I. THE Countess Pasibleu's gay rooms were full, Not crowded. It was neither rout nor ball -- Only "her Friday night." The air was cool; And there were people in the house of all Varieties, except the pure John Bull. The number of young ladies, too, was small -- You seldom find @3old@1 John, or his @3young@1 daughters, Swimming in very literary waters. II. Indeed, with rare exceptions, women given To the society of famous men, Are those who will confess to twenty-seven; But add to this the next reluctant ten, And still they're fit to make a poet's heaven, For sumptuously beautiful is then The woman of proud mien and thoughtful brow; And one (still bright in her meridian now) III. Bent upon Jules, that night, her lustrous eye. A creature of a loftier mould was she Than in his dreams had ever glided by; And through his veins the blood flew startlingly, And he felt sick at heart -- he knew not why -- For 'tis the sadness of the lost to see Angels look on us with a cold regard, (Not knowing those who never left their card.) IV. She had a low, sweet brow, with fringed lakes Of an unfathom'd darkness couch'd below; And parted on that brow in jetty flakes The raven hair swept back with wavy flow, Rounding a head of such a shape as makes The old Greek marble with the goddess glow. Her nostril's breaching arch might threaten storm -- But love lay in her lips, all hush'd and warm. V. And small teeth, glittering white, and cheek whose red Seem'd Passion, there asleep, in rosy nest: And neck set on as if to bear a head -- May be a lily, may be Juno's crest, -- So lightly sprang it from its snow-white bed! So proudly rode above the swelling breast! And motion, effortless as stars awaking And melting out, at eve, and morning's breaking; VI. And voice delicious quite, and smile that came Slow to the lips, as 'twere the heart smiled thro': -- These charms I've been particular to name, For they are, like an inventory, true, And of themselves were stuff enough for fame; But she, so wondrous fair, has genius too, And brilliantly her thread of life is spun -- In verse and beauty both, the "Undying One!" VII. And song -- for in those kindling lips there lay Music to wing all utterance outward breaking, As if upon the ivory teeth did play Angels, who caught the words at their awaking, And sped them with sweet melodies away -- The hearts of those who listen'd with them taking. Of proof to this last fact there's little lack; And Jules, poor lad! ne'er got @3his@1 truant back! VIII. That heart stays with her still. 'Tis one of two, (I should premise) -- all poets being double, Living in two worlds as of course they do, Fancy and fact, and rarely taking trouble T' explain @3in which@1 they're living, as to @3you!@1 And this it is makes all the hubble-bubble, For who can fairly write a bard's biography, When, of his @3fancy@1-world, there's no geography! IX. Jules was at perfect liberty @3in fact@1 To love again, and still be true @3in fancy;@1 Else were this story at its closing act, Nay, he @3in fact@1 might wed, and @3in romance@1 he Might find the qualities his @3sposa@1 lack'd -- (A truth that I could easier make a man see,) And woman's great mistake, if I may tell it, is The calling such stray fancies "infidelities." X. Byron was man and bard, and Lady B., In wishing to monopolize him wholly, Committed bigamy, you plainly see. She, being @3very@1 single, Guiccioli Took off the odd one of the wedded three -- A change, 'twould seem, quite natural and holy. The @3after@1 sin, which still his fame environs, Was giving Guiccioli @3both@1 the Byrons. XI. The stern wife drove him from her. Had she loved With all the woman's tenderness the while, He had not been the wanderer he proved. Like bird to sunshine fled he to a smile; And, lightly though the changeful fancy roved, The heart speeds home with far more light a wile. The world well tried -- the sweetest thing in life Is the unclouded welcome of a wife. XII. To poets more than all -- for truthful love Has, to their finer sense, a deeper sweetness; Yet she who has the venturous wish to prove The poet's love when nearest to completeness, Must wed the @3man@1 and let the @3fancy@1 rove -- Loose to the air that wing of eager fleetness, And smile it home when wearied out -- with air, But if you scold him, Madam! have a care! XIII. All this time the "Undying One" was singing. She ceased, and Jules felt every sound a pain While that sweet cadence in his ear was ringing; So gliding from the arm of Lady Jane, Which rather seem'd to have the whim of clinging, He made himself a