A few, indeed, of her proper sex,

Who seem'd to feel her foot on their necks,
And fear'd their charms would meet with checks
From so rare and splendid a blazon—

A few cried "fie !"-and "forward "-and "bold!"
And said of the Leg it might be gold,

But to them it looked like brazen !

'Twas hard they hinted for flesh and blood, Virtue, and Beauty, and all that's good,

To strike to mere dross their topgallants-
But what were Beauty, or Virtue, or Worth,
Gentle manners, or gentle birth,

Nay, what the most talented head on earth
To a Leg worth fifty Talents!

But the men sang quite another hymn
Of glory and praise to the precious Limb-
Age, sordid Age, admired the whim,

And its indecorum pardon'd

While half of the young-ay, more than half—
Bow'd down and worshipp'd the Golden Calf,

Like the Jews when their hearts were harden'd.

A Golden Leg! what fancies it fired!
What golden wishes and hopes inspired!
To give but a mere abridgment-

What a leg to leg-bail Embarrassment's serf!
What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf!
What a leg for a marching regiment!

A Golden Leg!-whatever Love sings,
"Twas worth a bushel of "Plain Gold Rings'
With which the Romantic wheedles.

'Twas worth all the legs in stockings and socks'Twas a leg that might be put in the Stocks, N.B.-Not the parish beadle's!

And Lady K. nid-nodded her head,
Lapp'd in a turban fancy-bred,

Just like a love-apple, huge and red,
Some Mussul-womanish mystery;
But whatever she meant

To represent,

She talk'd like the Muse of History.

She told how the filial leg was lost;
And then how much the gold one cost;

With its weight to a Trojan fraction:
And how it took off, and how it put on ;
And call'd on Devil, Duke, and Don,
Mahomet, Moses, and Prester John,
To notice its beautiful action.

And then of the Leg she went in quest;
And led it where the light was best;
And made it lay itself up to rest
In postures for painters' studies:

It cost more tricks and trouble by half,
Than it takes to exhibit a Six-Legg'd Calf
To a boothful of country Cuddies.

Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit
The arts that help to make a hit,

And preserve a prominent station.

She talk'd and laugh'd far more than her share ;

And took a part in "Rich and Rare

Were the gems she wore "and the gems were there,
Like a Song with an Illustration.

She even stood up with a Count of France
To dance-alas! the measures we dance
When Vanity plays the Piper !

Vanity, Vanity, apt to betray,
And lead all sorts of legs astray,
Wood, or metal, or human clay,-

Since Satan first play'd the Viper !

But first she doff'd her hunting gear,
And favor'd Tom Tug with her golden spear,

To row with down the river-
A Bonze had her golden bow to hold,
A Hermit her belt and bugle of gold;
And an Abbot her golden quiver.

And then a space was clear'd on the floor,
And she walk'd the Minuet de la Cour,
With all the pomp of a Pompadour ;
But although she began andante,
Conceive the faces of all the Rout,
When she finish'd off with a whirligig bout,
And the Precious Leg stuck stiffly out
Like the leg of a Figuranté!

So the courtly dance was goldenly done,
And golden opinions, of course, it won
From all different sorts of people-
Chiming, ding-dong, with flattering phrase,
In one vociferous peal of praise,
Like the peal that rings on Royal days
From Loyalty's parish-steeple.

And yet, had the leg been one of those
That dance for bread in flesh-color'd hose,
With Rosina's pastoral bevy,

The jeers it had met,-the shouts! the scoff!
The cutting advice to "take itself off,"
For sounding but half so heavy.

Had it been a leg like those, perchance,
That teach little girls and boys to dance,
To set, poussette, recede, and advance,

With the steps and figures most proper,Had it hopp'd for a weekly or quarterly sum, How little of praise or grist would have come To a mill with such a hopper!

But the Leg was none of those limbs forlornBartering capers and hops for corn

That meet with public hisses and scorn,
Or the morning journal denounces-
Had it pleas'd to caper from morn till dusk,
There was all the music of " Money Musk "
In its ponderous bangs and bounces.

But hark!—as slow as the strokes of a pump,
Lump, thump!

Thump, lump!

As the Giant of Castle Otranto might stump
To a lower room from an upper-

Down she goes with a noisy dint,
For taking the crimson turban's hint,
A noble Lord at the Head of the Mint
Is leading the Leg to supper !

But the supper, alas! must rest untold,
With its blaze of light and its glitter of gold,
For to paint that scene of glamor,

It would need the Great Enchanter's charm,
Who waves over Palace, and Cot, and Farm,
An arm like the Goldbeater's Golden Arm
That wields a Golden Hammer.

He-only HE-could fitly state

THE MASSIVE SERVICE OF GOLDEN PLATE, With the proper phrase and expansion—

The Rare Selection of FOREIGN WINES

The ALPS OF ICE and MOUNTAINS OF PINES, The punch in OCEANS and sugary shrines,

The TEMPLE OF TASTE from GUNTER'S DE

SIGNS

In short, all that WEALTH with A FEAST com

bines,

In a SPLENDID FAMILY MANSION.

Suffice it each mask'd outlandish guest

Ate and drank of the very best,

According to critical conners

And then they pledged the Hostess and Host,
But the Golden Leg was the standing toast,
And as somebody swore,

Walk'd off with more

Than its share of the "Hips!" and honors!

"Miss Kilmansegg!

Full glasses I beg !—

Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg!"
And away went the bottle careering!
Wine in bumpers! and shouts in peals!
Till the Clown didn't know his head from his heels,
The Mussulman's eyes danced two-some reels,
And the Quaker was hoarse with cheering!

HER DREAM.

Miss Kilmansegg took off her leg,
And laid it down like a cribbage-peg,

For the Rout was done and the riot:

The Square was hush'd; not a sound was heard; The sky was grey, and no creature stirr'd, Except one little precocious bird,

That chirp'd-and then was quiet.

So still without,-so still within ;—
It had been a sin

To drop a pin

So intense is silence after a din,

It seem'd like Death's rehearsal !
To stir the air no eddy came;

And the taper burnt with as still a flame,
As to flicker had been a burning shame,
In a calm so universal.

The time for sleep had come at last ;
And there was the bed, so soft, so vast,

Quite a field of Bedfordshire clover;
Softer, cooler, and calmer, no doubt,