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 bitts,
At a different sort of bridle.
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!
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 pannels 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 win
That 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'r
Of 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 range
Is the moon-so called-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 scenes 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.
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!
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-
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!
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!
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!
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!
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.
There's a two-fold 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.
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.
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,
Is Wisdom's adopted dwelling!
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 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 expect
Such 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 day
To 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 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?
And what were joys of the pastoral kind
To a Bride-town-made-with a heart and 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.
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 swapp'd
The thistle he cropp'd
For 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,
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