Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright!

His bedchamber windows look so bright,-- With light all the Square is glutted!

Up he jumps, like a sole from the pan, And a tremor sickens his inward man, For he feels as only a gentleman can, Who thinks he's being "gutted."

CXLIII.

Again Fear settles, all snug and warm; But only to dream of a dreadful storm From Autumn's sulphurous locker; But the only electrical body that falls Wears a negative coat, and positive smalls, And draws the peal that so appals From the Kilmanseggs' brazen knocker!

CXLIV.

'Tis Curiosity's Benefit night-- And perchance 'tis the English Second-Sight, But whatever it be, so be it-- As the friends and guests of Miss Kilmansegg Crowd in to look at her Golden Leg, As many more Mob round the door, To see them going to see it!

CXLV.

In they go--in jackets and cloaks, Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques, As if to a Congress of Nations: Greeks and Malays, with daggers and dirks, Spaniards, Jews, Chinese, and Turks-- Some like original foreign works, But mostly like bad translations.

CXLVI.

In they go, and to work like a pack, Juan, Moses, and Shacabac, Tom, and Jerry and Springheel'd Jack,-- For some of low Fancy are lovers-- Skirting, zigzagging, casting about, Here and there, and in and out, With a crush, and a rush, for a full-bodied rout In one of the stiffest of covers.

CXLVII.

In they went, and hunted about, Open-mouth'd like chub and trout, And some with the upper lip thrust out, Like that fish for routing, a barbel-- While Sir Jacob stood to welcome the crowd, And rubb'd his hands, and smiled aloud, And bow'd, and bow'd, and bow'd, and bow'd, Like a man who is sawing marble.

CXLVIII.

For Princes were there, and Noble Peers; Dukes descended from Norman spears; Earls that dated from early years; And lords in vast variety-- Besides the Gentry both new and old-- For people who stand on legs of gold Are sure to stand well with society.

CXLIX.

"But where--where--where?" with one accord, Cried Moses and Mufti, Jack and my Lord, Wang-Fong and Il Bondocani-- When slow, and heavy, and dead as a dump, They heard a foot begin to stump, Thump! lump!

Lump! thump!

Like the Spectre in "Don Giovanni"!

CL.

And lo! the Heiress, Miss Kilmansegg, With her splendid, brilliant, beautiful leg, In the garb of a Goddess olden-- Like chaste Diana going to hunt, With a golden spear--which of course was blunt, And a tunic loop'd up to a gem in front, To show the Leg that was Golden!

CLI.

Gold! still gold; her Crescent behold, That should be silver, but would be gold; And her robe's auriferous spangles!

Her golden stomacher--how she would melt!

Her golden quiver, and golden belt, Where a golden bugle dangles!

CLII.

And her jewell'd Garter! Oh Sin, oh Shame!

Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame, That bring such blots on female fame!

But to be a true recorder, Besides its thin transparent stuff, The tunic was loop'd quite high enough To give a glimpse of the Order!

CLIII.

But what have sin or shame to do With a Golden Leg--and a stout one too?

Away with all Prudery's panics!

That the precious metal, by thick and thin, Will cover square acres of land or sin, Is a fact made plain Again and again, In Morals as well as Mechanics.

CLIV.

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 look'd like brazen!

CLV.

'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!

CLVI.

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.

CLVII.

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!

CLVIII.

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!