Along with its daily clothing? Just as the felon condemn'd to die

With a very natural loathing— Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes, From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes, To caper on sunny greens and slopes, Instead of the dance upon nothing.

Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,
While Death still nearer and nearer crept,
Like the Thane who smote the sleeping-
But her mind was busy with early joys,
Her golden treasures and golden toys,
That flash'd a bright

And golden light

Under lids still red with weeping.

The golden doll that she used to hug!
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug!
Her godfather's golden presents!

The golden service she had at her meals,
The golden watch, and chain, and seals,
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,
And her golden fishes and pheasants!

The golden guineas in silken purse

And the Golden Legends she heard from her

nurse,

Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage

And London streets that were paved with gold

And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old—
With each golden thing

To the golden ring

At her own auriferous Marriage!

And still the golden light of the sun

Through her golden dream appear'd to run,
Though the night that roar'd without was one
To terrify seamen or gypsies-

While the moon, as if in malicious mirth
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,
As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth,
In revenge of her old eclipses.

But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,

For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell

That time had lately embitter'd—

The Count, as once at her foot he knelt
That foot which now he wanted to melt!
But-hush!-'twas a stir at her pillow she felt-
And some object before her glitter'd.

"Twas the Golden Leg!-she knew its gleam!
And up she started, and tried to scream,—
But ev'n in the moment she started-
Down came the limb with a frightful smash,
And, lost in the universal flash

That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,
The Spark, call'd Vital, departed!

*

Gold, still gold! hard, yellow, and cold,

For gold she had lived, and she died for gold-
By a golden weapon-not oaken;

In the morning they found her all alone—
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone-

But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,
And the "Golden Bowl was broken!"

Gold-still gold! it haunted her yet—
At the Golden Lion the Inquest met-
Its foreman, a carver and gilder—
And the Jury debated from twelve till three
What the Verdict ought to be,

And they brought it in as Felo-de-Se,
"Because her own Leg had kill'd her!"

Her Moral.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold !

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammer'd, and roll'd;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled:

Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold !
Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary

To save to ruin-to curse-to bless-
As even its minted coins express,

Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.

POEMS.

A TALE OF A TRUMPET.

"Old woman, old woman, will you go a-shearing?
Speak a little louder, for I'm very hard of hearing."
OLD BALLAD.

Of all old women hard of hearing,

The deafest, sure, was Dame Eleanor Spearing! On her head, it is true,

Two flaps there grew,

That served for a pair of gold rings to go through;

But for any purpose of ears in a parley,
They heard no more than ears of barley.

No hint was needed from D. E. F.

You saw in her face that the woman was deaf: From her twisted mouth to her eyes so peery, Each queer feature ask'd a query;

A look that said in a silent way,

"Who? and What? and How? and Eh?
I'd give my ears to know what you say!"
And well she might! for each auricular
Was deaf as a post-and that post in particular
That stands at the corner of Dyott Street now,
And never hears a word of a row!