O blythe new paper! From thy page Seductive scraps I cull. O Cuckoo, shall I call thee sage? I _cannot_ call thee dull! When I’m reclining――business done―― Thy “Notes” provoke a laugh; From line to line my optics run, And twinkle at thy chaff. From Fetter Lane I hear thee call To thousands far away; And unto me thou bringest all The gossip of the day! “Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!” To me thou art, no doubt No bird, but a most novel thing―― The brightest paper out! F. B. DOVETON. ――――:o:―――― THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. At the corner of Wood Street when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. ―――― THE REVERIE OF A POOR SQUEEZED ’UN. At the East end of Paul’s, there’s a plot that’s for sale; And the Press sings out, “Buy it!”――the cry’s somewhat stale. The Londoner, hustled and crowded, can tell How narrow the roadway, the pavement as well. His fancy runs riot! What ails him? He sees A Boulevard appearing, all shaded by trees; With ease and with comfort the ’busses now glide From Cannon Street corner to busy Cheapside. A road, “wide as Holborn,” allows him to view The Cathedral uprising in dignity new; And a fine open space lets the oxygen roam Where school-boys and merchants once boasted a home. He looks, and his joy grows intense! But they fade―― The visions of elbow-room, Boulevard, and shade; And the space will be speedily built on, unless To the cry of, “Oh, buy it!” the City says, “Yes.” _Punch._ December 26, 1885. (But the City authorities did _not_ say “Yes,” and the ground has all been covered with lofty warehouses.) SIMPLICITY. “Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now, no one has carried the _simple_ so far as Wordsworth; and, as I hold it good always to imitate perfection, I have taken the following lines for my model:――