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"Consules fiunt quotannis, et novi pro-consules,

Solus aut rex aut poeta non quotannis nascitur;" or, as the old water-poet phrased it,

And beats at heaven's gates with her bright hoofs ?"-BEN JONSON.

"When Heaven intends to do some mighty thing subjects of the same sublime description. And in

He makes a poet, or at least-a king."

South was of opinion that the composition of an epigram was the next great difficulty to an epic

poem.

"And South beheld that master-piece of man." Coxcombs who consider the composition of a song an easy matter, should set themselves down, as Burns says, and try. Ask Tommy Moore how many days and nights he has given to a single stanza in an Irish melody? Ask Sam Rogers how long he has spent over the composition of a couplet in An Epistle to a Friend; or Wordsworth how long he has labored with a sonnet; or Bowlesyes, ask the Vicar of Bremhill, if he does not owe the bright finish of his verse as much to pains as happiness? Dryden toiled for a fortnight over his Alexander's Feast, and yet he wrote with easenot the ease of the mob of gentlemen ridiculed by Pope, but with great fluency of idea and great mastery of expression. Good things are not knocked off at a heat-for a long jump there must be a very long run, and a long preparatory training too. There is no saying, "I will be a poet." Only consider not the long apprenticeship alone, but the long servitude which the muse requires from those who would invoke her rightly.

Benjamin West, the painter, trafficked with what way? "Without expression, fancy, or design;" without genius and without art. People forget, or choose to forget, that subject alone is not sufficient for a poem. Look at Burns' "Mouse" or Wordsworth's "Peter Bell," or Wilkie's "Blind Fiddler," or Gainsborough's "Cottager" with a dish of cream. It is the treatment which ennobles. But there is no driving this into some people's ears. Big with the swollen ambition of securing a footing on the sun-bright summits of Parnassus, they plume themselves on borrowed wings and bladders of their own, and after a world of ink, a world of big ideas, and a copied invocation, they struggle to ascend, and pant and toil to the end of an epic, in as many books as the Iliad or the Eneid. Would that your Robert Montgomerys, your Edwin Atherstones, and sundry such who understand the art of sinking in the low profound-would that they would reflect for five minutes on what an epic poem really is! And what it is, and what it ought to be, glorious John Dryden tells us in a very few words. "A heroic poem," ," he says, "truly such, is undoubtedly the greatest work which the soul of man is capable to perform." And so it is.

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A work," says Milton, "not to be raised from the heat of youth or the vapors of wine; but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit who can en"In a poet no kind of knowledge is to be over- rich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends looked; to a poet nothing can be useless. What-out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar ever is beautiful and whatever is dreadful must be to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases." familiar to his imagination; he must be conversant And yet Murray and Moxon are troubled once a with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. week, at the least, with the offer of a new epic, The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, for a certain sum-so run the terms-or, in case the minerals of the earth, the meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety, for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of religious truth, and he who knows the most will have most power of diversifying his scenes and of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction."'*

of declining that, for half profits. As if epics were blackberries, and men sought fame as Smith O'Brien seeks reputation-by an impertinent folly of their own! But "fools rush in," and there will still be poetasters-Black more and his brethrenin spite of critics, hard words, and something harder still-contemptuous neglect.

Few live to see their fame established on a firm and unalterable foundation. The kind criticisms

Every one remembers (poets themselves perhaps excepted) the long course of study and preparation which Milton laid down for himself before of friends conspire at times to give a false position he stripped for the Paradise Lost. And yet one to a poem, or the malice of enemies unite to obtain would hardly think, on first reflection, that any for it one equally undeserved. Who now reads course of preparation was necessary for the poet Hayley? How many are there in the position of of Comus, and Lycidas, and the Hymn on the Na- Gascoigne and Churchyard as described by old tivity of Christ. But Milton fully understood the Michael Drayton ?— height of his great argument, and how unequalled with every lengthened preparation he must be to record it rightly. But people (not poets) start epics now-a-days without any kind of consideration. No subject is too great for them. Satan, Chaos, The Messiah, The Omnipresence of the Deity, the Fall of Nineveh, The World before the

Flood.

