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CXXXVII.

Thus Tories like to worry the Whigs,
Who treat them in turn like Schwalbach pigs,
Giving them lashes, thrashes, and digs,
With their writhing and pain delighted–
But after all that’s said, and more,
The malice and spite of Party are poor
To the malice and spite of a party next door,
To a party not invited.

CXXXIX.

On with the cap and out with the light,
Weariness bids the world good night,
At least for the usual season;
But hark! a clatter of horses’ heels;
And Sleep and Silence are broken on wheels,
Like Wilful Murder and Treason!

CXL.

Another crash–and the carriage goes–
Again poor Weariness seeks the repose
That Nature demands, imperious;
But Echo takes up the burden now,
With a rattling chorus of row-de-dow-dow,
Till Silence herself seems making a row,
Like a Quaker gone delirious!

CXLI.

‘Tis night–a winter night–and the stars
Are shining like winkin’–Venus and Mars
Are rolling along in their golden cars
Through the sky’s serene expansion–
But vainly the stars dispense their rays,
Venus and Mars are lost in the blaze
Of the Kilmanseggs’ luminous mansion!

CXLII.

Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright!
His bedchamber windows look so bright,–
With light all the Square is glutted!
Up he jumps, like a sole from the pan,
And a tremor sickens his inward man,
For he feels as only a gentleman can,
Who thinks he’s being “gutted.”

CXLIII.

Again Fear settles, all snug and warm;
But only to dream of a dreadful storm
From Autumn’s sulphurous locker;
But the only electrical body that falls
Wears a negative coat, and positive smalls,
And draws the peal that so appals
From the Kilmanseggs’ brazen knocker!

CXLIV.

‘Tis Curiosity’s Benefit night–
And perchance ’tis the English Second-Sight,
But whatever it be, so be it–
As the friends and guests of Miss Kilmansegg
Crowd in to look at her Golden Leg,
As many more
Mob round the door,
To see them going to see it!

CXLV.

In they go–in jackets and cloaks,
Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques,
As if to a Congress of Nations:
Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks,
Spaniards, Jews, Chinese, and Turks–
Some like original foreign works,
But mostly like bad translations.

CXLVI.

In they go, and to work like a pack,
Juan, Moses, and Shacabac,
Tom, and Jerry and Springheel’d Jack,–
For some of low Fancy are lovers–
Skirting, zigzagging, casting about,
Here and there, and in and out,
With a crush, and a rush, for a full-bodied rout
In one of the stiffest of covers.

CXLVII.

In they went, and hunted about,
Open-mouth’d like chub and trout,
And some with the upper lip thrust out,
Like that fish for routing, a barbel–
While Sir Jacob stood to welcome the crowd,
And rubb’d his hands, and smiled aloud,
And bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d, and bow’d,
Like a man who is sawing marble.

CXLVIII.

For Princes were there, and Noble Peers;
Dukes descended from Norman spears;
Earls that dated from early years;
And lords in vast variety–
Besides the Gentry both new and old–
For people who stand on legs of gold
Are sure to stand well with society.

CXLIX.

“But where–where–where?” with one accord,
Cried Moses and Mufti, Jack and my Lord,
Wang-Fong and Il Bondocani–
When slow, and heavy, and dead as a dump,
They heard a foot begin to stump,
Thump! lump!
Lump! thump!
Like the Spectre in “Don Giovanni”!