Then rode she forth, clothed all in silken tights: The fiddles played beneath her as she rode, And the reserved seats hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouthed heads beyond the stalls Had cunning eyes to see: the crimson rouge Made her cheek flame: a fast man, winking, shot Light horrors through her pulses: the saloon Was all in darkness; though from overhead The flickering gas-light dimly flared: but she Not less through all bore up, till, last she gave The signal to the workmen in the flats, And round upon the pivot slow she turned. Then rode she back, clothed all in silken tights: And one low Gent, decked out in Joinville tie, The certain symbol of a Gentish taste, Using an ivory opera-glass he'd hired, Peeped--but the glasses, ere he had his fill, Were shivered into pieces, and the curtain Was dropt before him; so that the deposit Left on the glass was forfeit to the Jew; And he that knew it grieved: Now all at once, With twelve great shocks of sound, the interlude Was scraped on cat-gut from a dozen fiddles, One after one, for neither did keep time, Nor play in tune: and Madame Warton gained Her chamber; whence re-issuing, as "Venus Rising from the Sea," the ennui passed away, And she made everlasting lots of tin. _The Puppet Show_, April 1, 1848. * * * * * THE VOYAGE. We hired a ship: we heaved a shout: We turned her head towards the sea; We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out, We scream'd and whistled loud for glee: We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang, Beneath the merry stars of June: Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang: We meant to sail into the moon! Far off a boatman hail'd us high: "My boat is named the Bonny Bess; Old Jack will charge you more than I, For I will charge you sixpence less: My boat is strong, and swift, and taut, But Jack's--she is not worth a cuss." We held his terms in scorn, for what Was sixpence or a crown to us? We bang'd; we baled; we scull'd; we scream'd; The water gain'd upon us fast. We looked upon the moon: she seem'd As far as when we saw her last. We look'd: no terror did we show; We did not care a button, we; We knew the good ship could not go _Beyond_ the bottom of the sea. But one--at best he was a lout-- The same, we guess, was short of chink-- Exclaim'd in terror, "Let me out, I am quite sure the ship will sink. The leak is quickly gaining height; 'Twill soon be half-way up the mast." And through the hatch that starry night We let him out, and on we pass'd.