One shudders at the very idea of subjects so sublime taken up as holyday recreations by would-be poets without the vision and the faculty divine, or any other merit (if merit it may be called) than the mere impudence of daring :

"When will men learn but to distinguish spirits,
And set true difference 'twixt the jaded wits
That run a broken pace for common hire,
And the high raptures of a happy muse,
Borne on the wings of her immortal thought,
That kicks at earth with a disdainful heel,

* Rasselas.

Accounted were great meterers many a day,
But not inspired with bravefire; had they
Lived but a little longer they had seen
Their works before them to have buried been."

That lived but a little longer!" It is well

they did n't. How will it be with the poets of the past generation two hundred years from this? They cannot possibly go down "complete." There must be a weeding. Fancy Sir Walter Scott in twelve volumes, Byron in ten, Southey in ten, Moore in ten, Wordsworth in six-to say nothing of Campbell in two volumes, Rogers in two, and Shelley in four. The poets of the last generation form a library of themselves. And if poetry is multiplied hereafter at the same rate, we shall want fresh shelves, fresh patience, and a new lease of life, for threescore and ten of scriptural existence is far too short to get acquainted with the past and keep up our intimacy with the pres ent. The literature of the last fifty years is a study

of itself-Scott's novels, Scott's poetry, Scott's | For words are in poetry what colors are in paintMiscellanies, and Scott's Life! Then of the pres- ing, and the music of numbers is not to be matched ent, there are the daily papers, the weekly jour- or done without. Look at Donne. Would not nals, the monthly magazines, the quarterly reviews, Donne's satires, which abound with so much wit, all of which we are expected to have a fair passing appear more charming if he had taken care of his acquaintance with. There is Mr. Dickens' last words and of his numbers? Whereas his verse is book on the table, which I have not as yet had now-if verse it may be calledtime to read, and old Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy by its side, coaxing me to renew a youthful acquaintance with its pages; and there are Tristram Shandy, and Humphrey Clinker, and dear delightful Amelia, which I fain would read again, but cannot, I fear, for want of time. Only observe the dust on that fine Froissart on my shelves, and that noble old copy of Ben Jonson's works in folio, with a mark, I could swear, in the third act of the Alchemist or the Silent Woman. There is no keeping pace with the present while we pay anything like due attention to the past. I pity that man who reads Albert Smith who never read Parthenissa; but perhaps he pities me because I am indifferently up in the writer he admires. How people are cut off from the full literary enjoyments "Johnson told me," he says, "that a Mr. Coxof this life who never read "Munro his Expedi- eter, whom he knew, had gone the greatest length tion," or the Duchess of Newcastle's Life of the towards this, having collected about 500 volumes Duke her husband, or Tom Brown, or Ned Ward, of poets whose works were little known; but that or Roger L'Estrange, or Tom Coryat, or "the upon his death Tom Osborne bought them, and works sixty-three in number" of old John Taylor, they were dispersed, which he thought a pity, as it was curious to see any series complete, and in every volume of poems something good may be found."

"A kind of hobbling prose,

Which limps along and tinkles in the close." There goes much more to the composition of even a third-rate poet than rhymesters at first are willing to allow, for to nature, exercise, imitation, study, art must be added to make all these perfectούτε φυσις ικανή γίνεται τεχνης ατερ ούτε παν τεχνη μη quoi xxTyμern-Without art nature can never be perfect, and without nature art can claim no being.

the sculler on the Thames!

One of Boswell's recorded conversations with the

great hero of his admiration was on the subject of a collection being made of all the poems of all the English poets who had published a volume of poems.

We wish for poets who will write when Nature and their full thoughts bid them, and are not exacting when we look for more than one sprig of This was a kindly criticism, uttered in the good laurel to grace a garland. We have already nature of an easy moment, hardly applicable to the enough of would-be poets-Augustus Cæsar, King volumes of verse we see published now. Surely James I., Cardinal Richelieu, the great Lord Clar- there are many put forth without a redeeming endon, the celebrated Lord Bolingbroke, the fa-stanza or passage to atone for the dry desert of a mous Lord Chatham; but poetry is what old thousand lines through which the critic is doomed George Chapman calls it-a flower of the sun, to wander in quest of beauties which he fain would which disdains to open to the eye of a candle. "No power the muses' favor can command, What Richelieu wanted Louis scarce could gain, And what young Ammon wish'd and wish'd in

vain."

