fetch her!” “Yes, an’t like your Majesty;And as she would be frighten’d wide awake
To travel such a distance through the sky,
Use of some soft manoeuvre you must make,
For your convenience, and her dear nerves’ sake;
Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon,
Anon, I’ll tell what course were best to take;
You must away this morning.” “Hum! so soon?”
“Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o’clock at noon.”
At this great Caesar started on his feet,
Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise.
“Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize.
Look in the Almanack Moore never lies
April the twenty-fourth, this coming day,
Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,
Will end in St. Mark’s Eve; you must away,
For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.”
Then the magician solemnly ‘gan to frown,
So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low,
Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown
Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
Forth from his hood that hung his neck below,
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
Touch’d a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow,
Charm’d into ever freezing, lay an old
And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.
“Take this same book, it will not bite you, Sire;
There, put it underneath your royal arm;
Though it’s a pretty weight it will not tire,
But rather on your journey keep you warm:
This is the magic, this the potent charm,
That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit!
When the time comes, don’t feel the least alarm,
But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit
Back to your palace.
“What shall I do with that same book?” “Why merely
Lay it on Bertha’s table, close beside
Her work-box, and ‘twill help your purpose dearly;
I say no more.” “Or good or ill betide,
Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!”
Exclaim’d the Emperor. “When I return,
Ask what you will, I’ll give you my new bride!
And take some more wine, Hum; O Heavens! I burn
To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!”
“Leave her to me,” rejoin’d the magian:
“But how shall I account, illustrious fay!
For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can
Say you are very sick, and bar the way
To your so loving courtiers for one day;
If either of their two archbishops’ graces
Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say
You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases,
Which never should be used but in alarming cases.”
“Open the window, Hum; I’m ready now!”
Zooks!” exclaim’d Hum, as up the sash he drew.
“Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow
Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!” “Whew!
The monster’s always after something new,”
Return’d his Highness, “they are piping hot
To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do
Tighten my belt a little, so, so, not
Too tight, the book! my wand! so, nothing is forgot.”
“Wounds! how they shout!” said Hum, “and there, see, see!
Th’ ambassador’s return’d from Pigmio!
The morning’s very fine, uncommonly!
See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go,
Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below
The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines
They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow
Along the forest side! Now amber lines
Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines.”
“Why, Hum, you’re getting quite poetical!
Those ‘nows’ you managed in a special style.”
“If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall
See scraps of mine will make it worth your while,
Tid-bits for Phoebus! yes, you well may smile.
Hark! hark! the bells!” “A little further yet,
Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil.”
Then the great Emperor full graceful set
His elbow for a prop, and snuff’d his mignonnette.
The morn is full of holiday; loud bells
With rival clamours ring from every spire;
Cunningly-station’d music dies and swells
In echoing places; when the winds respire,
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire;
A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm,
Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire
Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm;
While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm.
And now the fairy escort was seen clear,
Like the old pageant of Aurora’s train,
Above a pearl-built minister, hovering near;
First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain,
Balanc’d upon his grey-grown pinions twain,
His slender wand officially reveal’d;
Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain;
Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held,
The Imaian ‘scutcheon bright, one mouse in argent field.
Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them,
A troop of winged Janizaries flew;
Then slaves, as presents bearing many a gem;
Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two;
And next a chaplain in a cassock new;
Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels
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