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CLXIII.

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!

CLXIV.

But first she doff’d her hunting gear,
And favor’d Tom Tug with her golden spear
To row with down the river–
A Bonz had her golden bow to hold;
A Hermit her belt and bugle of gold;
And an Abbot her golden quiver.

CLXV.

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 finished off with a whirligig bout,
And the Precious Leg stuck stiffly out
Like the leg of a Figurante.

CLXVI.

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.

CLXVII.

And yet, had the leg been one of those
That danced for bread in flesh-color’d hose,
With Rosina’s pastora bevy,
The jeers it had met,–the shouts! the scoff!
The cutting advice to “take itself off”
For sounding but half so heavy.

CLXVIII.

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!

CLXIX.

But the Leg was none of those limbs forlorn–
Bartering capers and hops for corn–
That meet with public hisses and scorn,
Or the morning journal denounces–
Had it pleased to caper from morning till dusk,
There was all the music of “Money Musk”
In its ponderous bangs and bounces.

CLXX.

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!

CLXXI.

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

CLXXII.

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 DESIGNS–
In short, all that WEALTH with A FEAST combines,
In a SPLENDID FAMILY MANSION.

CLXXIII.

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!

CLXXIV.

“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 from cheering!