FullReads

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.