Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar, From square to square, among the buildings raved, As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore. LXXXIII. "And Bellanaine for ever!' shouted they; While that fair Princess, from her winged chair, Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair, Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there, A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones, not worth a fly. · LXXXIV. Still Bellanaine!' they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, The city's delicacy, and the pride Of our Imperial Basilic; a row Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show Submissive of knee-bent obeisance, All down the steps; and as we enter'd, lo! The strangest sight-the most unlook'd-for chance All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance. LXXXV. "'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court. Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. "Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. LXXXVII. "A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion;-she reels, She falls, she faints! while laughter peals Over her woman's weakness. Where,' cried I, 'Where is his Majesty?' No person feels Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. LXXXVIII. "Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran So far so well,— For we have proved the Mago never fell Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence ; And therefore duly shall proceed to tell, Plain in our own original mood and tense, The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis im. mense!" No more was written. * LAMIA.1 PART I. PON a time, before the faery broods Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, Before King Oberon's bright diadem, Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, The ever-smitten Hermes empty left His golden throne, bent warm on amorous theft: For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt haunt, Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, "This tragedy (King Stephen) gave place to Lamia, a Poem, which had been in hand for some months. He wrote it with great care, after much study of Dryden's composition."-CHARLES BROWN. Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. In vain; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found, And so he rested on the lonely ground, Round bush and tree, soft-brushing in his speed Bright and cirque-couchant, in a dusky brake She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue; Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard, Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barr'd; And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed, Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwreathed Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries— |