literary lane -- Punching and shoving every kind of writer Till he got out. (He might have been politer.) XIV. Free of "the press," he wander'd through the rooms, Longing for solitude, but studying faces; And, smitten with the ugliness of Brougham's, He mused upon the cross with monkey races -- (Hieroglyphick'd on th' Egyptian tombs And shown in France with very striking traces.) "Rejected" Smith's he thought a head quite glorious; And Hook, all button'd up, he took for "Boreas." XV. He noted Lady Stepney's pretty hand, And Barry Cornwall's sweet and serious eye; And saw Moore get down from his chair to stand, While a most royal duke went bowing by -- Saw Savage Landor, wanting soap and sand -- Saw Lady Chatterton take snuff and sigh -- Saw graceful Bulwer say "good-night," and vanish -- Heard Crofton Croker's brogue, and thought it Spanish. XVI. He saw Smith whispering something very queer, And Hayward creep behind to overhear him; Saw Lockhart whistling in a lady's ear, (Jules thought so, till, on getting very near him, The error -- not the mouth -- became quite clear;) He saw @3"the@1 Duke" and had a mind to cheer him, And fine Jane Porter with her cross and feather, And clever Babbage, with his face of leather. XVII. And there was plump and saucy Mrs. Gore, And calm, old, lily-white Joanna Baillie, And frisky Bowring, London's wisest bore; And there was "devilish handsome" D'Israeli; And not a lion of all these did roar; But laughing, flirting, gossiping so gaily, -- Poor Jules began to think 'twas only mockery To talk of "porcelain" -- 'twas a world of crockery. XVIII. @3'Tis@1 half a pity authors should be seen! Jules thought so, and I think so too, with Jules. They'd better do the immortal with a screen, And show but mortal in a world of fools; Men talk of "taste" for thunder -- but they mean Old Vulcan's apron and his dirty tools; They flock all wonder to the Delphic shade, To know -- just how the oracle is made! XIX. What we should think of Bulwer's works -- without him, His wife, his coat, his curls or other handle; What of our Cooper, knowing naught about him, Save his enchanted quill and pilgrim's sandal; What of old Lardner, (gracious! how they flout him!) Without this broad -- (and @3Heavy@1-) @3side@1 of scandal; What of Will Shakspeare had he kept a "Boz" Like Johnson -- would be curious questions, coz! XX. Jove is, no doubt, a gainer by his cloud, (Which ta'en away, might cause irreverent laughter,) But, out of sight, he thunders ne'er so loud, And no one asks the god to dinner after; And "Fame's proud temple," build it ne'er so proud, Finds notoriety a useful rafter. And when you've been abused awhile, you learn All blasts blow fair for you -- @3that blow astern!@1 XXI. No "@3pro@1" without its "@3con;@1" -- the @3pro@1 is fame, Pure, cold, unslander'd, like a virgin's frill; The @3con@1 is beef and mutton, sometimes game, Madeira, sherry, claret, what you will; The ladies' (albums) striving for your name; All, (save the woodcock,) yours without a bill; And "in the gate," an unbelieving Jew, Your "Mordecai!" -- Why, clearly @3con's@1 your cue! XXII. I've "reason'd" myself neatly "round the ring," While Jules came round to Lady Jane once more, And supper being but a heavy thing, (To lookers-on,) I'll show him to the door, And his first night to a conclusion bring; Not (with your kind permission, sir) before I tell you what her Ladyship said to him As home to Brook-street her swift horses drew him. XXIII. "You're comfortably lodged, I trust," she said: "And Mrs. Mivart -- is she like a mother? Have you musquito curtains to your bed? Do you sleep well without your little brother? What do you eat for breakfast -- baker's bread? I'll send you some home-made, if you would rather. What do you do to-morrow? -- say at five, Or four -- say four -- I call for you to drive? XXIV. "There's the New Garden, and the Coliseum -- Perhaps you don't care much for Panoramas? But there's an armadillo -- you @3must@1 see him! And those big-eyed giraffes and heavenly lamas! And -- are you fond of music? -- the @3Te Deum@1 Is beautifully play'd by Lascaramhas, At the new Spanish chapel. This damp air! And you've no hat on! -- let me feel your hair! XXV. "Poor boy!" -- but Jules's head was on her breast, Rock'd like a nautilus in calm mid ocean; And while its curls within her hands she press'd, The Lady Jane experienced some emotion: For, did he sleep? or wish to be caress'd? What meant the child? -- she'd not the slightest notion! Arrived at home, he rose, without a shake -- Trembling and slightly flush'd -- but wide awake. XXVI. Loose rein! put spur! and follow, gentle reader! For I must take a flying leap in rhyme; And be to you both Jupiter and @3leader@1, Annihilating space, (we all kill time,) And overtaking Jules in Rome, where he'd a Delight or two, besides the pleasant clime. The Lady Jane and he, (I scorn your cavils -- The Earl was with them, sir!) were on their travels. XXVII. You know, perhaps, the winds are no narcotic, As swallow'd 'twixt the Thames and Frith of Forth; And Jules had proved a rather frail exotic -- Too delicate to winter so far north; The Earl was breaking, and half idiotic, And Lady Jane's condition little worth; So, through celestial Paris, (speaking victual-ly,) They sought the sunnier clime of ill-fed Italy. XXVIII. Oh Italy! -- but no! -- I'll tell its faults! It has them, though the blood so "nimbly capers" Beneath those morning heavens and starry vaults, That we forget big rooms and little tapers -- Forget how drowsily the Romans waltz -- Forget they've neither shops nor morning papers -- Forget how dully sits, 'mid ancient glory, This rich man's heaven -- this poor man's purgatory! XXIX. Fashion the world as one bad man would have it, he Would silence Harry's tongue, and Tom's, and Dick's; And doubtless it is pleasing to depravity To know a land where people are but sticks -- Where you've no need of fair words, flattery, suavity, But spend your money, if you like, with kicks -- Where they pass by their own proud, poor nobility, To welcome golden "Snooks" with base servility. XXX. Jules was not in the poor man's category -- So Rome's condition never spoilt his supper. The deuse (for him) might take the Curtian glory Of riding with a nation on his crupper. He lived upon a Marquis's first story -- The venerable Marquis in the upper -- And found it pass'd the time, (and so would you,) To do some things at Rome that Romans do. XXXI. The Marquis upon whom he chanced to quarter, (He took his lodgings separate from the Earl,) The Marquis had a friend, who had a daughter -- The friend a noble like himself, the girl A diamond of the very purest water; (Or purest milk, if you prefer a pearl;) And these two friends, tho' poor, were hand and glove, And of a pride their fortunes much above. XXXII. The Marquis had not much besides his palace, The Count, beyond his daughter, simply naught; And, one day, died this very Count Pascalis, Leaving his friend his daughter, as he ought; And, though the Fates had done the thing in malice, The old man took her, without second thought, And married her. "She's freer thus," he said, "And will be young to marry when I'm dead." XXXIII. Meantime, she had a title, house, and carriage, And, far from wearing chains, had newly burst 'em -- For, as of course you know, before their marriage Girls are sad prisoners by Italian custom -- Not meaning their discretion to disparage, But just because they're sure they couldn't trust 'em. When wedded, they are free enough -- moreover The marriage contract specifies @3one@1 lover. XXXIV. Not that the Marchioness had one -- no, no! Nor wanted one. It is not my intention To hint it in this tale. Jules lodged below -- But his vicinity's not my invention; And, if it seems to you more @3apropos@1 Than I have thought it worth my while to mention, Why, @3you@1 think as the world did -- @3verbum sat@1 -- But still it needn't be so -- for all that. XXXV. 'Most any female neighbor, up a stair, Occasions thought in him who lodges under; And Jules, by accident, had walk'd in where (A "@3flight@1 too high" 's a very common blunder.) He saw a lady whom he thought as fair As "from her shell rose" Mrs. Smith of Thunder. Though Venus, I would say were Vulcan by, Was no more like the Marchioness than I. XXXVI. For this grave sin there needed much remission; And t' assure it, oft the offender went. The Marquis had a very famous Titian, And Jules so often came to pay his rent, The old man recommended a physician, Thinking his intellects a little bent, And, pitying, he thought and talk'd about him, Till, finally, he couldn't live without him, XXXVII. And, much to the neglect of Lady Jane, Jules paid him back his love; and there, all day, The fair young Marchioness, with fickle brain, Tried him with changeful mood, now coy, now gay: And the old man lived o'er his youth again, Seeing those grown-up children at their play -- His wife sixteen, Jules looking scarcely more, 'Twas frolic infancy to eighty-four. XXXVIII. There seems less mystery in matrimony, With people living nearer the equator; And early, like the most familiar