Horace Smith

(WITH MANY APOLOGIES TO THE LAUREATE.) And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne, Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man;

I. Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye, My own true love so sweete?

Champagne doth not a luncheon make, Nor caviare a meal; Men gluttonous and rich may take

Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea. The moon in the valley of Ajalon Stood still at the word of the prophet;

On seeing BRET HARTE come upon the Bench. Thanks for an hour of laughing In a world that is growing old;

I know not what the cause may be, Or whether there be one or many; But this year's Spring has seemed to me

I. Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field! I ask no more

The linnet had flown from its cage away, And flitted and sang in the light of day-- Had flown from the lady who loved it well,

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Evening is coming, and night is nigh; Under the lattice the little birds cheep,

I. Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure, A goblet, that's full to the brim,

Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land; Two witnesses, who lie on either hand; Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas;

In olden time--in great Eliza's age, When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage, No play without its Prologue might appear

The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham.    It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches. Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves. Nothing so true as what you once let fall,-- "To growl at something is the lot of all;

Take, oh take those boots away, That so nearly are outworn; And those shoes remove, I pray--

You say 'tis plain that poets feign, And from the truth depart; They write with ease what fibs they please,

(AFTER HEINE.) Thou little village curate, Come quick, and do not wait;

The times still "grow to something strange"; We rap and turn the tables; We fire our guns at awful range;