"They'd wrinkle with deep cares the prettiest face, Pour gall and wormwood in the sweetest cup, Poison the very wells of life--and place Whitechapel needles, with their sharp points up, Even in the softest feather bed that e'er Was manufactured by upholsterer." CLII. This said--he journey'd "at his own sweet will," Like one of Wordsworth's rivers, calmly on; But yet, at times, Reflection, "in her still Small voice," would whisper, something must be done; He ask'd advice of Fanny, and the maid Promptly and duteously lent her aid. CLIII. She told him, with that readiness of mind And quickness of perception which belong Exclusively to gentle womankind, That to submit to slanderers was wrong, And the best plan to silence and admonish them, Would be to give "a party"--and astonish them. CLIV. The hint was taken--and the party given; And Fanny, as I said some pages since, Was there in power and loveliness that even, And he, her sire, demean'd him like a prince, And all was joy--it look'd a festival, Where pain might smooth his brow, and grief her smiles recall. CLV. But Fortune, like some others of her sex, Delights in tantalizing and tormenting; One day we feed upon their smiles--the next Is spent in swearing, sorrowing, and repenting. (If in the last four lines the author lies, He's always ready to apologize.) CLVI. Eve never walk'd in Paradise more pure Than on that morn when Satan play'd the devil With her and all her race. A love-sick wooer Ne'er ask'd a kinder maiden, or more civil, Than Cleopatra was to Antony The day she left him on the Ionian sea. CLVII. The serpent--loveliest in his coiled ring, With eye that charms, and beauty that outvies The tints of the rainbow--bears upon his sting The deadliest venom. Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds, before the voice of death CLVIII. Is heard upon the waters, summoning The midnight earthquake from its sleep of years To do its task of wo. The clouds that fling The lightning, brighten ere the bolt appears; The pantings of the warrior's heart are proud Upon that battle morn whose night-dews wet his shroud; CLIX. The sun is loveliest as he sinks to rest; The leaves of autumn smile when fading fast; The swan's last song is sweetest--and the best Of Meigs's speeches, doubtless, was his last. And thus the happiest scene, in these my rhymes, Closed with a crash, and usher'd in--hard times. CLX.