crony, Unheralded by butler, groom, or waiter, Jules join'd the Marquis at his macaroni, -- The Marchioness at toast and coffee later; And if his heart throbb'd wild sometimes, he hid it; And if her dress required "doing" -- did it. XXXIX. Now, though the Marchioness in church @3did@1 faint once, And, as Jules bore her out, they didn't group ill; And though the spouses (as a pair) were quaint ones -- She scarce a woman, and his age octuple -- 'Twas odd, extremely odd, of their acquaintance, To call Jules @3lover@1 with so little scruple! He'd a caressing way -- but la! you know it's A sort of manner natural to poets! XL. God made them prodigal in their bestowing; And, if their smiles were riches, few were poor! They turn to all the sunshine that is going -- Swoop merrily at all that shows a lure -- Their love at heart and lips is overflowing -- Their motto, "Trust the @3future@1 -- @3now@1 is sure!" Their natural pulse is high intoxication -- (Sober'd by debt and mortal botheration.) XLI. Of such men's pain and pleasure, hope and passion, The symptoms are not read by "those who run;" And 'tis a pity it were not the fashion To count them but as children of the sun -- Not to be baited like the "bulls of Bashan," Nor liable, like clods, for "one pound one" -- But reverenced -- as Indians rev'rence fools -- Inspired, tho' God knows how. Well -- such was Jules. XLII. The Marquis thought him sunshine at the window -- The window of his heart -- and let him in! The Marchioness loved sunshine like a Hindoo, And she thought loving him could be no sin; And as she loved not yet as those who sin do, 'Twas very well -- was't not? Stick there a pin! It strikes me that so far -- to this last stanza -- The hero seems a well-disposed young man, sir! XLIII. I have not bored you much with his "abilities," Though I set out to treat you to a poet, The first course commonly is "puerilities" -- (A soup well pepper'd -- all the critics know it!) Brought in quite hot. (The simple way to chill it is, For "spoons" to stir, and @3puffy@1 lips to blow it.) Then, poet stuff'd, and by his kidney roasted, And last (with "@3lagrima@1,") "the devil" toasted. XLIV. @3High-scream@1 between the devil and the roast, But no @3Sham-pain!@1 -- Hold there! the fit is o'er. @3Obsta principiis@1 -- one pun breeds a host -- (Alarmingly prolific for a bore!) But he who never sins can little boast Compared to him who goes and sins no more! The "sinful Mary" walks more white in heaven Than some who never "sinn'd and were forgiven!" XLV. Jules had objections very strong to playing His character of poet -- therefore I Have rather dropp'd that thread, as I was saying. But though he'd neither phrensy in his eye, Nor much of outer mark the bard betraying -- (A thing he piqued himself on, by the by --) His conversation frequently arose To what was thought a goodly flight for prose. XLVI. His @3beau ideal@1 was to sink the attic, (Though not by birth, nor taste, "the @3salt@1 above" --) To pitilessly cut the air erratic Which ladies, fond of authors, so much love, And be, in style, calm, cold, aristocratic -- Serene in faultless boots and primrose glove. But th' exclusive's made of starch, not honey! And Jules was cordial, joyous, frank, and funny. XLVII. This was one secret of his popularity, Men hate a manner colder than their own, And ladies -- bless their hearts! love chaste hilarity Better than sentiment -- if truth were known! And Jules had one more slight peculiarity -- He'd little "approbativeness" -- or none -- And what the critics said concern'd him little -- Provided it touch'd not his drink and victual. XLVIII. Critics, I say -- of course he was in print -- "Poems," of course -- of course "anonymous" -- Of course he found a publisher by dint Of search most diligent, and far more fuss Than chemists make in melting you a flint. Since that experiment he reckons @3plus@1 Better manure than @3minus@1 for his bays -- In short, seeks immortality -- "that pays." XLIX. He writes in prose -- the public like it better. Well -- @3let@1 the public! You may take a poet, And he shall write his grandmother a letter, And, if he's any thing @3but@1 rhyme -- he'll show it. Prose may be poetry without its fetter, And be it pun or pathos, high or low wit, The thread will show its gold, however twisted -- (I wish the public flatter'd me that this did!) L. No doubt there's pleasant stuff that ill unravels. I fancy most of Moore's would read so-so, Done into prose of pious Mr. Flavel's -- (That is my Sunday reading -- so I know,) Yet there's Childe Harold -- excellent good travels -- And what could spoil sweet Robinson Crusoe! But though a clever @3verse-r@1 makes a @3prose-r@1, About the @3vice-versa@1, I don't know, sir! LI. @3Verser's@1 a better word than @3versifier@1, (Unless 'tis @3verse on fire@1, you mean to say,) And I've long thought there's something to desire In poet's nomenclature, by the way. It sounds but queer to laud "@3the well-known lyre@1" -- Call a dog "poet!" he will run away -- And "songster," "rhymester," "bard," and "poetaster," Are customers they're shy of at the Astor. LII. A "scribbler's" is a skittish reputation, And weighs a man down like a hod of mortar. Commend a suitor's wit, imagination -- The merchant may think of him for his daughter; But say that "he writes poetry" -- ----- n! Her "Pa" would rather throw her in the water! And yet when poets wed, as facts will prove, Their bills stand all @3at@1 pa, @3they@1 much @3above!@1 LIII. Jules had a hundred minds to cut the muses; And sometimes did, "forever!" -- (for a week!) He found for time so many other uses. His superfluity was his @3physique;@1 And exercise, if violent, induces Blood to the head and flush upon the cheek; And, (though details are neither here nor there,) Makes a man sit uneasy on his chair; LIV. Particularly that of breaking horses. The rate of circulation in the blood, Best suited to the meditative forces, Is quite as far from mercury as mud -- That of the starry, not the racing-courses. No man can trim his style 'mid fire and flood, Nor in a passion, nor just after marriage; And, as to Caesar's writing in his carriage, LV. @3Credat@1 Judaeus! Thought is free and easy; But language, unless wrought with @3labor limoe@1, Is not the kind of thing, sir, that would please ye! The bee makes honey, but his toil is @3thymy@1, And nothing is well done until it tease ye; (Tho' if there's one who would 'twere not so, I'm he!) Now Jules, I say, found out that filly-breaking, Though monstrous fun, was not a poet's making. LVI. True -- some @3drink@1 up to composition's glow; Some @3talk@1 up to it -- @3vide@1 Neckar's daughter! But when the temp'rature's a fourth too low, Of course you make up the deficient quarter! Like Byron's atmosphere, which, chemists know, Required hydrogen -- (more gin and water.) And Jules's sanguine humor was too high, So, of the bottle he had need be shy! LVII. And of society, which made him thin With fret and fever, and of sunny sky -- Father of idleness, the poet's sin! (John Bull should be industrious, by the by, If clouds @3without@1 concentrate thought @3within@1,) In short, the lad could fag -- (I mean soar high) -- Only by habits, which (if Heaven let @3her@1 choose) His mother would bequeath as Christian virtues! LVIII. Now men have oft been liken'd unto streams; (And, truly, both are prone to run down hill, And seldom brawl when dry, or so it seems!) And Jules, when he had brooded, long and still, At the dim fountain of the poet's dreams, Felt suddenly his veins with phrensy fill; And, urged, as by the torrent's headlong force, Ruthlessly rode -- if he could find a horse. LIX. Yes, sir -- he had his freshets like a river, And horses were his passion -- so he rode, When he his prison'd spirits would deliver, As if he fled from -- some man whom he owed -- And glorious, to him, the bounding quiver Of the young steed in terror first bestrode! Thrilling as inspiration the delay -- The arrowy spring -- the fiery flight away! LX. Such riding galls the Muses, (though we know Old Pegasus's build is short and stocky,) But I'd a mind by these details to show What Jules might turn out, were the Muses baulky. This hint to his biographer I throw -- In Jules, the bard, was spoil'd a famous jockey! Though not at all to imitate Apollo! Horse him as well, he'd beat @3that@1 dabster hollow! LXI. 'Tis one of the proprieties of story To mark the change in heroes, stage by stage; And therefore I have tried to lay before ye The qualities of Jules's second age. It @3should@1 wind up with some @3memento mori@1 -- But we'll defer that till we draw the sage. The moral's the last thing, (I say with pain,) And now let's turn awhile to Lady Jane. LXII. The Earl, I've said, was in his idiocy, And Lady Jane not well. They therefore hired The summer palace of Rospigliosi, To get the sun as well as be retired. You shouldn't fail, I think, this spot to go see -- That's if you care to have your fancy fired -- It's out of Rome -- it strikes me on a steep hill -- A sort of place to go to with nice people. LXIII. It looks affectionate, with all its splendor -- As