Your "rich ill poets are without excuse."* "Your verses, good sir, are no poems, they 'll not hinder your rising in the state."""T is ridiculous for a lord to print verses; 't is well enough to make them to please himself, but to make them public is foolish." People affect to think that the same talents and application which raised Lord Mansfield to the highest honor of the gown, would, had they been turned to the study of poetry, have raised him to as high a position in the catalogue of our poets. 'Tis pretty enough when told in

verse

"How many an Ovid was in Murray lost;" yet we are inclined to think that there is very little in it, and that Wordsworth is nearer the mark, who says of self-communing and unrecorded men"Oh, many are the poets that are sown

By Nature; men endowed with highest gifts, The vision and the faculty divine, Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse." But this one word "accomplishment" implies a good deal more than mere dexterity and ease-culture and the inspiring aid of books, "Pauses, cadence, and well-vowell'd words, And all the graces a good ear affords." + Ben Jonson.

*Lord Roscommon.

+ Selden's Table-Talk.

find. Surely Coxeter's collection contained a
very large number of one-idea'd volumes!-
shelves to a very fair collection of verse printed
We could have helped him from our own
before 1747, when this "curious" collector
died, full of the most trivial nothingnesses. For
a little volume of verse of the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, said to be unique, or nearly so, Mr.
Miller has been known to give twenty guineas or
more, and think himself lucky that he has been let
off thus easily. Some of these twenty-guinea vol-
umes we have had the curiosity to look into.
Poetry there is none; nothing more, indeed, than
the mere similitude of verse. Songs, differing
from sonnets because the lines are shorter, and
sonnets, only to be recognized as such from the
fourteen lines which the writer, in compliance with
custom, has prudently confined them to.
"Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow
It is the rust we value, not the gold."

It is curious, however, to see any collec complete; and Mr. Miller is to be praised for unceasing endeavors to make his collection English poetry (literally so called) as comple possible.

The poet of the Irish Melodies made an obse over in a paper of this description, when we tion when at Abbotsford, too curious to be p sider the merit of the remark itself, the rank o poet who made it, and the reputation of the. who responded to its truth:

66

Hardly a magazine is now published," said Moore," that does not contain verses which, some thirty years ago, would have made a reputation." Scott turned with a look of shrewd humor on his

said

friend, as if chuckling over his own success, and | God, in health and vigor, and as fond of poetry as ever, he has outlived by the period of an appren"Ecod, we were in the luck of it to come be- ticeship, the three-score years and ten, the Scripfore these fellows!" and added, playfully flourish-tural limitation of the life of man. When Wordsing his stick as he spoke, "we have, like Boabdil, worth dies, there will be a new session of the taught them to beat us at our own weapons." poets for the office of poet-laureate. To whom There cannot be a doubt but that the poetry of will the lord-chamberlain assign the laurel, honthe present day is of that mediocre level of descrip- ored and disgraced by a variety of wearers? To tion which neither pleases nor offends; and that whom will the unshorn deity assign it? There much of it, if published sixty years ago, or even may be a difference of opinion between the poet's thirty years ago, would have secured for more than God and the court lord-chamberlain; there have one writer a high reputation at the time, and possi- been differences heretofore, or else Shadwell and bly a place in Chalmers' collected edition of our Tate, Eusden and Cibber, Whitehead and Pye had British Poets. Such a reputation as Miss Seward never succeeded to the laurels of famous Ben Jonachieved, or Hayley, or Oram, or Headley, or son and glorious John Dryden. Who are our Hurdis:young and our rising poets likely to become claimants, and to have their case considered by Phœbus Apollo in the new session he must summon before very long?

"Fame then was cheap, and the first comers
sped;

And they have kept it since by being dead."
DRYDEN.

There was a time when a single poem, nay, a decent epigram, procured a niche for its writer in the temple of our poetry; but these times are gone by, inundated as we now are with verses of one particular level of merit, as flat as the waste of Cumberland, and equally unprofitable; so that the poet, ambitious of a high reputation in our letters, must make it upon something that is completely novel; and there, as Scott remarked, will rest the only chance for an extended reputation.

