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CCXXXV.

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!

CCXXXVI.

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!

CCXXXVII.

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!

CCCXXXVIII.

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!

CCXXXIX.

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.

CCXL.

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.

CCXLI.

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!

CCXLII.

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.

CCXLIII.

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.

CCXLIV.

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!

CCXLV.

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.

CCXLVI.

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.