“Still ‘Bellanaine!’ they shouted, while we glide

      ‘Slant to a light Ionic portico,

      The city’s delicacy, and the pride

      Of our Imperial Basilic; a row

      Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show

      Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,

      All down the steps; and, as we enter’d, lo!

      The strangest sight the most unlook’d for chance

      All things turn’d topsy-turvy in a devil’s dance.

      “‘Stead of his anxious Majesty and court

      At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,

      Congèes and scrape-graces of every sort,

      And all the smooth routine of gallantries,

      Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,

      A motley crowd thick gather’d in the hall,

      Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries

      Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall,

      Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.

      “Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor

      Of moth’s-down, to make soft the royal beds,

      The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor

      Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads;

      Powder’d bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads

      Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;

      Toe crush’d with heel ill-natur’d fighting breeds,

      Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother,

      And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.

      “A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown’s back,

      Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,

      And close into her face, with rhyming clack,

      Began a Prothalamion; she reels,

      She falls, she faints! while laughter peels

      Over her woman’s weakness. ‘Where!’ cry’d I,

      ‘Where is his Majesty?’ No person feels

      Inclin’d to answer; wherefore instantly

      I plung’d into the crowd to find him or die.

      “Jostling my way I gain’d the stairs, and ran

      To the first landing, where, incredible!

      I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,

      That vile impostor Hum.”

      So far so well,

      For we have prov’d the Mago never fell

      Down stairs on Crafticanto’s evidence;

      And therefore duly shall proceed to tell,

      Plain in our own original mood and tense,

      The sequel of this day, though labour ’tis immense!

      Think not of it, sweet one, so; -

      Give it not a tear;

      Sigh thou mayst, and bid it go

      Any – anywhere.

      Do not look so sad, sweet one, —

      Sad and fadingly;

      Shed one drop, then it is gone,

      O ’twas born to die.

      Still so pale? then dearest weep;

      Weep, I’ll count the tears,

      And each one shall be a bliss

      For thee in after years.

      Brighter has it left thine eyes

      Than a sunny rill;

      And thy whispering melodies

      Are tenderer still.

      Yet – as all things mourn awhile

      At fleeting blisses,

      Let us too! but be our dirge

      A dirge of kisses.

      Hadst thou liv’d in days of old,

      O what wonders had been told

      Of thy lively countenance,

      And thy humid eyes that dance

      In the midst of their own brightness;

      In the very fane of lightness.

      Over which thine eyebrows, leaning,

      Picture out each lovely meaning:

      In a dainty bend they lie,

      Like two streaks across the sky,

      Or the feathers from a crow,

      Fallen on a bed of snow.

      Of thy dark hair that extends

      Into many graceful bends:

      As the leaves of Hellebore

      Turn to whence they sprung before.

      And behind each ample curl

      Peeps the richness of a pearl.

      Downward too flows many a tress

      With a glossy waviness;

      Full, and round like globes that rise

      From the censer to the skies

      Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness

      Of thy honied voice; the neatness

      Of thine ankle lightly turn’d:

      With those beauties, scarce discrn’d,

      Kept with such sweet privacy,

      That they seldom meet the eye

      Of the little loves that fly

      Round about with eager pry.

      Saving when, with freshening lave,

      Thou dipp’st them in the taintless wave;

      Like twin water lillies, born

      In the coolness of the morn.

      O, if thou hadst breathed then,

      Now the Muses had been ten.

      Couldst thou wish for lineage higher

      Than twin sister of Thalia?

      At least for ever, evermore,

      Will I call the Graces four.

      Hadst thou liv’d when chivalry

      Lifted up her lance on high,

      Tell me what thou wouldst have been?

      Ah! I see the silver sheen

      Of thy broidered, floating vest

      Cov’ring half thine ivory breast;

      Which,