With a very natural loathing
Leaving the sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes,
To caper on sunny greens and slopes,
Instead of the 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 flashed 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 appeared 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 enjoyed 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 embittered -

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 glittered.

"Twas the Golden Leg! she knew its gleam!
And up she started, and tried to scream,
But even 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, called 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 killed her!”

Her Moral.

Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled:
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the church-yard mould;
Price of many a crime untold :
Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary –

To save to ruin to curse- to bless
As even its minted coins express,

Now stamped with the image of good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.

A MORNING THOUGHT.

No more, no more will I resign
My couch so warm and soft,
To trouble trout with hook and line,
That will not spring aloft.

With larks appointments one may fix

To greet the dawning skies,
But hang the getting up at six

For fish that will not rise!

THE MOON

LOVE AND LUNACY.

who does not love the silver moon, In all her fantasies and all her phases? Whether full-orbed in the nocturnal noon, Shining in all the dew-drops on the daisies, To light the tripping Fairies in their mazes, While stars are winking at the pranks of Puck;

Or huge and red, as on brown sheaves she gazes; Or new and thin when coin is turned for luck ; Who will not say that Dian is a Duck?

But, O! how tender, beautiful and sweet,

When in her silent round, serene, and clear,
By assignation loving fancies meet,

To recompense the pangs of absence drear!
So Ellen, dreaming of Lorenzo, dear,
But distant from the city mapped by Mogg,

Still saw his image in that silver sphere,
Plain as the Man with lantern, bush, and dog,
That used to set our ancestors a-gog.

And so she told him in a pretty letter,

That came to hand exactly as Saint Meg's
Was striking ten eleven had been better;
For then he might have eaten six more eggs,
And both of the bedevilled turkey-legs,

With relishes from East, West, North, and South,
Draining, beside, the teapot to the dregs.
Whereas a man whose heart is in his mouth,
Is rather spoilt for hunger and for drouth.

And so the kidneys, broiling hot, were wasted;
The brawn — it never entered in his thought;

The grated Parmesan remained untasted;

The potted shrimps were left as they were bought, The capelings stood as merely good for nought, The German sausage did not tempt him better, Whilst Juno, licking her poor lips, was taught There's neither bone nor skin about a letter, Gristle, nor scalp, that one can give a setter.

Heaven bless the man who first devised a mail!

Heaven bless that public pile which stands concealing The Goldsmiths' front with such a solid veil!

Heaven bless the Master, and Sir Francis Freeling, The drags, the nags, the leading or the wheeling, The whips, the guards, the horns, the coats of scarlet, The boxes, bags, those evening bells a-pealing! Heaven bless, in short, each posting thing, and varlet, That helps a Werter to a sigh from Charlotte.

So felt Lorenzo as he oped the sheet,

Where, first, the darling signature he kissed,
And then, recurring to its contents sweet
With thirsty eyes, a phrase I must enlist,
He gulped the words, to hasten to their gist;
In mortal ecstasy his soul was bound-

When, lo! with features all at once a-twist,
He gave a whistle, wild enough in sound
To summon Faustus's Infernal Hound!

Alas! what little miffs and tiffs in love,

A snubbish word, or pouting look mistaken, Will loosen screws with sweethearts hand and glove, O! love, rock firm when chimney-pots were shaken, A pettish breath will into huffs awaken,

To spit like hump-backed cats, and snarling Towzers! Till hearts are wrecked and foundered, and forsaken,