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!