HER MISERY.

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? 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. 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.

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.” 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. 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.

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. Her golden hair is out of its braids,

And her sighs betray the gloomy shades That her evil planet revolves in — And tears are falling that catch a gleam So bright as they drop in the sunny beam,

That tears of aqua regia they seem, The water that gold dissolves in; Yet, not in filial grief were shed Those tears for a mother's insanity;

Nor yet because her father was dead, For the bowing Sir Jacob had bow'd his head To Death — with his usual urbanity; The waters that down her visage rill'd

Were drops of unrectified spirit distill'd From the limbeck of Pride and Vanity. Tears that fell alone and unchecked, Without relief, and without respect,

Like the fabled pearls that the pigs neglect, When pigs have that opportunity — And of all the griefs that mortals share, The one that seems the hardest to bear

Is the grief without community. How bless'd the heart that has a friend A sympathising ear to lend To troubles too great to smother!

For as ale and porter, when flat, are restored Till a sparkling bubbling head they afford, So sorrow is cheer'd by being pour'd From one vessel into another.

But a friend or gossip she had not one To hear the vile deeds that the Count had done, How night after night he rambled; And how she had learn'd by sad degrees

That he drank, and smoked, and worse than these, That he “swindled, intrigued, and gambled.” How he kiss'd the maids, and sparr'd with John; And came to bed with his garments on;

With other offences as heinous — And brought strange gentlemen home to dine That he said were in the Fancy Line, And they fancied spirits instead of wine,

And call'd her lap-dog “Wenus.” Of “Making a book” how he made a stir, But never had written a line to her, Once his idol and Cara Sposa:

And how he had storm'd, and treated her ill, Because she refused to go down to a mill, She did n't know where, but remember'd still That the Miller's name was Mendoza.

How often he waked her up at night, And oftener still by the morning light, Reeling home from his haunts unlawful; Singing songs that should n't be sung,

Except by beggars and thieves unhung — Or volleying oaths, that a foreign tongue Made still more horrid and awful! How oft, instead of otto rose,

With vulgar smells he offended her nose, From gin, tobacco, and onion! And then how wildly he used to stare! And shake his fist at nothing, and swear,—

And pluck by the handful his shaggy hair, Till he look'd like a study of Giant Despair For a new Edition of Bunyan! For dice will run the contrary way,

As well is known to all who play, And cards will conspire as in treason: And what with keeping a hunting-box, Following fox —

Friends in flocks, Burgundies, Hocks, From London Docks, Stultz's frocks,

Manton and Nock's Barrels and locks, Shooting blue rocks, Trainers and jocks,

Buskins and socks, Pugilistical knocks, And fighting-cocks, If he found himself short in funds and stocks,

These rhymes will furnish the reason! His friends, indeed, were falling away — Friends who insist on play or pay — And he fear'd at no very distant day

To be cut by Lord and by cadger, As one, who has gone, or is going, to smash, For his checks no longer drew the cash, Because, as his comrades explain'd in flash,

“He had overdrawn his badger.” Gold, gold — alas! for the gold Spent where souls are bought and sold, In Vice's Walpurgis revel!

Alas! for muffles, and bulldogs, and guns, The leg that walks, and the leg that runs, All real evils, though Fancy ones, When they lead to debt, dishonor, and duns,

Nay, to death, and perchance the devil! Alas! for the last of a Golden race! Had she cried her wrongs in the market-place, She had warrant for all her clamor —

For the worst of rogues, and brutes, and rakes, Was breaking her heart by constant aches, With as little remorse as the Pauper, who breaks A flint with a parish hammer!

Now the Precious Leg while cash was flush, Or the Count's acceptance worth a rush, Had never created dissension; But no sooner the stocks began to fall,

Than, without any ossification at all, The limb became what people call A perfect bone of contention. For alter'd days brought alter'd ways,

And instead of the complimentary phrase, So current before her bridal — The Countess heard, in language low, That her Precious Leg was precious slow,

A good‘ un to look at but bad to go, And kept quite a sum lying idle. That instead of playing musical airs, Like Colin's foot in going upstairs —

As the wife in the Scottish ballad declares — It made an infernal stumping. Whereas a member of cork, or wood, Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good,

Without the unbearable thumping. P'raps she thought it a decent thing To show her calf to cobbler and king, But nothing could be absurder —

While none but the crazy would advertise Their gold before their servants’ eyes, Who of course some night would make it a prize, By a Shocking and Barbarous Murder.

But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff, The Leg kept its situation: For legs are not to be taken off By a verbal amputation.