"A session was held the other day,

And Apollo himself was at it, they say;
The laurel that had been so long reserved,
Was now to be given to him best deserved."
And,

"Therefore, the wits of the town came thither,
"T was strange to see how they flock'd together;
Each strongly confident of his own way,
Thought to carry the laurel away that day."

How Suckling would put them forward, we Poetry has become an easy art, and people have must leave to the fancy of the reader. We can do been taught to pump for poetry without a Gildon very little more than enumerate the names of canor a Bysshe to aid their labors. Wakely can laugh didates likely to be present on the occasion. We in the house of commons at the poetry of Words- can conceive their entry somewhat after the followworth, and treat the senators who surround him ing manner. A herald, followed by an attendant with a happy imitation of the great poet of his with a tray of epics from Nineveh at twelve shiltime. Verse has become an extempore kind of lings to Orion at a farthing, and the authors art, a thing to be assumed when wanted; and arranged pretty nearly as follows;-Atherstone O'Connell can throw off at a heat a clever parody first (as the favorite poet of Lord Jeffrey's later upon Dryden's famous epigram; as if, like Theo-lucubrations ;) Robert Montgomery, 2; Heraud, 3; dore Hook, he had served an apprenticeship to the happy art of imitation. That the bulk of the socalled poetry of the present day-" nonsense, well tuned and sweet stupidity"-is injurious to a proper estimation of the true-born poets who still exist, there cannot be a doubt; that it is injurious, moreover, to the advancement of poetry among us, is, I think, equally the case. Poetry, in the highest sense of the word, was never better understood, though never, perhaps, less cultivated than it is now. Criticism has taken a high stand; and when the rage for rhyme has fairly exhausted itself, nature will revive among us, and we shall have a new race of poets to uphold, if not to eclipse, the glories of the old. There are many still among us to repeat without any kind of brag-with Camilla Toulmin, with a bunch of flowers; gart in their blood:

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Read, 4; Horne, 5; and Ben Disraeli, 6. To the epic portion of the candidates the dramatists will succeed, fresh from Sadler's Wells and the Surrey, and led by Talfourd and Bulwer, and followed by Mr. Marston, Mr. Trowton, Mr. Henry Taylor, Sir Coutts Lindsay, Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Spicer; Jerrold representing comedy, without a fellow to rival or support him. Then will follow the ballad-writers; Macaulay by himself, and Smythe and Lord John Manners walking like the Babes in the Wood together. To the trio will succeed Alfred Tennyson and Robert Browning, Monckton Milnes, Charles Mackay, and Coventry Patmore, followed by a galaxy of ladies for the gallery, led by Mrs. Norton and Miss Barrett;

Frances Brown, with a number of the Athenæum ; Eliza Cook, with Mr. Cayley's commendation; Miss Costello with a Persian rose; and MES Ogilvy, with her quarto volume of minstrelsy from the north. We can fancy Apollo's confusion at the number; and should in some measure be inclined to abide by his opinion, should he give the laurel at the end, as Suckling has made him, to

When poetry was all but extinct among us, Cow-an alderman of London;
per and Burns came forward to revive the drooping
muse, and show us, unmistakably enough, that
men and studies may decay, but nature never
dies.

There is little reason to suppose that the great poet of the Excursion is likely to remain more than a few years among us; for though, thank

He openly declared that 't was the best sign
Of good store of wit to have good store of coin,
And without a syllable more or less said,
He put the laurel on the alderman's head.
At this all the wits were in such a maze,
That for a good while they did nothing but gaze

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One upon another, not a man in the place,

But had discontent writ in great in his face."

Only," and how admirable the wit is :

"Only the small poets cleared up again,

Out of hope, as 't was thought, of borrowing;
But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown,
When he lends any poet about the town."

