Sick with horror she shuts her eyes,
But the very stones seem uttering cries,

As they did to that Persian daughter,

When she climb'd up the steep vociferous hill,
Her little silver flagon to fill

With the magical Golden Water!

"Batter her! shatter her!

Throw and scatter her ""

Shouts each stony-hearted clatterer

"Dash at the heavy Dover!

Spill her! kill her! tear and tatter her!

Smash her! crash her!" (the stones didn't flatter her!) "Kick her brains out! let her blood spatter her!

Roll on her over and over!"

For so she gather'd the awful sense

Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense,
As the wild horse overran it,—

His four heels making the clatter of six,
Like a Devil's tattoo, played with iron sticks
On a kettle-drum of granite!

On! still on! she's dazzled with hints
Of oranges, ribbons, and color'd prints,
A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints,
And human faces all flashing,

Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints,
That the desperate hoofs keep dashing!

On and on! still frightfully fast!
Dover-street, Bond-street, all are past!
But-yes-no-yes!-they're down at last!
The Furies and Fates have found them!
Down they go with a sparkle and crash,

Like a Bark that's struck by the lightning flash-
There's a shriek—and a sob—

And the dense. dark mob

Like a billow close around them!

:

"She's stirring! she's living, by Nemesis!" Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf! Golden dishes as plenty as delf!

Miss Kilmansegg's coming again to herself
On an opulent Goldsmith's premises!

Gold! fine gold!—both yellow and red,
Beaten, and molten-polish'd, and dead-
To see the gold with profusion spread
In all forms of its manufacture!
But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg,
When the femoral bone of her dexter leg
Has met with a compound fracture?

Gold may soothe Adversity's smart ;
Nay, help to bind up a broken heart;
But to try it on any other part

Were as certain a disappointment,
As if one should rub the dish and plate,
Taken out of a Staffordshire crate-

In the hope of a Golden Service of State-
With Singleton's "Golden Ointment.”

HER PRECIOUS LEG.

"As the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined," Is an adage often recall'd to mind,

Referring to juvenile bias:

And never so well is the verity seen,

As when to the weak, warp'd side we lean, While Life's tempests and hurricanes try us.

Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb, By a very, very remarkable whim,

She show'd her early tuition:

While the buds of character came into blow
With a certain tinge that served to show
The nursery culture long ago,

As the graft is known by fruition!

For the King's Physician, who nursed the case,
His verdict gave with an awful face,

And three others concurr'd to egg it;

That the Patient to give old Death the slip,
Like the Pope, instead of a personal trip,
Must send her Leg as a Legate.

The limb was doom'd-it couldn't be saved!
And like other people the patient behaved,
Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved,
Which makes some persons so falter,
They rather would part, without a groan,

With the flesh of their flesh, and bone of their bone,
They obtain❜d at St. George's altar.

But when it came to fitting the stump
With a proxy limb-then flatly and plump

She spoke, in the spirit olden

She couldn't-she shouldn't-she wouldn't have wood!

Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood,

And she swore an oath, or something as good,

The proxy limb should be golden!

A wooden leg! what, a sort of a peg,.

For your common Jockeys and Jennies!
No, no, her mother might worry and plague-
Weep, go down on her knees, and beg,
But nothing would move Miss Kilmansegg!
She could-she would have a Golden Leg,
If it cost ten thousand guineas!

Wood indeed, in Forest or Park,
With its sylvan honors and feudal bark,

Is an aristocratical article:

But split and sawn, and hack'd about town,
Serving all needs of pauper or clown,
Trod on! stagger'd on! Wood cut down
Is vulgar-fibre and particle!

And Cork!-when the noble Cork Tree shades
A lovely group of Castilian maids,

'Tis a thing for a song or sonnet !—
But, cork, as it stops the bottle of gin,
Or bungs the beer-the small beer—in,
It pierced her heart like a corking pin,
To think of standing upon it!

A Leg of Gold-solid gold throughout,
Nothing else, whether slim or stout,

Should ever support her, God willing!
She must-she could-she would have her whim,
Her father, she turn'd a deaf ear to him—
He might kill her-she didn't mind killing!
He was welcome to cut off her other limb-
He might cut her off with a shilling!

All other promised gifts were in vain,
Golden Girdle, or Golden Chain,
She writhed with impatience more than pain,
And utter'd "pshaws!" and "pishes!"
But a Leg of Gold! as she lay in bed,
It danced before her-it ran in her head!
It jump'd with her dearest wishes!

“Gold-gold-gold! Oh, let it be gold!"
Asleep or awake that tale she told,
And when she grew delirious:

Till her parents resolved to grant her wish,
If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish,
The case was getting so serious.

So a Leg was made in a comely mould,
Of Gold, fine virgin glittering gold,

As solid as man could make it-

Solid in foot, and calf, and shank,
A prodigious sum of money it sank;

In fact 'twas a Branch of the family Bank,
And no easy matter to break it.

All sterling metal-not half-and-half,

The Goldsmith's mark was stamp'd on the calf'Twas pure as from Mexican barter!

And to make it more costly, just over the knee,
Where another ligature used to be,

Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see,
A new-fangled Badge of the Garter!

'Twas a splendid, brilliant, beautiful Leg,
Fit for the Court of Scander-Beg,

That Precious Leg of Miss Kilmansegg!

For, thanks to parental bounty,

Secure from Mortification's touch,

She stood on a member that cost as much

As a Member for all the County!

HER FAME.

To gratify stern ambition's whims,
What hundreds and thousands of precious limbs
On a field of battle we scatter!

Sever'd by sword, or bullet, or saw,
Off they go, all bleeding and raw,
But the public seems to get the lock-jaw,
So little is said on the matter!

Legs, the tightest that ever were seen,

The tightest, the lightest, that danced on the green,
Cutting capers to sweet Kitty Clover;
Shatter'd, scatter'd, cut, and bowl'd down,

Off they go, worse off for renown,

A line in the Times, or a talk about town,
Than the leg that a fly runs over!