And mortals when they take a whim, The greater the folly the stiffer the limb That stand upon it or by it — So the Countess, then Miss Kilmansegg,

At her marriage refused to stir a peg, Till the Lawyers had fasten'd on her Leg As fast as the Law could tie it. Firmly then — and more firmly yet —

With scorn for scorn, and with threat for threat, The Proud One confronted the Cruel: And loud and bitter the quarrel arose, Fierce and merciless — one of those,

With spoken daggers, and looks like blows, In all but the bloodshed a duel! Rash, and wild, and wretched, and wrong, Were the words that came from Weak and Strong,

Till madden'd for desperate matters, Fierce as tigress escaped from her den, She flew to her desk —‘ twas open'd — and then, In the time it takes to try a pen,

Or the clerk to utter his slow Amen, Her Will was in fifty tatters! But the Count, instead of curses wild, Only nodded his head and smiled,

As if at the spleen of an angry child; But the calm was deceitful and sinister! A lull like the lull of the treacherous sea — For Hate in that moment had sworn to be

The Golden Leg's sole Legatee, And that very night to administer! ‘ Tis a stern and startling thing to think How often mortality stands on the brink

Of its grave without any misgiving: And yet in this slippery world of strife, In the stir of human bustle so rife, There are daily sounds to tell us that Life

Is dying, and Death is living! Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy, Bright as they are with hope and joy, How their souls would sadden instanter,

To remember that one of those wedding bells, Which ring so merrily through the dells, Is the same that knells Our last farewells,

Only broken into a canter! But breath and blood set doom at nought — How little the wretched Countess thought, When at night she unloosed her sandal,

That the Fates had woven her burial-cloth, And that Death, in the shape of a Death's Head Moth, Was fluttering round her candle! As she look'd at her clock of or-molu,

For the hours she had gone so wearily through At the end of a day of trial — How little she saw in her pride of prime The dart of Death in the Hand of Time —

That hand which moved on the dial! As she went with her taper up the stair, How little her swollen eye was aware That the Shadow which followed was double!

Or when she closed her chamber door, It was shutting out, and forevermore, The world — and its worldly trouble. Little she dreamt, as she laid aside

Her jewels — after one glance of pride — They were solemn bequests to Vanity — Or when her robes she began to doff, That she stood so near to the putting off

Of the flesh that clothes humanity. And when she quench'd the taper's light, How little she thought as the smoke took flight, That her day was done — and merged in a night

Of dreams and duration uncertain — Or along with her own, That a Hand of Bone Was closing mortality's curtain!

But life is sweet, and mortality blind, And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind In concealing the day of sorrow; And enough is the present tense of toil —

For this world is, to all, a stiffish soil — And the mind flies back with a glad recoil From the debts not due till to-morrow. Wherefore else does the Spirit fly

And bid its daily cares good-bye, Along with its daily clothing? Just as the felon condemn'd to die — With a very natural loathing —

Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes, From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes, To a caper on sunny gleams and slopes, Instead of a dance upon nothing.

Thus, even thus, the Countess slept, While Death still nearer and nearer crept, Like the Thane who smote the sleeping — But her mind was busy with early joys,

Her golden treasures and golden toys; That flash'd a bright And golden light Under lids still red with weeping.

The golden doll that she used to hug! Her coral of gold, and the golden mug! Her godfather's golden presents! The golden service she had at her meals,

The golden watch, and chain, and seals, Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels, And her golden fishes and pheasants! The golden guineas in silken purse —

And the Golden Legends she heard from her nurse Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage — And London streets that were paved with gold — And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old —

With each golden thing To the golden ring At her own auriferous Marriage! And still the golden light of the sun

Through her golden dream appear'd to run, Though the night, that roared without, was one To terrify seamen or gypsies — While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,

Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth, As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth, In revenge of her old eclipses. But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,

For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell That time had lately embitter'd — The Count, as once at her foot he knelt — That foot, which now he wanted to melt!

But — hush!—‘ twas a stir at her pillow she felt — And some object before her glitter'd. ‘ Twas the Golden Leg!— she knew its gleam! And up she started and tried to scream,—

But ev'n in the moment she started Down came the limb with a frightful smash, And, lost in the universal flash That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,

The Spark, call'd Vital, departed! Gold, still gold! hard, yellow, and cold, For gold she had lived, and she died for gold — By a golden weapon — not oaken;

In the morning they found her all alone — Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone — But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone, And the “Golden Bowl was broken!”

Gold — still gold! it haunted her yet — At the Golden Lion the Inquest met — Its foreman, a carver and gilder — And the Jury debated from twelve till three

What the Verdict ought to be, And they brought it in as Felo de Se, “Because her own Leg had kill'd her!”