« PreviousContinue »
A Lord of Land, on his own estate,
But his income would bear carousing ;
Were turn’d into gold by browsing.
any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift
To each son of his loins, or daughter: And his debts-if debts he had-at will He liquidated by giving each bill
A dip in Pactolian water.
'Twas said that even his pigs of lead, By crossing with some by Midas bred,
Made a perfect mine of his piggery. And as for cattle, one yearling bull Was worth all Smithfield-market full
Of the Golden Bulls of Pope Gregory.
The high-bred horses within his stud,
Had their Golden Cups and flagons :
When they stopp'd with the carts and wagons.
Moreover, he had a Golden Ass,
That was worth his own weight in money--
Gold! and gold! and gold without end !
And reversions of gold in futuro. In wealth the family revell’d and rolld, Himself and wife and sons so bold ;And his daughters sang to their harps of gold
6 O bella eta del oro !”
Such was the tale of the Kilmansegg Kin,
And declare the whole story a parable-
money, his golden bees Were the five per cents, or which you please,
When his cash was more than plentyThat the golden cups were racing affairs ; And his daughters, who sang Italian airs,
Had their golden harps of Clementi.
That as money
That the Golden Ass, or Golden Bull,
Then at war by land and water :
At the Lord knows what per quarter!
What different dooms our birthdays bring !
Survives to wear many a
Expires without even a twinkle!
Into this world we come like ships,
For fortune fair or fatal;
While another rides safe at Port Natal.
What different lots our stars accord!
And that to be shunned like a leper!
To its vinegar, only, and pepper.
One is litter'd under a roof
of Love in a Cottage, —
The bid of “ a mess of pottage.”
Born of Fortunatus's kin,
To a prospect all bright and burnish'd :
To a lodging ready furnish’d.
And the other sex-the tender-the fair-
In a garden of Gul reposes-
She hates the smell of roses !
Not so with the infant Kilmansegg!
Or gather cresses in ditches ;
Or sit all day to hem and sew,
To fill their insides with stitches;
She was not doom'd, for bread to eat,
To carry home linen from mangles-
With as many blows as spangles.
She was one of those who by Fortune's boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon
In her mouth, not a wooden ladle : To speak according to poet's wont, Plutus as sponsor stood at her font,
And Midas rock'd the cradle.
At her first début she found her head
With a damask canopy over.
Some children are born in clover.
Her very first draught of vital air
No-her earliest sniff
Of this world was a whiff Of the genuine Otto of Roses!
When she saw the light it was no mere ray Of that light so common--so everyday
That the sun each morning launchesBut six wax tapers dazzled her eyes, From a thing--a gooseberry bush for size
With a golden stem and branches.