LXV.

Amidst the court a gothic fountain play'd,
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint-
Strange faces, like to men in masquerade,

And here perhaps a monster, there a saint:
The spring gush'd through grim mouths, of granite made,
And sparkled into basins, where it spent

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles,

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.

LXVI.

The mansion's self was vast and venerable,
With more of the monastic than has been
Elsewhere preserved: the cloisters still were stable,
The cells too and refectory, I ween:

An exquisite small chapel had been able,

Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene
The rest has been reform'd, replaced, or sunk,
And spoke more of the baron than the monk.

LXVII.

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts,
Might shock a connoisseur: but, when combined,
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts,

Yet left a grand impression on the mind,

At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts.

We gaze upon a giant for his stature,
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature.

LXVIII.

Steel barons, molten the next generation
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls,
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation;
And Lady Marys, blooming into girls,

With fair long locks, had also kept their station;
And countesses mature in robes and pearls:

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely,

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely:

Judges, in

LXIX.

very formidable ermine,

Were there, with brows that did not much invite The accused to think their lordships would determine His cause by leaning much from might to right: Bishops who had not left a single sermón :

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight,

As hinting more (unless our judgments warp us)
Of the

Star Chamber" than of "Habeas corpus."

LXX.

Generals, some all in armour, of the old
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead;
Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold,
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed:
Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold :
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the steed;
And here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.

LXXI.

But, ever and anon, to soothe your vision,
Fatigued with these hereditary glories,
There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian,

Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's: 4
Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone
In Vernet's ocean lights; and there the stories

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted.

LXXII.

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ;
T'here Rembrandt made his darkness equal light,

Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite :But lo! a Teniers woos, and not in vain,

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight:

His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Danish," Or Dutch with thirst-What ho! a flask of Rhenish.

LXXIII.

Oh, reader! If that thou canst read, and know
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read,
To constitute a reader; there must go

Virtues of which both you and I have need.
Firstly, begin with the beginning (though

That clause is hard), and secondly, proceed; Thirdly, commence not with the end—or, sinning In this sort, end at least with the beginning.

LXXIV.

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late,
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear,
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate,
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer.
That poets were so from their earliest date,
By Homer's" catalogue of ships" is clear;
But a mere modern must be moderate-
I spare you, then, the furniture and plate.

LXXV.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of
game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket :-lynx-like is his aim,

Full

grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nutbrown partridges! ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!-'T is no sport for peasants.

LXXVI.

An English autumn, though it hath no vines,
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along
The paths, o'er which the fair festoon entwines
lands of song,

sunny

The red in the grape Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines; The claret light, and the madeira strong. If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, The very best of vineyards is the cellar.

LXXVII.

Then, if she hath not that serene decline
Which makes the southern autumn's day appear
As if 't would to a second spring resign

The season, rather than to winter drear,-
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine,-

The sea-coal fires, the earliest of the year; Without doors too she may complete in mellow, As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.

LXXVIII.

And for the effeminate villeggiatura―

Rife with more horns than hounds—she hath the chase,

So animated that it might allure a

Saint from his beads to join the jocund race;

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of Dura,
And wear the Melton jacket for a space :

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game.

LXXIX.

The noble guests, assembled at the abbey,
Consisted of—we give the sex the pas—
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Countess Crabby;
The Ladies Scilly, Busey; Miss Eclat,

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O'Tabby,
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw;

Also the Honourable Mrs. Sleep,

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep.

LXXX.

With other Countesses of Blank-but rank;
At once the lie and the élite of crowds;
Who pass like water filter'd in a tank,

All purged and pious from their native clouds;
Or paper turn'd to money by the bank :

No matter how or why, the passport shrouds
The passé and the past; for good society
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety :

LXXXI..

That is, up to a certain point; which point
Forms the most difficult in punctuation.
Appearances appear to form the joint

On which it hinges in a higher station;
And so that no explosion cry "aroint

Thee, witch!" or each Medea has her Jason; Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci), "Omne tulit punctum, quæ miscuit utile dulci."

LXXXII.

I can't exactly trace their rule of right,
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery;
I've seen a virtuous woman put down quite
By the mere combination of a coterie :
Also a so-so matron boldly fight

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery,
And shine the very Siria of the spheres,

Escaping with a few slight scarless sneers.

LXXXIII.

I've seen more than I'll say :-but we will see
How our villeggiatura will get on.
The party might consist of thirty-three

Of highest caste-the Bramins of the ton.
I've named a few, not foremost in degree,

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, There also were some Irish absentees.

LXXXIV.

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully,
Who limits all his battles to the bar

And senate when invited elsewhere, truly,

:

He shows more appetite for words than war.

There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had newly
Come out and glimmer'd as a six-weeks' star.
There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free-thinker ;
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker.

LXXXV.

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a-duke,
"Ay, every inch a" duke; there were twelve peers
Like Charlemagne's—and all such peers in look
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears
For commoners had ever them mistook.

There were the six Miss Rawbolds-pretty dears!
All song and sentiment; whose hearts were set
Less on a convent than a coronet.

LXXXVI.

There were four honourable Misters, whose
Honour was more before their names than after;
There was the preux Chevalier de la Ruse,

Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft here,
Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse;

But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, Because—such was his magic power to please,— The dice seem'd charm'd too with his repartees.

LXXXVII.

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician,
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner ;
Angle, the soi-disant mathematician;

Sir Henry Silver-cup, the great race-winner.
There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian,
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner;
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet,
Good at all things, but better at a bet.

LXXXVIII.

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ;
And General Fireface, famous in the field,

A great tactician, and no less a swordsman,
Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he kill'd.
There was the waggish Welch Judge, Jefferies Hardsman,
In his grave office so completely skill'd,

That when a culprit came for condemnation,
He had his judge's joke for consolation.

LXXXIX.

Good company's a chess-board-there are kings,

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the world's a game;

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings;

Methinks gay Punch hath something of the same.

My Muse, the butterfly, hath but her wings,
No stings, and flits through ether without aim,
Alighting rarely were she but a hornet,

Perhaps there might be vices which would mourn it.