"But vainly, vainly the thunder fell,
For the soul of the sleeper was under a spell,
That time had lately embittered—
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 glittered.
"'Twas the golden leg! she knew its gleam!
And up she started and tried to scream;
But even 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 called vital departed.
"Gold, still gold, hard, yellow, and cold,
For gold she had lived, and died for gold—
By a golden weapon, not oaken;
In the morning they found her all alone—
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as a stone—
But her leg, the golden leg, was gone,
And the 'golden bowl was broken.'
"Her Moral.
"Gold! gold! gold! gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get, and light to hold;
Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged 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 thousandfold!
How widely its agencies vary—
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless—
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamped with the image of good Queen Bess,
And now of Bloody Mary!"
"Bedtime."
The admirable design—the "tailpiece" to the legend of "Miss Kilmansegg and her Golden Leg"—which Leech calls "Bedtime," is reproduced, not only for its excellence as a composition, but also in evidence of the readiness of the artist's imagination to adopt an idea that has been suggested by the poem, and of the skill with which that cunning hand has realized it. The little old miser has been "counting out his money" with the delight that "time cannot wither, nor custom stale." His shrunken shanks, thin face and hands, betray his age. Death cannot be far off; but no thought apart from the treasure can be spared for the inevitable visitor who surprises the miser at last in the midst of his golden worship. He is far from being tired; but he must go to bed, and sleep the sleep that knows no waking. His skeleton nurse has come for him; her bony hands encircle him. His shroud is on her arm; she cannot wait—no, not for him to handle once more those glittering coins, on which his eye sparkles, and his claw-like fingers make vain attempts to reach.