And Socks, Pugilistical Knocks, And Fighting-Cocks, If He Found Himself Short In Funds And Stocks, These Rhymes Will Furnish The Reason! Cccv. His Friends, Indeed, Were Falling Away - Friends Who Insist On Play Or Pay - And He Fear'D At No Very Distant Day To 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." Cccvi. Gold, Gold - Alas! For The Gold Spent 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, Dishonor, And Duns, Nay, To Death, And Perchance The Devil! Cccvii. Alas! For The Last Of A Golden Race! Had She Cried Her Wrongs In The Market-Place, She Had Warrant For All Her Clamor - For The Worst Of Rogues, And Brutes, And Rakes, Was Breaking Her Heart By Constant Aches, With As Little Remorse As The Pauper, Who Breaks A Flint With A Parish Hammer! Her Last Will. Cccviii. Now The Precious Leg While Cash Was Flush, Or The Count'S Acceptance Worth A Rush, Had Never Created Dissension; But No Sooner The Stocks Began To Fall, Than, Without Any Ossification At All, The Limb Became What People Call A Perfect Bone Of Contention. Cccix. 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. Cccx. That Instead Of Playing Musical Airs, Like Colin'S Foot In Going Upstairs - 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. Cccxi. P'Raps She Thought It A Decent Thing To Show Her Calf To Cobbler And King, But Nothing Could Be Absurder - While None But The Crazy Would Advertise Their Gold Before Their Servants' Eyes, Who Of Course Some Night Would Make It A Prize, By A Shocking And Barbarous Murder. Cccxii. 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 Limb That 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 Leg As Fast As The Law Could Tie It. Cccxiii. 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 Arose, Fierce And Merciless - One Of Those, With Spoken Daggers, And Looks Like Blows, In All But The Bloodshed A Duel! Cccxiv. Rash, And Wild, And Wretched, And Wrong, Were The Words 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! Cccxv. 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 Be The Golden Leg'S Sole Legatee, And That Very Night To Administer! Her Death. Cccxvi. 'Tis A Stern And Startling Thing To Think How Often Mortality Stands On The Brink Of 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 Life Is Dying, And Death Is Living! Cccxvii. 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 Knells Our Last Farewells, Only Broken Into A Canter! Cccxviii. 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! Cccxix. 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 Prime The Dart Of Death In The Hand Of Time - That Hand Which Moved On The Dial! Cccxx. As She Went With Her Taper Up The Stair, How Little Her Swollen Eye Was Aware That The Shadow Which Followed Was Double! Or When She Closed Her Chamber Door, It Was Shutting Out, And Forevermore, The World - And Its Worldly Trouble. Cccxxi. Little She Dreamt, As She Laid Aside Her 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 Off Of The Flesh That Clothes Humanity. Cccxxii. 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 Night Of Dreams And Duration Uncertain - Or Along With Her Own, That A Hand Of Bone Was Closing Mortality'S Curtain! Cccxxiii. But Life Is Sweet, And Mortality Blind, And Youth Is Hopeful, And Fate Is Kind In 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 Recoil From The Debts Not Due Till To-Morrow. Cccxxiv. Wherefore Else Does The Spirit Fly And 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 Elopes, To A Caper On Sunny Gleams And Slopes, Instead Of A Dance Upon Nothing. Cccxxv. 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 Bright And Golden Light Under Lids Still Red With Weeping. Cccxxvi. 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! Cccxxvii. The Golden Guineas In Silken Purse - And The Golden Legends She Heard From Her Nurse Of 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 Thing To The Golden Ring At Her Own Auriferous Marriage! Cccxxviii. And Still The Golden Light Of The Sun Through Her Golden Dream Appear'D To Run, Though The Night, That Roared Without, Was One To Terrify Seamen Or Gypsies - 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. Cccxxix. But Vainly, Vainly, The Thunder Fell, For The Soul Of The Sleeper Was Under A Spell That 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. Cccxxx. '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 Flash That Her Eyeballs Made At So Mortal A Crash, The Spark, Call'D Vital, Departed! * * * * * Cccxxxi. Gold, Still Gold! 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!" Cccxxxii. 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 Three What The Verdict Ought To Be, And They Brought It In As Felo De Se, "Because Her Own Leg Had Kill'D Her!" Her Moral. 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 Old To 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 With The Image Of Good Queen Bess, And Now Of A Bloody Mary.