“See here,” he cried, “the list of great souled men Who answer promptest to sweet mercy’s call;” Lo! A. Mac Adam’s name o’ertopped them all. P. _American Paper._ ―――― ABOU BEN BUTLER. Abou Ben Butler (who has just been fired) Awoke one night almighty cross and tired, He saw within the moonlight in his room The spirit of a Presidential boom, Who wrote on parchment tanned from human skin. Exceeding “cheek” caused Butler to begin, And to the presence in the room he said―― “What writest thou?”――the Spectre raised his head, And answered with a gesture most uncouth, “The names of demagogues who love the truth.” “Is mine left out?” said Butler. “I should smile,” Replied the spirit. Butler thought awhile; And then he said, “Please put it in your note “I only lie to gain the coloured vote.” The spirit wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with evident delight, And showed the names of politicians dead, And lo! Ben Butler’s name was at the head. _American Paper._ 1886. ――――:o:―――― Leigh Hunt’s other poems never attained to sufficiently general popularity to become the butt of the parodist, there is, however, a jocular imitation of his style in _The Book of Ballads_, by Bon Gaultier, from which a few lines may be quoted: FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. (Argument.――_An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus_:―― Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,―― A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!” * * * * *