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!

HER DREAM.

CLXXV.

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.

CLXXVI.

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.

CLXXVII.

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.

CLXXVIII.

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;