CCLXXXIII.

In vain she sat with her Precious Leg A little exposed, _a 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 Chateau 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.