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 gray, 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,

From the piece of work just ravell'd out, For one of the pleasures of having a rout Is the pleasure of having it over. No sordid pallet, or truckle mean,

Of straw, and rug, and tatters unclean; But a splendid, gilded, carved machine, That was fit for a Royal Chamber. On the top was a gorgeous golden wreath;

And the damask curtains hung beneath, Like clouds of crimson and amber; Curtains, held up by two little plump things, With golden bodies and golden wings,—

Mere fins for such solidities — Two cupids, in short, Of the regular sort, But the housemaid call'd them “Cupidities.”

No patchwork quilt, all seams and scars, But velvet, powder'd with golden stars, A fit mantle for Night-Commanders! And the pillow, as white as snow undimm'd

And as cool as the pool that the breeze has skimmed, Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm'd With the costliest lace of Flanders. And the bed — of the Eider's softest down,

‘ Twas a place to revel, to smother, to drown In a bliss inferr'd by the Poet; For if Ignorance be indeed a bliss, What blessed ignorance equals this,

To sleep — and not to know it? Oh bed! oh bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head; But a place that to name would be ill-bred,

To the head with a wakeful trouble — ‘ Tis held by such a different lease! To one, a place of comfort and peace, All stuff'd with the down of stubble geese,

To another with only the stubble! To one, a perfect Halcyon nest, All calm, and balm, and quiet, and rest, And soft as the fur of the cony —

To another, so restless for body and head, That the bed seems borrow'd from Nettlebed, And the pillow from Stratford the Stony! To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease,

To the Land of Nod, or where you please; But alas! for the watchers and weepers, Who turn, and turn, and turn again, But turn, and turn, and turn in vain,

With an anxious brain, And thoughts in a train That does not run upon sleepers! Wide awake as the mousing owl,

Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl,— But more profitless vigils keeping,— Wide awake in the dark they stare, Filling with phantoms the vacant air,

As if that Crookback'd Tyrant Care Had plotted to kill them sleeping. And oh! when the blessed diurnal light Is quench'd by the providential night,

To render our slumber more certain! Pity, pity the wretches that weep, For they must be wretched, who cannot sleep When God himself draws the curtain!

The careful Betty the pillow beats, And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets, And gives the mattress a shaking — But vainly Betty performs her part,

If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart, As well as the couch want making. There's Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves, Where other people would make preserves,

He turns his fruits into pickles: Jealous, envious, and fretful by day, At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog roll'd up the wrong way,

Tormenting himself with his prickles. But a child — that bids the world good night In downright earnest and cuts it quite — A Cherub no Art can copy,—

‘ Tis a perfect picture to see him lie As if he had supp'd on a dormouse pie, ( An ancient classical dish, by the bye ) With a sauce of syrup of poppy.

Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head, Whether lofty or low its condition! But instead of putting our plagues on shelves,

In our blankets how often we toss ourselves, Or are toss'd by such allegorical elves As Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition! The independent Miss Kilmansegg

Took off her independent Leg And laid it beneath her pillow, And then on the bed her frame she cast, The time for repose had come at last,

But long, long, after the storm is past Rolls the turbid, turbulent billow. No part she had in vulgar cares That belong to common household affairs —

Nocturnal annoyances such as theirs, Who lie with a shrewd surmising, That while they are couchant ( a bitter cup! ) Their bread and butter are getting up,

And the coals, confound them, are rising. No fear she had her sleep to postpone, Like the crippled Widow who weeps alone, And cannot make a doze her own,

For the dread that mayhap on the morrow, The true and Christian reading to baulk, A broker will take up her bed and walk, By way of curing her sorrow.

No cause like these she had to bewail: But the breath of applause had blown a gale, And winds from that quarter seldom fail To cause some human commotion;

But whenever such breezes coincide With the very spring-tide Of human pride, There's no such swell on the ocean!

Peace, and ease, and slumber lost, She turn'd, and roll'd, and tumbled and toss'd, With a tumult that would not settle. A common case, indeed, with such

As have too little, or think too much, Of the precious and glittering metal. Gold!— she saw at her golden foot The Peer whose tree had an olden root,

The Proud, the Great, the Learned to boot, The handsome, the gay, and the witty — The Man of Science — of Arms — of Art, The man who deals but at Pleasure's mart,

And the man who deals in the City. Gold, still gold — and true to the mould! In the very scheme of her dream it told; For, by magical transmutation,

From her Leg through her body it seem'd to go, Till, gold above, and gold below. She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toe To her organ of Veneration!