"O rare Sir John Suckling!"

of originality, and not for what it is one of its peculiarities; and, what is more, a very bad peculiarity both in matter and in manner. Coleridge understood the deficiencies of Mr. Tennyson's muse when he uttered the following capital criticism upon him :

"I have not read through all Mr. Tennyson's poems, which have been sent to me; but I think there are some things of a good deal of beauty in that I have seen. The misfortune is, that he has Is Alfred Tennyson a poet? His merits divide begun to write verses without very well underthe critics. With some people he is everything, standing what metre is. Even if you write in a with others he is little or nothing. Betwixt the known and approved metre, the odds are, if you extremes of admiration and malice, it is hard to are not a metreist yourself, that you will not judge uprightly of the living. The zeal of his write harmonious verses; but to deal in new friends is too excessive to be prudent, the indiffer- metres without considering what metre means and ence of his enemies too studied to be sincere. requires, is preposterous. What I would, with He is unquestionably a poet, in thought, language, many wishes of success, prescribe to Tennysonand in numbers. But the New Timon tells us he indeed, without it he can never be a poet in artis not a poet; Peel tells us that he is, and gives him is to write for the next two or three years in none a pension of 2007. a-year to raise him above the but one or two well-known and strictly-defined exigencies of the world. But the satirist has metres; such as the heroic couplet, the octava dropped his condemnation from the third edition stanza, or the octo-syllabic measure of the Allegro of his poem, and the pension still continues to be and Penseroso. He would probably thus get paid. Is it, therefore, deserved? We think it is, imbued with a sensation, if not a sense, of metre not from what Mr. Tennyson has as yet performed, without knowing it, just as Eton boys get to but what he has shown himself capable of per-write such good Latin verses by conning Ovid forming. His poems are, in some respects, an and Tibullus. As it is, I can scarcely scan some accession to our literature. He has the right of his verses.' stuff in him, and he may yet do more; but unless it is better than what he has already done, he had better withhold it. His admirers-and he will never be without "the few"-will always augur well of after-performances (though never realized) from what has gone before, and attribute to indolence and a pension what from fear and inability he was unable to accomplish. His detractors, on the other hand, will have little to lay hold of; they may flatter themselves with having frightened him into silence, but their liking for his verses will warm as they grow older. He has nothing, however, to fear, if he writes nobly from himself, and the muse is willing and consenting. Great

works

"A work t' outwear Seth's pillars, brick and stone,

And (Holy Writ excepted) made to yield to none."-Dr. DONNE.

This is something more than a clever criticism on the muse of Mr. Tennyson? it is a most admirable piece of advice, and deserves to be remembered. Tennyson, and Browning, and Miss Barrett, should act upon it forthwith; they would improve their numbers very materially by such an exercise of their ears. Coleridge's own poetry is a lasting exemplification of the rythmical charms of English verse. He never offends you-he always pleases

"His musical finesse was such, So nice his ear, so delicate his touch," that every verse he wrote will satisfy the ear and satisfy the fingers.

A second critic of distinction who has passed judgment on Mr. Tennyson is Mr. Leigh Hunt, always an agreeable and not unfrequently a safe critic to abide by :

"Alfred Tennyson," writes Mr. Hunt, "is of appear too rarely to raise expectation that this or the school of Keats; that is to say, it is difficult that person is likely to produce one. It is near not to see that Keats has been a great deal in his 200 years since Milton began to prune his wings thoughts; and that he delights in the same broodfor the great epic of his age and nation; and what ing over his sensations, and the same melodious has our poetry produced since then in any way enjoyment of their expression. In his desire to approaching what Milton accomplished? Much communicate this music he goes so far as to accent that is admirable, and much that will live as long the final syllables in his participles passive; as as Milton himself, but nothing of the same stamp, pleached, crownéd, purple-spikéd, &c.; with visfor though Scott may affect to speak of Manfredible printer's marks, which subjects him but erroas a poem, wherein Byron "matched Milton upon his own ground," yet we all of us pretty well know otherwise; and that the muse of Byron is as inferior to Paradise Lost, as the Farmer's Boy to The Seasons; or any of the great dramatists of the age of Shakspeare to Shakspeare himself.

