To myself I said, in terror, “Surely here there is some error; This woman seems in deep distress――distress which pierces to the core;” So I stepped into the palace, with the view of getting solace, For that creature whose deep sorrow my soft heart with anguish tore, That shadow of an angel bright, for her countenance yet bore Trace of beauty, now no more. But the jingling of the glasses, and the glare of many gases, Made me feel so very squeamish that I was almost forced to roar, When my tongue its wonted action ceased, as if by some attraction, So I stood a perfect dummy at this dreadful gin-house door, Pointing to that weeping woman, whom no one would now adore; This I did, and nothing more. To my speech at last succeeding, I asked gravely why the bleeding, Helpless, ill-clad, ill-fed woman had been out-cast from the store? And the answer from the monster who had been this woman’s wrongster Was, she had not filthy lucre to pay off her whisky score; He’d be blowed, or something stronger, if he’d give her any more; And he thought her quite a bore. Then I felt my fingers itching, and my muscles all a twitching, To seize the rascal by the throat, and stretch him straight upon the floor; But he gave a loud hoarse chuckle, let me see his mighty knuckle, And advised me for my safety that I’d better seek the door―― If I didn’t vanish quickly I might go upon all four: So I vanished――nothing more. _The Modern Athenian_ (Edinburgh), March 11, 1876. ―――――――― LINES _Respectfully dedicated to the_ Right Honourable Henry Bouverie William Brand, M.P., Speaker of the House of Commons. “Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I listened somewhat weary, To the dull and dismal business going on upon the floor, On me, in my melancholy, broke the voice of Mr. Whalley, Pouring forth of words a volley, and this, too, I meekly bore; ‘’Tis near five o’clock,’ I muttered, and my lot I meekly bore, Hoping there was little more. “For since noon I had been sitting, and the daylight now was flitting, As M.P.’s, their places quitting, noiselessly pass’d through the door, Motions, though, in such a number did the notice-book encumber, That I’d vainly sought to slumber, though my eyes were tired and sore, Dared not nap like those around me, though my eyes were red and sore; But a watchful look I wore.