And still she retain'd through Fancy's art The Golden Bow, and the Golden Dart, With which she had play'd a Goddess's part In her recent glorification:

And still, like one of the selfsame brood, On a Plinth of the selfsame metal she stood For the whole world's adoration. And hymns and incense around her roll'd,

From Golden Harps and Censers of Gold,— For Fancy in dreams is as uncontroll'd As a horse without a bridle: What wonder, then, from all checks exempt,

If, inspired by the Golden Leg, she dreamt She was turn'd to a Golden Idol? When leaving Eden's happy land The grieving Angel led by the hand

Our banish'd Father and Mother, Forgotten amid their awful doom, The tears, the fears, and the future's gloom, On each brow was a wreath of Paradise bloom,

That our Parents had twined for each other. It was only while sitting like figures of stone, For the grieving Angel had skyward flown, As they sat, those Two in the world alone,

With disconsolate hearts nigh cloven, That scenting the gust of happier hours, They look'd around for the precious flow'rs, And lo!— a last relic of Eden's dear bow'rs —

The chaplet that Love had woven! And still, when a pair of Lovers meet, There's a sweetness in air, unearthly sweet, That savors still of that happy retreat

Where Eve by Adam was courted: Whilst the joyous Thrush, and the gentle Dove, Woo'd their mates in the boughs above, And the Serpent, as yet, only sported.

Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together?

All sweets below, and all sunny above, Oh! there's nothing in life like making love, Save making hay in fine weather! Who hath not found amongst his flow'rs

A blossom too bright for this world of ours, Like a rose among snows of Sweden? But to turn again to Miss Kilmansegg, Where must Love have gone to beg,

If such a thing as a Golden Leg Had put its foot in Eden! And yet — to tell the rigid truth — Her favor was sought by Age and Youth —

For the prey will find a prowler! She was follow'd, flatter'd, courted, address'd, Woo'd, and coo'd, and wheedled, and press'd, By suitors from North, South, East, and West,

Like that Heiress, in song, Tibbie Fowler! But, alas! alas! for the Woman's fate, Who has from a mob to choose a mate! ‘ Tis a strange and painful mystery!

But the more the eggs, the worse the hatch; The more the fish, the worse the catch; The more the sparks, the worse the match; Is a fact in Woman's history.

Give her between a brace to pick, And, mayhap, with luck to help the trick, She will take the Faustus, and leave the Old Nick — But her future bliss to baffle,

Amongst a score let her have a voice, And she'll have as little cause to rejoice, As if she had won the “Man of her choice” In a matrimonial raffle!

Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope, Fulfilling the adage of too much rope, With so ample a competition, She chose the least worthy of all the group,

Just as the vulture makes a stoop, And singles out from the herd or troop The beast of the worst condition. A Foreign Count — who came incog.,

Not under a cloud, but under a fog, In a Calais packet's fore-cabin, To charm some lady British-born, With his eyes as black as the fruit of the thorn,

And his hooky nose, and his beard half-shorn, Like a half-converted Rabbin. And because the Sex confess a charm In the man who has slash'd a head or arm

Or has been a throat's undoing, He was dress'd like one of the glorious trade, At least when glory is off parade, With a stock, and a frock, well trimm'd with braid,

And frogs — that went a-wooing. Moreover, as Counts are apt to do, On the left-hand side of his dark surtout, At one of those holes that buttons go through,

( To be a precise recorder,) A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap, About an inch of ribbon mayhap. That one of his rivals, a whimsical chap,

Described as his “Retail Order.” And then — and much it help'd his chance — He could sing, and play first fiddle, and dance, Perform charades, and Proverbs of France —

Act the tender, and do the cruel; For amongst his other killing parts, He had broken a brace of female hearts, And murder'd three men in duel!

Savage at heart, and false of tongue, Subtle with age, and smooth to the young, Like a snake in his coiling and curling — Such was the Count — to give him a niche —

Who came to court that Heiress rich, And knelt at her foot — one need n't say which — Besieging her castle of Stirling. With pray'rs and vows he open'd his trench,

And plied her with English, Spanish, and French In phrases the most sentimental: And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch, With now and then an Italian touch,

Till she yielded, without resisting much, To homage so continental. And then — the sordid bargain to close — With a miniature sketch of his hooky nose,

And his dear dark eyes, as black as sloes, And his beard and whiskers as black as those, The lady's consent he requited — And instead of the lock that lovers beg,

The Count received from Miss Kilmansegg A model, in small, of her Precious Leg — And so the couple were plighted! But, oh! the love that gold must crown!

Better — better, the love of the clown, Who admires his lass in her Sunday gown, As if all the fairies had dress'd her! Whose brain to no crooked thought gives birth,

Except that he never will part on earth With his true love's crooked tester! Alas! for the love that's link'd with gold! Better — better a thousand times told —

More honest, happy, and laudable, The downright loving of pretty Cis, Who wipes her lips, though there's nothing amiss, And takes a kiss, and gives a kiss,

In which her heart is audible! Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright, Who loves — as she labors — with all her might, And without any sordid leaven!

Who blushes as red as haws and hips, Down to her very finger-tips, For Roger's blue ribbons — to her, like strips Cut out of the azure of Heaven!