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Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettle-drum-
It went for apoplexy-foolish folks!—

Left it to pay the piper-a good sum--
(I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes,)
To scrape a little favor; 'gan to coax

Her Highness' pug-dog-got a sharp rebuff-
She wish'd a game at whist-made three revokes-
Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff;
His Majesty will know her temper time enough.


She cried for chess-I play'd a game with her—
Castled her king with such a vixen look,
It bodes ill to his Majesty-(refer

To the second chapter of my fortieth book,
And see what hoity-toity airs she took :)
At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam-
Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook--
The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream,
Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem.


About this time-making delightful way-
Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing-
Wish'd, trusted, hoped 'twas no sign of decay-
Thank Heaven, I'm hearty yet!-'twas no such thing:-
At five the golden light began to spring,

With fiery shudder through the bloomed east ;
At six we heard Panthea's churches ring-

The city all his unhived swarms had cast,

To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd.


As flowers turn their faces to the sun,

So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run, 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, hyacinthOr round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth.


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.


And "Bellanaine for ever!" shouted they!
While that fair Princess, from her winged chair,
Bow'd low with high demeanor, and, to pay
Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair,
Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there,
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.


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,
Congées and scrape-graces of every sort,
And all the smooth routine of gallantries,
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
A motley crowd thick gathered 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-natured 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 peals
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.


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 proved 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 labor 'tis immense!

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IN thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state,
Bards that erst sublimely told

Heroic deeds, and sang of fate,

With fervor seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.


Here Homer with his nervous arms
Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendor warms,
While the trumpets sound afar :

But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.


Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells
The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre:
The soul delighted on each accent dwells,—
Enraptured dwells,-not daring to respire,
The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.

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