Alas for that grand piece of statesmanship,
That glorious work, the Berlin settlement !
So highly lauded by my chosen print
The Daily Telegraph. Almost I seemed
To its great heart none other than a god!
Bulgaria asked for independency;

'Twas granted with a few strokes of the pen.
Some people really don't care what they grant.
But the strong Russ, indignant, worked his will,
Pared down and minimised my settlement;
And though he could not end it, left it maimed,
The veriest of hashes. Can fine words
From Salisbury make amends? Though even yet
Our faithful organs in the daily press

Are tremulous with praise, weep tears of joy
To hear us. Come, let's go; we've had enough
Of Government. How can a man desire
To mix with Irish members, rowdy lot,
Who never mind the ruling of the Chair,
But pass beyond the Speaker's ordinance,
Which all obey-or ought to, if they don't?

A black cloud hovers o'er the Cape : there come
Glimpses of dark men we have made our foes.
Once more I hear the rumour steal abroad
Of an election-time approaching near ;
And who can tell the upshot? Will the rout
Whom I enfranchised not so long ago
Shake off the yoke of Tory Government,
And bring the Liberals in instead?
Fain would I get me to the gorgeous East!

I wonder how my constitution stands

Who knows?

The rigours of this chilly English clime,
This so-called summer, wretched, cold, and wet.

I shiver by the fireside, while the steam

Floats from the damp fields round my country seat,
And racks my agèd bones with rheumatism.
Place me upon some Asiatic throne,
Give me an empire in the realms of morn,
Thither I'd hasten from this bourgeois court
On a triumphal car with silver wheels.

The World, July 30, 1879.

V. A. C. A.

Find him the nightmare of their dreams; We, the wise Englishman, who knows The Falsehood of Extremes.

Punch, 1861.

LORD BEACONSFIELD AS TITHONUS.
THE Whigs decay, the Whigs decay, and fall,
The Obstructives drag our Senate through the mire ;
Parliaments cumber earth, then pass away;
E'en this one, after many a session, dies;
While I, secure of immortality.

Take my calm saunter, propped by Monty's arm,
Along the highways of the busy world,

A noted figure, roaming, in my dream,

All sorts of places in my Favourite East,

The gleaming halls and splendours of Lothair.

WHAT LOCKSLEY HALL SAID BEFORE HE PASSED HIS OXFORD RESPONSIONS,

(Vulgo SMALLS).

OH the misery of "Smalls!" the cark, the turmoil, and the grind !

Oh the cruel, cruel fetters which are wreathing round my mind!

There is grammar, there is Euclid, and far worse than all of these,

Arithmetical refinements, with their stocks, and rules of threes,

With their discount and their practice, and their very vulgar fractions,

Smashing up the one ideal into many paltry factions.
Square root makes the head to ache, the decimals the tear

to start,

For they're ever circulating round the fibres of my heart—
Learning grammar is like putting water in a leaky pot,
And its memory is only like the days remembered not;
Verbs in "MI" are aggravating, Euclid makes the foot to
stamp,

Only lucid when enlightened by a moderator lamp,

Amply fed and reared, my pheasants-tame they'll answer to your call,

But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall.

Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare-the time is nigh,

We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly!

See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought,

Headlong rushing, mad with terror-surely this is noble sport!

Eh what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill;

Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go bag to fill.

the

Warmish work, and quite fatiguing-let's refresh ere

we

Run down the slow, not only we, that prate
Of gents and snobs, have loved the genus well,
And loathed to see them unamused; but she
Did more, and undertook, and overcame,
The Venus of the Tableaux Vivans-Madame
Warton, Queen of the Walhalla, near the street
Of Coventry for when there was nought up
To take the Town, the Gents all came to her,
Clamouring, "If this last, we die of slowness!"
She sought a painter, found him where he strode
About the room, among his dogs, alone,

His beard shaved close before him, and his hair
Cropped short behind. She told him the Gents' fears,
And prayed him, "If this last, they die of slowness!"
Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed,
"What would you have me do-an animal painter-
For such as these "A Tableau paint," said she.
He laughed, and talked about Sir Peter Laurie."

Then chucked her playfully beneath the chin;
"O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Talk! yes!" she said,
"But paint it, and prove what I will not do."
And with a sly wink there was no mistaking,
He answered, Ride you as the famed Godiva,"
And I will paint it," she nodded, and in jest
They parted, and a cabman drove her home.

All was arranged. The boardmen in the street,
As curs about a bone, with snarl and blow
Made war upon each other for a board :
The best man won. She sent bill-stickers forth,
And bade them cover over every hoarding
With large placards, announcing she would please
Her favourite gents; who, as they loved her well,
From then till Monday next, in crowds should come
And gaze at her, -each one his shilling paying
For seats within the public promenade.

