Which requires good nerve to do itWhen one of a "Grand Equestrian Troop"

Makes a jump at a gilded hoop,
Not certain at all

Of what may befall

After his getting through it!

But the Count he felt the nervous work
No more than any polygamous Turk,
Or bold piratical schipper,

Who, during his buccaneering search,
Would as soon engage "a hand" in church
As a hand on board his clipper!

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?

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 footmen 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 Musie'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;