Her Highness' pug-dog-got a sharp rebuff She wish'd a game at whist-made three revokesTurn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff; His Majesty will know her temper time enough. LXXIX She cried for chess-I play'd a game with her— To the second chapter of my fortieth book, The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream, Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem. LXXX. About this time,—making delightful way,- Thank Heaven, I'm hearty yet!-'twas no such At five the golden light began to spring, With fiery shudder through the bloomed east; To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd. LXXXI. As flowers turn their faces to the sun, way run, So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shaped our course, this, that With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze : Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays, And progresses through its own labyrinth; Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days, They scatter'd, daisy, primrose, hyacinth,— Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth. LXXXII. Onward we floated o'er the panting streets, That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved; Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets Legions of holiday; bright standards waved, And fluttering ensigns emulously craved Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved, As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild-reefed shore. LXXXIII. And "Bellanaine for ever!" shouted they! A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly. LXXXIV. 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 All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo! LXXXV. 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; LXXXVII. A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Over her woman's weakness. "Where!" cried I, "Where is his Majesty?" No person feels Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. LXXXVIII. Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran I met, far gone in liquor, that old man, |