Then went she to her dressing room, and there
Unhooked the wedded fastenings of her gown,
Some soft one's gift; but every now and then
She lingered, looking in her toilette glass,
Rougeing her cheek: anon she shook herself,
And showered the rumpled raiment 'neath her knee;
Then clad herself in silk; adown the stair

Stole on; and like a bashful maiden slid
Through passage and through passage, until she reached
The platform; there she found her palfrey trapt
With pewter logies and mosaic gold.

Then rode she forth, clothed all in silken tights:
The fiddles played beneath her as she rode,
And the reserved seats hardly breathed for fear.
The little wide-mouthed heads beyond the stalls
Had cunning eyes to see: the crimson rouge
Made her cheek flame: a fast man, winking, shot
Light horrors through her pulses: the saloon
Was all in darkness; though from overhead
The flickering gas-light dimly flared: but she
Not less through all bore up, till, last she gave
The signal to the workmen in the flats,
And round upon the pivot slow she turned.
Then rode she back, clothed all in silken tights:
And one low Gent, decked out in Joinville tie,
The certain symbol of a Gentish taste,
Using an ivory opera-glass he'd hired,
Peeped-but the glasses, ere he had his fill,
Were shivered into pieces, and the curtain

Sir Peter Laurie had endeavoured to put down the sale of plaster casts of nude figures by the Italian image boys in the streets.

But one-at best he was a lout

The same, we guess, was short of chink--Exclaim'd in terror, 66 Let me out,

I am quite sure the ship will sink.
The leak is quickly gaining height;
'Twill soon be half way up the mast."
And through the hatch that starry night
We let him out, and on we pass'd.

Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt,
And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state,
And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd,

And other craft both small and great.
But we nor changed to skiff or barge,
Or slender shallops, silvern-peak d;
We knew no vessel, small or large,
Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd.

Beyond the blank horizon burn'd;

The moon had slid below the main ; About the bows we sharply turn'd,

And scull'd the good ship home again. Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn;

We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea, And paid old Jack, the ship had gone Down to the bottom of the sea.

"BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me."

TENNYSON.

It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and August. An American poet thus records his impressions:

HOT, hot, hot,

Is the blistering breath of June,

And I would that my throat could utter

An anti-torridness tune.

O well for the Esquimau

That he sits on a cake of ice!

O well for the Polar bear

That he looks so cool and nice! But the scorching heats pours down And blisters both head and feet! And O for a touch of vanished frost, Or the sound of some hail and sleet!

THE LAY OF THE DRENCHED ONE. (Time, 11.45 P.M.)

for Europeans, such as would remind one of Tennyson's well-known Workhouse Song.

'Break, break, break,

All these cursed stones I see,

For that is the task they've set me, And I wish that I wasn't me."

WAKE! wake! wake!

In thy Northern land so free, And our eloquent leader utters A protest for you and me.

Oh, well for Midlothian's sons

That they shout with him in the fray,

Oh, well for our British lads,

For we know he will gain us the day.

And the Franchise war goes on,

Though the Lords would have us be still;

But, O for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man, When the people have their bill.

Wake! wake! wake!

To the war-cry of "Liberty!" And slav'ry's old despotic days Shall never return to thee.

RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY.

The Weekly Dispatch, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition).

RHYME FOR ROGERS.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me

A House of Peers can be no good:

Mob caps are more than coronets,

And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield's brood. Punch, September 6, 1884.

Tennyson's "Enoch Arden" has been less frequently parodied than most of his poems; some years ago the Australian Punch had a clever burlesque of it, and a "continuation" of Enoch Arden was privately printed in 1866. This very scarce little pamphlet consisted of twelve pages, in a blue wrapper, and had no printer's name or place on it. As it is now eagerly sought after by collectors of Tennysoniana, it is here given in full :

ENOCH ARDEN,

(CONTINUED)

BY

C. H. P.

Not by the "LAUREAT,"--but a timid hand That grasped the Poet's golden lyre, "and back Recoil'd, -e'en at the sound herself had made.”

1866.

ENOCH ARDEN.

(Continued).

So Enoch died, as he had lived so long,
Alone-alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd
To an adjoining chamber; but she heard
Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail !
I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him;
But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw
Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings
Towards the Ocean of Eternity,

"Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch he is gone; God rest his soul give him more joy in Heaven Than he had found on earth,- at least of late:

I thought he had not long to linger here,
The sea made such a moaning all the night :
It sounded like his death-wail; and methought

I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen.
Now will I tell the neighbours who he was:
They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth,
But kept it close, because she loved her friend
Enoch :-they cannot call me gossip now."

It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill
Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,-
That season of the year so closely link'd
To Philip's destiny ;-it seem'd to stir
His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill
Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins,
He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on
That he might keep the promised holiday
With all the children-his, and hers, and theirs--
All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph,
That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee.
And all were ready with their nutting crooks;
And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,--
His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft.
But as he left his mill, the passing-bell,
With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear.
It is a sound that enters at the brain,
A saddening augury of woe, and strikes
The inmost chord of sympathising hearts
That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain.
Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost,
Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood.

Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side, "Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck? Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll." Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's; I heard that he was dying yester-e'en. The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out; Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away

Then came they to a little knot of men
(Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests)
Hard by "the idle corner,”—so 'twas called,—
The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers,

As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices.

Could he have read their looks, he might have known
Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand,
More nigh than he could think for, and more hard.
Then passed a woman from the ale-house door,
And, all unwitting Philip was so near,
Cried, "Have you heard who died just now?
'Twas Enoch Arden,-lost, but late returned;
And Miriam Lane has known it all along!"
As if some hand had struck a sudden blow,
Philip seemed stunned; the blood forsook his cheek,
The big cold drops stood out upon his brow,
As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack.

His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm,
And uttering no word (what could he say?)
Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step,
Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray,
Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return;

He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms:
God help me,-kiss me darling,-wife look up!
My wife-his wife-I know not what I say:
If we did sin it was unwittingly;

O, Annie darling, one more fond embrace,
E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong.
Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face,
And twined her loving arms around, he told,---
Yes, told her all---how Enoch had returned.

Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near,
Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door:
There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair:
But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers,

She led the children to the house of death;
And took a key from off the wooden peg,
Beside the settle, where she used to hang
The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets:
Then gently led them up the narrow stair,

That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread.
Sacred the silence that we ever keep,

When death is in the house! we speak, we walk,
With muffled tone and step, as if the dead
Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep.
Then Miriam turn'd the key;-that jarring click!
How harsh it grated on the children's ear!
As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel.
Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze :
There stood the bed- and on the sacking lay,
Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form--
The feet so prominent, the arms close down!
The children clung together, half afraid,
While Miriam turned the coverlid aside.
They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face;
But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room.
Once they had seen their brother, as he lay
Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd
So beautiful asleep, you might have thought
Death's angel had but gently turned him round,
To rest more quietly: the tiny hands

Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down,
As resting on the pillow--not like this,-
So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone.

Now, as the twilight fell the second day,
Another mourner came: she spoke no word:
Miriam had put the key within her hand,
Turning aside, to dash away her tears:
The widowed woman went up-stairs alone.

One moment gazing on her Enoch's face,
She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair,
As she had done in life: then kneeling down
She pray'd, forgive me,-pity me,---Oh God,"
She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers,
That bore e'en then the double wedding rings.
She laid her aching head upon his breast,-
When from her lips came forth a cry, -a shriek,
Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came,
And bore her senseless from the room of death.

'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught
Each little circumstance of the chamber,
And noted in her loving memory,-
How on the table lay his Bible-closed:
No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ,
No need of Gospel Message; for he stood
In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his Gon.
But had she open'd where the much-worn page
Told of the frequent reading, she had seen

The marks of blistering tears upon that text,
"Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry
Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels.'
There was a fly upon the window pane
Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard,
And that unconscious; but in after years
The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd.
E'en in her happiest hours, that day,
That lonely visit to the bed of death;

And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart.
More keenly she remarked the remnant store
Of lulling anodynes: ah bootless all
To soothe the fever of his aching brain:
The Wise Physician healed him with a touch,
(E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass
To still the sound that careless fingers make),
And sent a loving angel as his guide
Through the dark valley to the realms of joy.

There lay his watch, his big round silver watch,
Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home
In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed:
No need of Time for him: he had Eternity.

ENOCH'S "HARD 'UN."
PART I.

In a fair village on the English coast
There dwelt a lad-they called him Hunky Sam.
He was but young-three years, or may be four,
But manly for his age; his appetite

For bulls-eyes, "coker"-nuts, and such light fare
Was something awful, even for a boy;
But better far than even coker-nuts,
He loved a maiden of surpassing grace-
Of humble parentage, but very fair,
Whose name euphonious was Susan Ann.
The parents of these twain were fisher-folk
Of low degree, but honest to a fault.
They would not steal the veriest pin, unless
They were quite certain they would not be caught.
Now Hunky's love for peerless Susan Ann

Was felt by her, and given back to Hunk ;

And as the twain upon the yellow sands

Would play, young Sam would say, "Now let us be,
As grown-up folks, and we'll pretend we are

A wedded pair, and I will be a man,
And you, dear Susan Ann, my little wife ;
And you, go sit within yon gloomy cave,
Which we will make believe to be our house,
And I'll come staggering in like daddy does,
And you can belt me on my flaxen head

With this small stick, which we will call a broom-
For that's the way my dad and mammy do."
And so they played upon the seashore sand.
Till Susan Ann had got the thing down fine.
And time sped on, and Sam and Susan Ann
Were married, and the twain became one flesh.
PART II.

Sam went to sea, and whilst upon a voyage,
He read of Enoch Arden and his woes;