I cried――“Shall the winter leaves fret us?” Oh, turn――we must turn to the fruit, To the freshness and force of the fruit! To the gifts wherewith autumn has met us―― Her music that never grows mute (That maunders but never grows mute), The tendrils, the vine branches net us, The lily, the lettuce, the lute―― The esculent, succulent lettuce, And the languishing lily, and lute;―― Yes;――the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; Late lily and lingering lute. “Then come――let us fly from the city! Let us travel in orient isles―― In the purple of orient isles―― Oh, bear me――yes, bear me in pity To climes where a sun ever smiles―― Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! Where the swarth-browed Arabian’s wild ditty Enhances pyramidal piles: Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty Awakens pyramidal piles―― Yes:――his pointless perpetual ditty Perplexes pyramidal piles!” _Vere Vereker’s Vengeance_, by Thomas Hood. J. C. HOTTEN, London, 1865. ――――:o:―――― YOU’LL RESUME! AIR (_more or less_) “_Ulalume_.” _Premier sings_―― I had passed through a Session Satanic, And Irish, with “Pussy,”[4] sleek Peer. Those were the days of explosion volcanic, The nights of delirium drear, Long speeches, and labours Titanic, PAT outrage, Egyptian panic, Rude ruction, Obstruction, and fear, French shirking, and shyness Germanic―― A most unforgettable year! The Session, in fact, was a twister, Had filled us with doubt and with gloom; But we’d got to the end of its vista,[5] For starry-eyed Hope there seemed room. We could flee from Big Ben’s heavy boom. Yet Forecast, Hope’s heavy-browed sister, Kept whispering words of dark doom In my ear, “You’ll resume! You’ll resume! In two months from to-day, you’ll resume!” “We are off!” Pussy cried. “This _is_ pleasant! How jolly! From Westminster far!” “Ah, precisely,” said I, “_for the present_!” Cried he, “What a croaker you are! What a――well Grand old Croaker you are! Let us think of the grouse and the pheasant, And not of St. Stephen’s war, Of popping at partridge and pheasant, Not worry, and WARTON, and war.” Then I said, “My dear Pussy, be sober! Remember we’re bound to be here By the end of the month of October, Of this unforgettable year―― By the twenty-fourth day of October. This very identical year. Ha! doesn’t _that_ make you feel queer?” “We shall yet have to work, Puss, like winking. Tourists? _Cloture_-ists also I trust. Obstruction to fight without shrinking Will call us all back――come we must, To St. Stephens’s shindy and dust.” “Oh, hang it!” cried Puss, his face sinking; “That bothering _Cloture_ be――bust!”