And how did the Bride perform her part?
Like any bride who is cold at heart,
Mere snow with the ice’s glitter;
What but a life of winter for her!
Bright but chilly, alive without stir,
So splendidly comfortless,—just like a Fir
When the frost is severe and bitter.
Such were the future man and wife!
Whose bale or bliss to the end of life
A few short words were to settle—
“Wilt thou have this woman?”
“I will”—and then,
“Wilt thou have this man?”
“I will,” and “Amen”—
And those Two were one Flesh, in the Angels’ ken,
Except one Leg—that was metal.
Then the names were sign’d—and kiss’d the kiss:
And the Bride, who came from her coach a Miss,
As a Countess walk’d to her carriage—
Whilst Hymen preen’d his plumes like a dove,
And Cupid flutter’d his wings above,
In the shape of a fly—as little a Love
As ever look’d in at a marriage!
Another crash—and away they dash’d,
And the gilded carriage and footman flash’d
From the eyes of the gaping people—
Who turn’d to gaze at the toe-and-heel
Of the Golden Boys beginning a reel,
To the merry sound of a wedding-peal
From St. James’s musical steeple.
Those wedding-bells! those wedding-bells!
How sweetly they sound in pastoral dells
From a tow’r in an ivy-green jacket!
But town-made joys how dearly they cost;
And after all are tumbled and tost,
Like a peal from a London steeple, and lost
In town-made riot and racket.
The wedding-peal, how sweetly it peals
With grass or heather beneath our heels,—
For bells are Music’s laughter!
But a London peal, well mingled, be sure,
With vulgar noises and voices impure,—
What a harsh and discordant overture
To the Harmony meant to come after!
But hence with Discord—perchance, too soon
To cloud the face of the honeymoon
With a dismal occultation!—
Whatever Fate’s concerted trick,
The Countess and Count, at the present nick,
Have a chicken, and not a crow, to pick
At a sumptuous Cold Collation.
A Breakfast—no unsubstantial mess,
But one in the style of Good Queen Bess,
Who,—hearty as hippocampus,—
Broke her fast with ale and beef,
Instead of toast and the Chinese leaf,
And—in lieu of anchovy—grampus.
A breakfast of fowl, and fish, and flesh,
Whatever was sweet, or salt, or fresh;
With wines the most rare and curious—
Wines, of the richest flavour and hue;
With fruits from the worlds both Old and New;
And fruits obtain’d before they were due
At a discount most usurious.
For wealthy palates there be, that scout
What is in season, for what is out,
And prefer all precocious savour:
For instance, early green peas, of the sort
That costs some four or five guineas a quart;
Where the Mint is the principal flavour.