Before Mr. Tennyson tries the temper of the public for a third time, (which we hope he will do, and before very many years go by,) it behoves him to consider the structure of his verse, and the pauses of his numbers a little more maturely than he has hitherto done. It behoves him, moreover, to rub off a few affectations of style, the besetting sin of too many of his verses, and too often mistaken, by the young especially, for one of the marks

neously to a charge of pedantry; though it is a nicety not complimentary to the reader, and of which he may as well get rid. Much, however, as he reminds us of Keats, his genius is his own. He would have written poetry, had his precursor written none; and he has also a vein of metaphysical subtlety, in which the other did not indulge, as may be seen by his verses entitled 'A Character,' those On the Confessions of a Sensitive Mind,' and numerous others. He is also a great lover of a certain home kind of landscape, which he delights to paint with a minuteness that in The Moated Grange' becomes affecting; and, in 'The

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*Table-Talk, p. 222.

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This is criticism in full accordance with the kindlier sympathies of our own nature; but much of the weight and value of it must depend on the rank the reader is willing to assign to Mr. Keats. It is, however, intended as a very high encomium; Mr. Hunt appropriating a place in our poetry to Keats which I am afraid he will find very few willing to concede to him.

Our poetry is in a very sorry kind of plight if it has to depend upon Tennyson and Browning for the hereditary honors of its existence. The Examiner will tell us "No!" The Athenæum will do the same; papers remarkable for the vigor of their articles, the excellence of their occasional criticism, and the general asperity of their manner. A page out of every ten in Herrick's "Hesperides" is more certain of a hereafter than any one dramatic romance or lyric in all the "Bells and Pomegranates" of Mr. Browning. Not but what Mr. Browning is a poet. He is unquestionably a poet; but his subject has not unfrequently to bear the weight of sentiments which spring not naturally from it, and his numbers at times are overlaid with affectation, the common conceit of men who affect to tell common things in an uncommon manner. He clogs his verses, moreover, with too many consonants and too many monosyllables, and carries the sense too frequently in a very ungraceful manner from one line to the other. Here is a passage from the seventh number of his "Bells and Pomegranates," which it really is a torture to read:

"But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,

So back to a man

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O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe
Which the wasp to your lips

Still follows with fretful persistence-
Nay, taste while awake,

This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball,
That peels, flake by flake,

Like an onion's each smoother and whiter!
Next sip this weak wine

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,
A leaf of the vine-

And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh,
That leaves through its juice
The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth
Scirocco is loose!

*

Hark! the quick pelt of the olives

Which, thick in one's track,
Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,
Though not yet half black!

And how their old twisted trunks shudder!

The medlars let fall

Their hard fruit; the brittle great fig-trees
Snap off, figs and all;

For here comes the whole of the tempest!
No refuge but creep

Back again to my side or my shoulder,
And listen or sleep."

This may be poetry, but it is poetry in the raw material; for the numbers are those of a scrannel pipe, and such as Cadmus alone could pronounce when in the state of a serpent. This which follows is the mere twaddle of a cockney at Calais or Cologne :

66 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.
"Oh, to be in England,
Now that April's there,

Came our friends, with whose help in the vine- And who wakes in England

yards

Grape harvest began;

In the vat half-way up in our house-side,

Like blood the juice spins,

While your brother all bare-legged is dancing
Till breathless he grins,

Dead-beaten, in effort on effort

To keep the grapes under;

For still when he seems all but master,
In pours the fresh plunder

From girls who keep coming and going
With basket on shoulder,

And eyes shut against the rain's driving,
Your girls that are older-

For under the hedges of aloe,

And where, on its bed

Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple
Lies pulpy and red,

All the young ones are kneeling and filling
Their laps with the snails

Tempted out by the first rainy weather-
Your best of regales,

As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,
When, supping in state,

We shall feast our grape-gleaners—two dozen.
Three over one plate-
Macaroni so tempting to swallow

* Book of Gems, p. 274.

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Lest you should think he never could re-capture`
The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields are rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower,
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!"

This is very inferior to Ambrose Philips, who acquired the distinction of Namby Pamby for similar verse, e. g. his "Lines to Cuzzoni," which Charles Lamb had got by heart. Here is something infinitely better, and by a living poet, one of the props our poetry depends on, and a member of parliament withal-Mr. Richard Monckton Milnes:

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