NOTE.--Poets Laureate, with the dates of their appointment:--Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16; Sir William Davenant, 1638; John Dryden, 1670; Thomas Shadwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas Rowe, 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William Whitehead, 1757; Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1790; Robert Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and Alfred Tennyson, 19th November, 1850. Continuing in this strain for another fifty lines, the Poet credits the Prince with every conceivable virtue, after which, as a contrast, it is almost a relief to turn to some parody, less ideal, and less heroic. THESE to his memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unwittingly Some picture of himself--I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with smiles-- These Idle Lays-- Indeed, He seemed to me Scarce other than my own ideal liege, Who did not muchly care to trouble take; But his concern was, comfortable ease To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doeskin suits, In pants of patterns marvellous to see; To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages; To feed himself with dainty meats withal; To sport with Amaryllis in the shade; To toy with what Neræa calls _her_ hair; And, in a general way, to happy be, If possible, and always debonair; Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones; Who was good-hearted, and by no means stiff; Who loved himself as well as any man; He who throughout his realms to their last isle Was known full well, whose portraiture was found In ev'ry album. We have lost him; he is gone; We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well, For now we see him as he used to be, How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay; With how much of self-satisfaction blessed-- Not swaying to this faction nor to that, Because, perhaps, he neither understood; Not making his high place a Prussian perch Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground Of comfort; and through a long tract of years, Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole; Once playing a thousand nameless little games, Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced, And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!" Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son A looser life, one less distraught than his? Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of _his_ sons, Have hoped less for them than some heritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, Thou noble Father of her Kings to be-- If fate so wills it, O most potent K----; The patron once of Polo and of Poole, Of actors and leviathan "comiques;" Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear To Sanscrit erudition as to either; Dear to thy country in a double sense; Dear to purveyors; ay, a liege, indeed, Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay!