Thomas Hood: 'Poetical Works' (5)

Home Up Massey on Hood (1) Massey on Hood (2) Massey on Hood (3) Rossetti on Hood. Thackeray on Hood. Tait's Magazine. Misc Poems. Comic Annual 1834 Sheet Music Site Search Main Index



'Twas morn—a most auspicious one!
From the Golden East, the Golden Sun
Came forth his glorious race to run,
    Through clouds of most splendid tinges;
Clouds that lately slept in shade,
        But now seem'd made
        Of gold brocade,
With magnificent golden fringes.


Gold above, and gold below,
The earth reflected the golden glow,
    From river, and hill, and valley;
Gilt 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 burnished!

And lo! for Golden Hours and Joys,
Troops of glittering Golden Boys
Danced 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 mob
    As the noosing of very rich people.

And a treat it was for the mob to behold
The Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold!
And the Footmen 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 proud
Gaze 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 late
    Turn'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 hair
As 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, and fighting,—
The hats and bonnets smash'd like an egg—
To catch a glimpse of the Golden Leg,
Which, between the steps and Miss Kilmansegg,
    Was fully display'd in alighting!

From the Golden Ankle up to the Knee
There it was for the mob to see!
A shocking act had it chanced to be
    A 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 more
    Than George the First on a guinea!


Another step, and lo! she was launched!
All in white, as Brides are blanched,
    With 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 more
As she sail'd through the crowd of squalid and poor,
    Thief, beggar, and tatterdemalion—
Led by the Count, with his sloe-black eyes
Bright with triumph, and some surprise,
Like Anson on making sure of his prize
    The famous Mexican Galleon!

Anon came Lady K., with her face
Quite 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 if
    To get married before her daughter.

But Sir Jacob walk'd more slowly, and bow'd
Right 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 hymeneals;
And then the bright procession to close,
They were followed by just as many Beaux
    Quite fine enough for Ideals.


Glittering men, and splendid dames,
Thus they enter'd the porch of Saint 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 shouts;
But the temple was full "inside and out,"
And a buzz kept buzzing all round about
    Like bees when the day is sunny—
A buzz universal that interfered
With the right that ought to have been revered,
As if the couple already were smear'd
    With 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 all
        Of what may befall
    After his getting through it!

But the Count he felt the nervous work
No more than any polygamous Turk,
    Or bold piratical skipper,
Who, during his buccaneering search,
Would as soon engage a hand in church
    As 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 Fir
    When the frost is severe and bitter.


Such were the future man and wife!
Whose bale or bliss to the end of life
    A 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 Love
    As ever look'd in at a marriage!

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.

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.

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!


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.

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 due
    At a discount most usurious.

For wealthy palates there be, that scout
What is in season, for what is out,
    And prefer all precocious savour:
For instance, early green peas, of the sort
That costs some four or five guineas a quart;
    Where the Mint is 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'd
    Their purses by pursy-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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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—
That turns Wilderness Row into Paradise Place,
    And Garlick Hill to Mount Pleasant!


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 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.

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,
            A double tooth
    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 doubled-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 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.

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!

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!


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!

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 selfsame song
    That he did to the uncurst Adam!

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.

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 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.


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.

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!

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 Leg
A little exposed, à 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!

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.


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'd
    The 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 slip
When, seduced by her fears, she took a dip
    In his private papers and letters.

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!



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 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.


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.

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."

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.

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.

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.


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;

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.

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.

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.

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."


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."

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.

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!

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!

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!


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."

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, 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 breaks
    A flint with a parish hammer!



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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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!

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!


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!



'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!

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!

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 prime
The 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 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.


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.

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 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!

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.

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.


'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!

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

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!"

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!"



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.


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With fingers weary and worn,
    With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
    Plying her needle and thread—
        Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
    And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
    And work—work—work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
    Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
    If this is Christian work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
    And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
    Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
    But human creatures' lives!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
    A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?
    That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
    It seems so like my own—
    It seems so like my own,
    Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
    And flesh and blood so cheap!"

    My labour never flags;
And what are its wages?   A bed of straw,
    A crust of bread—and rags.
That shattered roof—and this naked floor—
    A table—a broken chair—
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
    For sometimes falling there!

From weary chime to chime,
As prisoners work for crime!
    Band, and gusset, and seam,
    Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
    As well as the weary hand.

In the dull December light,
    And work—work—work,
When the weather is warm and bright—
While underneath the eaves
    The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
    And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
    With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
    To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
    And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
    A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
    But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
    But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
    Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
    With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
    Plying her needle and thread—
        Stitch! stitch! stitch!
    In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!—
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"




Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think
How Learning doth in rugged states abide,
And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;
Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,
In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,

In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!


This College looketh South and West alsoe,
Because it hath a cast in windows twain;
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow
Through transparent holes in every pane,
Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach
To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain
Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach,"

Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.


And in the midst a little door there is,
Whereon a board that doth congratulate
With painted letters, red as blood I wis,
Thus written,
And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,
And moans of infants that bemoan their fate,
In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek,

Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.


For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,
And some for Doctors of Divinitie,
Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,
And soe win academical degree;
But some are bred for service of the sea,
Howbeit, their store of learning is but small,
For mickle waste he counteth it would be
To stock a head with bookish wares at all,

Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball.


Six babes he sways,—some little and some big,
Divided into classes six;—alsoe,
He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig,
That in the College fareth to and fro,
And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,—
And eke the learned rudiments they scan,
And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,—
Hereafter to be shown in caravan,

And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.


Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,
Whereof, above his head, some two or three
Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls,
But on the branches of no living tree,
And overlook the learned family;
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,
Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research

In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge—now a birch.


No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,
Such as would magisterial hams imbed,
But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,
Secure in high authority and dread:
Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head,
And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays,
Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
And stand abroad in many several ways:—

No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.


And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;
His nose,—it is a coral to the view;
Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,—
For much he loves his native mountain dew;—
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,

A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.


As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short
As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales;
But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught,
So that the wind his airy breast assails;
Below, he wears the nether garb of males,
Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee;—
Thence further down the native red prevails,
Of his own naked fleecy hosierie:—

Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie.


Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap
His function in a magisterial gown,
That shows more countries in it than a map,—
Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown,
Besides some blots, standing for country-town;
And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide;
But, sometimes, bashful when he looks adown,
He turns the garment of the other side,

Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied!


And soe he sits, amidst the little pack,
That look for shady or for sunny noon,
Within his visage, like an almanack,—
His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon:
But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon,
With horrid chill each little heart unwarms,
Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon,
And with forebodings of near wrath and storms

They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.


Ah! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat
"Corduroy Colloquy,"—or "Ki, Kæ, Kod,"—
Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat
More sodden, tho' already made of sod,
For Dan shall whip him with the word of God,—
Severe by rule, and not by nature mild,
He never spoils the child and spares the rod,
But spoils the rod and never spares the child,

And soe with holy rule deems he is reconcil'd.


But, surely, the just sky will never wink
At men who take delight in childish throe,
And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink
Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe;
Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know,
By useless birches, that forlorn recess,
Which is no holiday, in Pit below,
Will hell not seem design'd for their distress,—

A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse?


Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use
Of needful discipline, in due degree.
Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce,
Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree.
This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be,
Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands,
And Learning's help be used for infamie,
By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands,

In murder'd English write Rock's murderous commands.


But ah! what shrilly cry doth now alarm
The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam,
All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm,
And cackling chorus with the human scream;
Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam
In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin,
Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,
That falsely lets the fierce besieger in,

Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.


No parent dear he hath to heed his cries;—
Alas! his parent dear is far aloof,
And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies,
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof,
Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof,
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof,
Dreaming he sees his home,—his Phelim smile;—

Ah me! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while!


Ah! who can paint that hard and heavy time,
When first the scholar lists in Learning's train,
And mounts her rugged steep, enforc'd to climb,
Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain,
From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
Wherein, alas! no sugar'd juices dwell,
For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain,
Another weepeth over chilblains fell,

Always upon the heel, yet never to be well!


Anon a third, for his delicious root,
Late ravish'd from his tooth by elder chit,
So soon is human violence afoot,
So hardly is the harmless biter bit!
Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit
And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan,
Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit,
Alack,—mischance comes seldom times alone,

But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.


For lo! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub,
Smites his scald-head, that is already sore,—
Superfluous wound,—such is Misfortune's rub!
Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar,
And sheds salt tears twice faster than before,
That still, with backward fist, he strives to dry;
Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er,
His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby,

Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.


So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace,
And with his natural untender knack,
By new distress, bids former grievance cease,
Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback,
That sets the mournful visage all awrack;
Yet soon the childish countenance will shine
Even as thorough storms the soonest slack,
For grief and beef in adverse ways incline,

This keeps, and that decays, when duly soak'd in brine.


Now all is hushed, and, with a look profound,
The Dominie lays ope the learned page;
(So be it called) although he doth expound
Without a book, both Greek and Latin sage;
Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age,
How Romulus was bred in savage wood,
By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage;
And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud,

But watered it, alas! with warm fraternal blood.


Anon, he turns to that Homeric war,
How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town;
And stout Achilles, at his jaunting-car,
Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown;
And eke the bard, that sung of their renown,
In garb of Greece, most beggar-like and torn,
He paints, with colly, wand'ring up and down,
Because, at once, in seven cities born;

And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn.


Anon, through old Mythology he goes,
Of Gods defunct, and all their pedigrees,
But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows
How Plato wise, and clear-ey'd Socrates,
Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes;
But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope
Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys,
And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope,

Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope!


From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside,
To new philosophies, that still are green,
And shows what railroads have been track'd, to guide
The wheels of great political machine;
If English corn should grow abroad, I ween,
And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet;
How many pigs be born to each spalpeen;
And, ah! how man shall thrive beyond his meat,—

With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat!


Here, he makes end; and all the fry of youth,
That stood around with serious look intense,
Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth,
Which they had opened to his eloquence,
As if their hearing were a threefold sense.
But now the current of his words is done,
And whether any fruits shall spring from thence,
In future time, with any mother's son,

It is a thing, God wot! that can be told by none.


Now by the creeping shadows of the noon,
The hour is come to lay aside their lore;
The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon,
And cries, "Begone!" unto the imps,—and four
Snatch their two hats and struggle for the door,
Like ardent spirits vented from a cask,
All blithe and boisterous,—but leave two more,
With Reading made Uneasy for a task,

To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,


Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod,
With tender moss so sleekly overgrown,
That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod,
So soothly kind is Erin to her own!
And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone,—
For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow;
Ah! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone!
Whilst other twain play at an Irish row,

And, with shillelah small, break one another's brow!


But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift,
Now changeth ferula for rural hoe;
But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift
His college gown, because of solar glow,
And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow:
Meanwhile, he plants in earth the dappled bean,
Or trains the young potatoes all a-row,
Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green,

With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen.


And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours,
Linked each to each by labour, like a bee;
Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs;—
Would there were many more such wights as he,
To sway each capital academie
Of Cam and Isis; for, alack! at each
There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie,
That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach,

But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech!


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Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again.
Friends, if we have ever been,
Friends we cannot now remain:
I only know I loved you once,
I only know I loved in vain;
Our hands have met, but not our hearts;
Our hands will never meet again!

Then farewell to heart and hand!
I would our hands had never met:
Even the outward form of love
Must be resign'd with some regret.
Friends, we still might seem to be,
If I my wrong could e'er forget;
Our hands have join'd but not our hearts:
I would our hands had never met!


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I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
    Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Opening the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
            Lest owls should prey
            Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours.
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
            To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree!
    Where is the Dryad's immortality?—
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
    In the smooth holly's green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
        And honey been save stored
The sweets of summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
        And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
                Alone, alone,
                Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone,
With the last leaves for a love-rosary;
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drownëd past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair;
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!


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It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight;
That sometime these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night;
That warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below;
It is not death to know this,—but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft,—and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.


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There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free.
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyæna, calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.


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LOVE, I am jealous of a worthless man
Whom—for his merits—thou dost hold too dear:
No better than myself, he lies as near
And precious to thy bosom. He may span
Thy sacred waist and with thy sweet breath fan
His happy cheek, and thy most willing ear
Invade with words and call his love sincere
And true as mine, and prove it—if he can:
Not that I hate him for such deeds as this—
He were a devil to adore thee less,
Who wears thy favour,—I am ill at ease
Rather lest he should e'er too coldly press
Thy gentle hand:—This is my jealousy
Making myself suspect but never thee!


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LOVE, see thy lover humbled at thy feet,
Not in servility, but homage sweet,
Gladly inclined:—and with my bended knee
Think that my inward spirit bows to thee—
More proud indeed than when I stand or climb 
Elsewhere:—there is no statue so sublime
As Love's in all the world, and e'en to kiss
The pedestal is still a better bliss
Than all ambitions.   O! Love's lowest base
Is far above the reaching of disgrace
To shame this posture.   Let me then draw nigh
Feet that have fared so nearly to the sky,
And when this duteous homage has been given
I will rise up and clasp the heart in Heaven.


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