loveable as ever look'd a nest; A palace, I protest, that makes you tender, And long for ----- fol de rol, and all the rest. Guido's Aurora's there -- you couldn't mend her; And Samson, by Caracci -- not his best; But pictures, I can talk of to the million -- To @3you@1, I'll just describe one small pavilion. LXIV. It's in the garden just below the palace; I think upon the second terrace -- no -- The first -- yes, 'tis the first -- the orange alleys Lead from the first flight down -- precisely so! Well -- half-way is a fountain, where, with malice In all his looks, a Cupid -- 'hem! you know You needn't notice that -- you hurry by, And lo! a fairy structure fills your eye. LXV. A crescent colonnade folds in the sun, To keep it for the wooing South wind only -- A thing I wonder is not oftener done, (The crescent, not the wooing -- that's @3my own@1 lie,) For there are months, and January's one, When winds are chill, and life in-doors gets lonely, And one quite longs, if wind would keep away, To sing i' the sunshine, like old King Rene. LXVI. The columns are of marble, white as light: The structure low, yet airy, and the floor A tesselated pavement, curious quite, -- Of the same fashion in and out of door. The Lady Jane, who kept not warm by sight, Had carpeted this pavement snugly o'er, And introduced a stove, (an open Rumford) -- So the pavilion had an air of comfort. LXVII. "The frescoes on the ceiling really breathe," The guide-books say. Of course they really @3see:@1 And, as I tell you what went on beneath, Of course those naked goddesses told @3me@1. They saw two rows of dazzling English teeth, Employ'd, each morn, on "English toast and tea;" And once, when Jules came in, they strain'd their eyes, But didn't see the teeth, to their surprise. LXVIII. The Lady Jane smiled not. Her lashes hung Low to the soft eye, and so still they lay, Jules knew a tear was hid their threads among, And that she fear'd 'twould gush and steal away. The kindly greeting trembled on her tongue, The hand's faint pressure chill'd his touch like clay, And Jules with wonder felt the world all changing, With but the cloud of one fond heart's estranging. LXIX. Oh it is darkness to lose love! -- howe'er We little prize the fond heart -- fond no more! The bird, dark-wing'd on earth, looks white in air! Unrecognised are angels, till they soar! And few so rich they may not well beware Of lightly losing the heart's golden ore! Yet -- hast thou love too poor for thy possessing? -- Loose it, like friends to death, with kiss and blessing! LXX. You're naturally surprised, that Lady Jane Loved Mr. Jules. (He's @3Mr.@1 now -- not @3Master!@1) The fact's abruptly introduced, it's plain; And possibly I should have made it last a Whole Canto, more or less -- but I'll explain. @3Lumping@1 the sentiment one gets on faster! Though it's in narrative an art quite subtle, To work all even, like a weaver's shuttle. LXXI. Good "characters" in tales are "well brought up" -- (Though, by this rule, my Countess Pasibleu Is a bad character -- yet, just to sup, I much prefer her house to a church pew --) But, pouring verse for readers, cup by cup, -- So much a week, -- what is a man to do? "'@3Tis wish'd that if a story you begin, you'd Make separate scenes of each 'to be continued@1.'" LXXII. So writes plain "Jonathan," who tills my brains With view to crop -- (the seed being ready money --) And if the "small-lot system" bring him gains, He has a right to fence off grave from funny -- Working me up, as 'twere, in window-panes, And, I must own, where one has room to run, he Is apt, as Cooper does, to spread it thin, So now I'll go to @3lumping@1 it again! LXXIII. "Love grows, by what" it gives to feed another, And not by what "it feeds on." 'Tis divine, If any thing's divine besides the mother Whose breast, self-blessing, is its holy sign. Much better than a sister loves a brother The Lady Jane loved Jules, and "line by line, Precept by precept," furnish'd him advice; Also much other stuff he thought more nice. LXXIV. She got him into sundry pleasant clubs, By pains that women @3can@1 take, though but few will! She made most of him when he got most rubs; And once, in an inevitable duel, She follow'd him alone to Wormwood Scrubs -- But not to hinder! Faith! she was a jewel! I wish the star all manner of festivity That shone upon her Ladyship's nativity! LXXV. All sorts of enviable invitations, Tickets, and privileges, got she him; Gave him much satin waistcoat, work'd with patience, (Becoming to a youth so jimp and slim) -- Cut for his sake some