M.P.'s wise, foolish, crass, and clever, Are--nominally--on your side, And--privately--your cause deride. Take the straight tip, my dears--I glean it From private talk--_they don't half mean it!_ * * * * * THE VOLUNTEERS' FOOTHOLD.--SHOEBURYNESS. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. BORN, FEB. 22, 1819. DIED, AUG. 12, 1891. "We could not have been prouder of him had he been one of us."--_Times_. Bard of two worlds, and friend of both, As ripe in years as culture, verily To miss that voice two worlds are loth, In which much wisdom spake so merrily. A voice, and no mere echo, thine, Of many tones, but manly ever. Thy rustic _Biglow's_ rugged line A grateful world neglecteth never! It smote hypocrisy and cant With flail-like force; sleek bards that ripple Like shallow pools--who pose and pant, And vaguely smudge or softly stipple,-- These have not brain or heart to sing As _Biglow_ sang, our quaint _Hosea_, Whose "Sunthin in the Pastoral line," Full primed with picture and idea, Lives, with "The Courtin'," unforgot, And worth whole volumes of sham-Shen-stone. Yes, you could catch, as prigs may not, Pure women's speech and valiant men's tone. _Zekle_ and _Huldy_ in our hearts Have found a place. But a true Poet, Like SHAKSPEARE's Man, plays many parts. You chid us sharply, well we know it, For you'd the gift of Satire strong, And knew just how to lay the lash on. You smote what you thought British wrong, Well, _that_ won't put us in a passion. "I _ken_ write long-tailed if I please," You said. And truly, polished writer, More like "a gentleman at ease," Never touched quill than this shrewd smiter. Your "moral breath of temperament" Found scope in scholarly urbanity; And wheresoever LOWELL went Sounded the voice of Sense and Sanity. We loved you, and we loved your wit. Thinking of you, uncramped, uncranky; Our hearts, ere we're aware of it, "Run helter-skelter into Yankee." "For puttin' in a downright lick 'Twixt Humbug's eyes, there's few to metch it." Faith, how _you_ used it; ever quick Where'er Truth dwelt, to dive and fetch it. Vernacular or cultured verse, The scholar's speech, the ploughman's patter You'd use, but still in each were terse, As clear in point as full in matter. You'd not disdain "the trivial flute," The rustic Pan-pipe you would finger, Yet could you touch "Apollo's lute" To tones on which Love's ear would linger. Farewell, farewell! Two countries loved, Two countries mourn you. None will quarrel With English hands, which, unreproved, Lay on your bier an English Laurel! * * * * *