Scarce Clio's self, calm-soul'd historic Muse, Praise to her fiery votary may refuse, Though lacking somewhat the judicial poise Of clear mind unperturbed by faction's noise, And creed's fanatic clamour, valued most But her who heads the grave recording host. His vivid pictures live; his virile touch (Though oft of the too little or too much Ardently heedless in his passionate flow Of words that wake and thoughts that warmly glow), Quickens the past, and moves the patriot heart Of British manhood. His the stylist's part, The partisan's impressiveness. He missed The highest height, clear, cloudless, morning-kissed. But long will he be dear to those who love The picturings that charm, the words that move; And the grave Muse may well let fall a tear, And lay her tribute laurel on his bier. NEAT AND APPROPRIATE.--To the PROWLINA PRYS and their allies, the Visiting Injustices, may be addressed the ancient charge made against certain spies, "Nay, but to see the nakedness of the land have ye come." * * * * * [Illustration: A SKETCH AT PADDINGTON. THE REVEREND MOTLEY, WHO MAKES ONE OF A RIVER-PARTY, FANCIES HE MET A GLANCE OF RECOGNITION FROM THE EYE OF HIS SOMEWHAT AUSTERE BISHOP, AND FEELS A TRIFLE UNCOMFORTABLE.] * * * * * PAT THE PATRIOT. (_His reflection after reading of the Boa-bolting incident at the Zoo._) ST. PATRICK had a potent fist, And was a saint right clever, When he gave the snakes and toads a twist And bothered them for ever. But och! here's a betther plan than PAT'S! 'Twould have saved the saint much bother Had he trated the snakes like Kilkenny cats, And made them swallow each other. And even now 'twould save much row In the shplit-up Oirish Parthy, Could MCCARTHY'S "bolt" end REDMOND'S revolt, Or REDMOND swallow MCCARTHY! * * * * * SPORTING.--'ARRY is delighted to hear that there is a two-year-old running named '_Arriet_. "It's spelt Ariette I know," he says, "but that's just French cussedness." * * * * * TO A WOULD-BE DESPOT. "Could I but rule!" with emphasis you say; Then, doubtless, evil would be swept away. How to begin, of course, is your affair, Such practical arrangements are your care; Our task would be no more than to obey! Injustice then would speedily decay, Merit, and only merit, then would pay; Which means, perhaps, I'd be a millionaire Could I but rule! Well, many kings have lived and reigned their day; I rather doubt if your despotic sway Would quite fulfil the objects of your prayer; Many have tried, and ended in despair, And you, perhaps--But still you answer "Nay, Could _I_ but rule!" * * * * * THE REAL "SUN OF YORK."--FRANK LOCKWOOD, Solicitor-General. * * * * *