all her might,
And finally fainted away outright,
For she dreamt she had married the Devil!

HER MISERY.

CCLXXXVIII.

Who hath not met with home-made bread,
A heavy compound of putty and lead--
And home-made wines that rack the head,
And home-made liqueurs and waters?
Home-made pop that will not foam,
And home-made dishes that drive one from home,
Not to name each mess,
For the face or dress,
Home-made by the homely daughters?

CCLXXXIX.

Home-made physic that sickens the sick;
Thick for thin and thin for thick;--
In short each homogeneous trick
For poisoning domesticity?
And since our Parents, call'd the First,
A little family squabble nurst,
Of all our evils the worst of the worst
Is home-made infelicity.

CCXC.

There's a Golden Bird that claps its wings,
And dances for joy on its perch, and sings
With a Persian exultation:
For the Sun is shining into the room,
And brightens up the carpet-bloom,
As if it were new, bran new, from the loom,
Or the lone Nun's fabrication.

CCXCI.

And thence the glorious radiance flames
On pictures in massy gilded frames--
Enshrining, however, no painted Dames,
But portraits of colts and fillies--
Pictures hanging on walls, which shine,
In spite of the bard's familiar line,
With clusters of "Gilded lilies."

CCXCII.

And still the flooding sunlight shares
Its lustre with gilded sofas and chairs,
That shine as if freshly burnish'd--
And gilded tables, with glittering stocks
Of gilded china, and golden clocks,
Toy, and trinket, and musical box,
That Peace and Paris have furnish'd.

CCXCIII.

And lo! with the brightest gleam of all
The glowing sunbeam is seen to fall
On an object as rare as spendid--
The golden foot of the Golden Leg
Of the Countess--once Miss Kilmansegg--
But there all sunshine is ended.

CCXCIV.

Her cheek is pale, and her eye is dim,
And downward cast, yet not at the limb,
Once the centre of all speculation;
But downward dropping in comfort's dearth,
As gloomy thoughts are drawn to the earth--
Whence human sorrows derive their birth--
By a moral gravitation.

CCXCV.

Her golden hair is out of its braids,
And her sighs betray the gloomy shades
That her evil planet revolves in--
And tears are falling that catch a gleam
So bright as they drop in the sunny beam,
That tears of _aqua regia_ they seem,
The water that gold dissolves in;

CCXCVI.

Yet, not in fi