The houses have got on a railway line,

And are off like the first-class carriages!

She'll lose her life! she is losing her breath!
A cruel chase, she is chasing Death,

As female shriekings forewarn her:
And now-as gratis as blood of Guelph--
She clears that gate, which has clear'd itself
Since then, at Hyde Park Corner!

Alas! for the hope of the Kilmanseggs!
For her head, her brains, her body, and legs,
Her life's not worth a copper!

Willy-nilly,

In Piccadilly,

A hundred hearts turn sick and chilly,
A hundred voices cry, "Stop her!"
And one old gentleman stares and stands,
Shakes his head and lifts his hands,
And says, "How very improper!"

On and on!-what a perilous run!
The iron rails seem all mingling in one,

To shut out the Green Park scenery!
And now the Cellar its dangers reveals.

She shudders-she shrieks-she's doom'd, she feels,

To be torn by powers of horses and wheels,

Like a spinner by steam machinery!

Sick with horror she shuts her eyes,

But the very stones seem uttering cries,

As they did to that Persian daughter,

When she climb'd up the steep vociferous hill,
Her little silver flagon to fill

With the magical Golden Water!

"Batter her! shatter her!

Throw and scatter her!"

Shouts each stony-hearted chatterer!

"Dash at the heavy Dover!

Spill her! kill her! tear and tatter her!

Smash her! crash her!" (the stones didn't flatter her!)

"Kick her brains out! let her blood spatter her! Roll on her over and over!"

For so she gather'd the awful sense

Of the street in its past unmacadamized tense,
As the wild horse overran it,-

His four heels making the clatter of six,
Like a Devil's tattoo, play'd with iron sticks
On a kettle-drum of granite!

On! still on she's dazzled with hints
Of oranges, ribbons, and colour'd prints,
A Kaleidoscope jumble of shapes and tints,
And human faces all flashing,

Bright and brief as the sparks from the flints,
That the desperate hoof keeps dashing!

On and on! still frightfully fast!
Dover-street, Bond-street, all are past!
But-yes-no-yes!-they're down at last!

The Furies and Fates have found them!
Down they go with sparkle and crash,
Like a Bark that's struck by the lightning flash-
There's a shriek-and a sob-

And the dense dark mob

Like a billow closes around them!

"She breathes!"

"She don't!"

"She'll recover!"

"She won't!"

"She's stirring! she's living, by Nemesis!"

Gold, still gold! on counter and shelf!
Golden dishes as plenty as delf;

Miss Kilmansegg's coming again to herself
On an opulent Goldsmith's premises!

Gold! fine gold!—both yellow and red,
Beaten, and molten-polish'd, and dead-

C.

To see the gold with profusion spread

In all forms of its manufacture!
But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg,
When the femoral bone of her dexter leg
Has met with a compound fracture?

Gold may soothe Adversity's smart;
Nay, help to bind up a broken heart;
But to try it on any other part

Were as certain a disappointment,
As if one should rub the dish and plate,
Taken out of a Staffordshire crate-
In the hope of a Golden Service of State-
With Singleton's "Golden Ointment."

HER PRECIOUS LEG.

"As the twig is bent, the tree's inclined," Is an adage often recall'd to mind,

Referring to juvenile bias:

And never so well is the verity seen,
As when to the weak, warp'd side we lean,

While Life's tempests and hurricanes try us.

Even thus with Miss K. and her broken limb: By a very, very remarkable whim,

She show'd her early tuition:

While the buds of character came into blow

With a certain tinge that served to show

The nursery culture long ago,

As the graft is known by fruition!

For the King's Physician, who nursed the case, His verdict gave with an awful face,

And three others concurr'd to egg it;

That the Patient to give old Death the slip,
Like the Pope, instead of a personal trip,
Must send her Leg as a Legate.

The limb was doom'd-it couldn't be saved!
And like other people the patient behaved,
Nay, bravely that cruel parting braved,

T