St. Paul's toll'd one--and fifteen minutes after Down came, by accident, a chandelier; The mansion totter'd from the floor to rafter! Up rose the cry of agony and fear! And there was shrieking, screaming, bustling, fluttering, Beyond the power of writing or of uttering. CLXI. The company departed, and neglected To say good-by--the father storm'd and swore-- The fiddlers grinn'd--the daughter look'd dejected-- The flowers had vanish'd from the polish'd floor, And both betook them to their sleepless beds, With hearts and prospects broken, but no heads. CLXII. The desolate relief of free complaining Came with the morn, and with it came bad weather; The wind was east-northeast, and it was raining Throughout that day, which, take it altogether, Was one whose memory clings to us through life, Just like a suit in Chancery, or a wife. CLXIII. That evening, with a most important face And dreadful knock, and tidings still more dreadful, A notary came--sad things had taken place; My hero had forgot to "do the needful;" A note (amount not stated), with his name on't, Was left unpaid--in short, he had "stopp'd payment." CLXIV. I hate your tragedies, both long and short ones (Except Tom Thumb, and Juan's Pantomime); And stories woven of sorrows and misfortunes Are bad enough in prose, and worse in rhyme; Mine, therefore, must be brief. Under protest His notes remain--the wise can guess the rest. CLXV. * * * * * * * * * * CLXVI. For two whole days they were the common talk; The party, and the failure, and all that, The theme of loungers in their morning walk, Porter-house reasoning, and tea-table chat. The third, some newer wonder came to blot them, And on the fourth, the "meddling world" forgot them. CLXVII. Anxious, however, something to discover, I pass'd their house--the shutters were all closed; The song of knocker and of bell was over; Upon the steps two chimney sweeps reposed; And on the door my dazzled eyebeam met These cabalistic words--"this house to let." CLXVIII. They live now, like chameleons, upon air And hope, and such cold, unsubstantial dishes; That they removed, is clear, but when or where None knew. The curious reader, if he wishes, May ask them, but in vain. Where grandeur dwells, The marble dome--the popular rumour tells; CLXIX. But of the dwelling of the proud and poor From their own lips the world will never know When better days are gone--it is secure Beyond all other mysteries here below, Except, perhaps, a maiden lady's age, When past the noonday of life's pilgrimage. CLXX.