Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessèd church-bells begin; No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth, Or the Pulcinella-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene picture--the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart, With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate; They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And then penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife, Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! IN THREE DAYS So, I shall see her in three days And just one night,--but nights are short,-- Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn-- Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine,--Only a touch and we combine! Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights--at least the nights are short, As night shows where her one moon is, A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So, life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?