prejudiced relations, And found for him in church the psalm and hymn; Sent to his "den" some things not found in Daniel's, And kept him in kid gloves, cologne, and flannels. LXXVI. To set him down upon her way @3chez elle@1, She stay'd unreasonably late at parties; To introduce him to a waltzing belle She sometimes made a @3cessio dignitatis;@1 And one kind office more that I must tell -- She sent her maid, (and very stern your heart is If charity like this you find a sin in,) In church-time, privately, to air his linen. LXXVII. Was Jules ungrateful? No! Was he obtuse? Did he believe that women's hearts were flowing With tenderness, like water in a sluice, -- Like the sun's shining, -- like the breeze's blowing, -- And fancy thanking them was not much use? Had he the luck of intimately knowing Another woman, quite as kind, and nicer? Had he a "friend" @3sub rosa?@1 No, sir! Fie, sir! LXXVIII. Then why neglect her? Having said he did, I will explain, as Brutus did his stab, -- (Though by my neighbors I'm already child For getting on so very like a crab) -- Jules didn't call, as oft as he was bid, Because in Rome he didn't keep a cab -- A fact that quite explains why friendships, marriages, And other ties depend on keeping carriages. LXXIX. Without a carriage men should have no card, Nor "owe a call" at all -- except for love. And friends who need that you the "lean earth lard" To give their memories a pasteboard shove, On gentlemen a-foot bear rather hard! It's paying high for Broadway balls, by Jove! To walk next day half way to Massachusett And leave your name -- on ladies that won't use it. LXXX. It really should be taught in infant schools That the majority means men, not dollars; And, therefore, that, to let the rich make rules, Is silly in "poor pretty little scholars." And this you see is @3apropos@1 of Jules, Who call'd as frequently as richer callers While he'd a cab; -- but courtesy's half horse -- A secret those who ride keep snug, of course. LXXXI. I say while he was Centaur, (horse and man,) Jules never did neglect the Lady Jane; And, at the start, it was my settled plan, (Though I've lost sight of it, I see with pain,) To show how moderate attentions can, If once she love, a woman's heart retain. True love is weak and humble, though so brittle; And asks, 'tis wonderful how very little! LXXXII. For instance -- Jules's every day routine Was, breakfast at his lodgings, rather early; A short walk in the nearest Park, the Green; (Where, if address'd, he was extremely surly;) Five minutes at the Club, perhaps fifteen; Then giving his fine silk moustache a curl, he Stepp'd in his cab and drove to Belgrave Square, Where he walk'd in with quite a household air. LXXXIII. And here he pass'd an hour -- or two, or three -- Just as it served his purpose, or his whim; And sweeter haunt on earth could scarcely be Than that still boudoir, rose-lit, scented, dim -- Its mistress, elsewhere all simplicity, Dress'd ever sumptuously @3there@1 -- for him! With all that taste could mould, or gold could buy, Pampering fondly his reluctant eye. LXXXIV. And on the silken cushions at her feet He daily dream'd these morning hours away, Troubling himself but little to be sweet. Poets are fond of revery, they say, But not with ladies whom they @3rarely@1 meet. And, if you love one, madam, (as you may!) And wish his wings to pin as with a skewer, Be careful of all manner of @3toujours!@1 LXXXV. "@3Toujours perdrix@1," snipe, woodcock, trout, or rabbit Offends the simplest palate, it appears, And, (if a secret, I'm disposed to blab it,) It's much the same with smiles, sighs, quarrels, tears. The fancy mortally abhors a @3habit!@1 (Not that which Seraphina's bust inspheres!) E'en one-tuned music-boxes breed satiety, Unless you keep of them a great variety. LXXXVI. Daily to Jules the sun rose in the East, And brought new milk and morning paper daily; The "yield" of both the Editor and beast, Great mysteries, unsolved by Brown or Paley; But Jules -- not plagued about it in the least -- Read his gazette, and drank his tea quite gaily; And Lady Jane's fond love and cloudless brow Grew to be like the Editor and cow. LXXXVII. I see you understand it. One may dash on A color here -- stroke there -- and lo! the story! And, speaking morally, this outline fashion Befits a world so cramm'd yet transitory. I've sketch'd for you a deep and tranquil passion Kindled while nursing up a bard for glory; And, having whisk'd you for that end to London, Let's back to Italy, and see it undone. LXXXVIII. Fair were the frescoes of Rospigliosi -- Bright the Italian sunshine on the wall -- The day delicious and the room quite cozy -- And yet were there two bosoms full of gall! So lurks the thorn in paths long soft and rosy! Jules was not one whom trifles could appal, But few things will make creep the lion's mane Like ladies in a miff who wont explain! LXXXIX. Now I have seen a hadji and a cadi -- Have sojourn'd among strangers, oft and long -- Have known most sorts of women, fair and shady, And mingled in most kinds of mortal throng -- But, in my life, I never saw a lady Who had, @3the least@1, the air of being wrong! The fact is, there's a nameless grace in evil @3We@1 never caught -- 'twas @3she@1 who saw the devil! XC. In pedigree of sin we're mere beginners -- For what was Adam to the "morning star?" @3She@1 would take precedence -- if sins were dinners, And hence that self-assured "@3de haut en bas@1" So unattainable by men, as sinners. Of course, she plays the devil in a @3fracas@1 -- Frowns better, looks more innocent, talks faster, And argues like her grandmother's old master! XCI. And in proportion as the angel fades -- As love departs -- the crest of woman rises -- Even in passion's softer, lighter shades, With aristocracy's well-bred disguises; For, with no tragic fury, no tirades, A lady @3looks@1 a man into a crisis! And, to 'most any animal carnivorous Before a belle aggrieved, the Lord deliver us! XCII. Jules had one thing particular to say, The morn I speak of, but, in fact, was there, With twenty times the mind to be away. Uncomfortable seem'd the stuff'd arm-chair In which the Earl would sometimes pass the day; And there was something Roman in the air; For every effort to express his errand Ended in "um!" -- as 'twere a Lation gerund. XCIII. He had received a little billet-doux The night before -- as plain as A B C -- (I mean, it would appear as plain to you, Though very full of meaning, you'll agree) -- Informing him that by advice quite new The Earl was going now to try the sea; And begging him to have his passport vised For Venice, by Bologna -- if he pleased! XCIV. Smooth as a melody of Mother Goose's The gentle missive elegantly ran -- A sort of note the writer don't care who sees, For you may pick a flaw in't if you can -- But yet a stern @3experimentum crucis@1, Quite in the style of Metternich, or Van, -- And meant -- without more flummery or fuss -- @3Stay with your Marchioness@1 -- @3or come with us!@1 XCV. Here was to be "a parting such as wrings The blood from out young hearts" -- for Jules @3would@1 stay! The bird she took unfledged had got its wings, And, though its cage be gold, it must away! But this, and similar high-color'd things, Refinement makes it difficult to say; For, higher "high life" is, (this side an attic,) The more it shrinks from all that looks dramatic. XCVI. Hence, words grow cold as agony grows hot, 'Twixt those who see in ridicule a Hades; And though the truth but coldly end the plot, (There really is no pathos for you, ladies!) Jules cast the die with simply "I think not!" And her few words were guarded as he made his; For rank has one cold law of Moloch's making -- @3Death, before outcry, while the heart is breaking!@1 XCVII. She could not tell that boy how hot the tear That seem'd within her eyeball to have died -- She could not tell him her exalted sphere Had not a hope his boyish love beside: The grave of anguish is a human ear -- Hers lay unburied in a pall of pride! And life, for her, thenceforth, was cold and lonely, With her heart lock'd on that dumb sorrow only! XCVIII. Calm, in her "pride of place," moves Lady Jane -- Paler, but beautifully pale, and cold -- So cold, the gazer believes joy nor pain Has o'er that pulse of marble ever roll'd. She loved too late to dream of love again, And rich, fair, noble, and alone, grows old! A star, on which a spirit had alighted Once, in all time, were like a life so blighted! XCIX. So, from the poet's woof was broke a thread Which we have follow'd in its rosy weaving! Yet merrily, still on, the shuttle sped. Jules was not made of stuff to die of grieving; But, that an angel from his path had fled, He was not long in mournfully believing. And "angel watch and ward" had fled with her -- For, virtuously loved, 'tis hard to err! C. Poets are moths, (or so some poet sings, Or so some pleasant allegory goes,) And Jules at many a bright light burnt his wings. His first chaste scorching the foregoing shows; But, while one passion best in metre rings, Another is best told in lucid prose. 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