CCXXXVI.

Beadle-like he hush’d the shouts;
But the temple was full “inside and out,”
And a buzz kept buzzing all round about
  Like bees when the day is sunny—­
A buzz universal that interfered
With the right that ought to have been revered,
As if the couple already were smear’d
  With Wedlock’s treacle and honey!

CCXXXVII.

Yet Wedlock’s a very awful thing! 
’Tis something like that feat in the ring,
  Which requires good nerve to do it—­
When 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!

CCCXXXVIII.

But the Count he felt the nervous work
No more than any polygamous Turk,
  Or bold piratical skipper,
Who, during his buccaneering search,
Would as soon engage a hand in church
  As a hand on board his clipper!

CCXXXIX.

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.

CCXL.

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?”
      “I will”—­and then,
    “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.

CCXLI.

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!

CCXLII.

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.

CCXLIII.

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.