Gold!—­she saw at her golden foot
The Peer whose tree had an olden root,
The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot,
  The handsome, the gay, and the witty—­
The Man of Science—­of Arms—­of Art,
The man who deals but at Pleasure’s mart,
  And the man who deals in the City.

CXCVII.

Gold, still gold—­and true to the mould! 
In the very scheme of her dream it told;
  For, by magical transmutation,
From her Leg through her body it seem’d to go,
Till, gold above, and gold below. 
She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toe
  To her organ of Veneration!

CXCVIII.

And still she retain’d through Fancy’s art
The Golden Bow, and the Golden Dart,
With which she had play’d a Goddess’s part
  In her recent glorification: 
And still, like one of the selfsame brood,
On a Plinth of the selfsame metal she stood
  For the whole world’s adoration.

CXCIX.

And hymns and incense around her roll’d,
From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold,—­
For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroll’d
  As a horse without a bridle: 
What wonder, then, from all checks exempt,
If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamt
  She was turn’d to a Golden Idol?

HER COURTSHIP.

CC.

When leaving Eden’s happy land
The grieving Angel led by the hand
  Our banish’d Father and Mother,
Forgotten amid their awful doom,
The tears, the fears, and the future’s gloom,
On each brow was a wreath of Paradise bloom,
  That our Parents had twined for each other.

CCI.

It was only while sitting like figures of stone,
For the grieving Angel had skyward flown,
As they sat, those Two in the world alone,
  With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven,
That scenting the gust of happier hours,
They look’d around for the precious flow’rs,
And lo!—­a last relic of Eden’s dear bow’rs—­
  The chaplet that Love had woven!

CCII.

And still, when a pair of Lovers meet,
There’s a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet,
That savors still of that happy retreat
  Where Eve by Adam was courted: 
Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove,
Woo’d their mates in the boughs above,
  And the Serpent, as yet, only sported.

CCIII.

Who hath not felt that breath in the air,
A perfume and freshness strange and rare,
A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere,
  When young hearts yearn together? 
All sweets below, and all sunny above,
Oh! there’s nothing in life like making love,
  Save making hay in fine weather!