"As for such of our poets as find not their names mentioned once in my pages, with praises or blames, let them send in their cards, without further delay, to my friend G. P. Putnam, Esquire, in Broadway, where a list will be kept with the strictest regard to the day and the hour of receiving the card. Then, taking them up as I chance to have time (that is, if their names can be twisted in rhyme), I will honestly give each his proper position, at the rate of one author to each new edition. Thus, a premium is offered sufficiently high (as the Magazines say when they tell their best lie) to induce bards to club their resources and buy the balance of every edition, until they have all of them fairly been run through the mill." &c. &c.

That which is considered, however, one of the best of Prose Poems is the following, which appeared originally in _Fraser's Magazine_, and will also be found in Maclise and Maginn's "Gallery of Illustrious Literary Characters,"[11] being part of the introductory portion of a notice of the late Earl of Beaconsfield, then Mr. Disraeli, and known at the time as an aspirant to literary and political fame:

"O Reader dear! do pray look here, and you will spy the curly hair, and forehead fair, and nose so high, and gleaming eye, of Benjamin D'Is-ra-e-li, the wondrous boy who wrote _Alroy_ in rhyme and prose, only to show how long ago victorious Judah's lion-banner rose. In an earlier day he wrote _Vivian Grey_--a smart enough story, we must say, until he took his hero abroad, and trundled him over the German road; and taught him there not to drink beer, and swallow schnapps, and pull madschen's caps, and smoke the cigar and the meersham true, in alehouse and lusthaus all Fatherland through, until all was blue, but talk secondhand that which, at the first, was never many degrees from the worst,--namely, German cant and High Dutch sentimentality, maudlin metaphysics, and rubbishing reality. But those who would find how Vivian wined with the Marchioness of Puddledock, and other great grandees of the kind, and how he talked aesthetic, and waxed eloquent and pathetic, and kissed his Italian puppies of the greyhound breed, they have only to read--if the work be still alive--Vivian Grey, in volumes five.

"As for his tentative upon the _Representative_, which he and John Murray got up in a very great hurry, we shall say nothing at all, either great or small; and all the wars that thence ensued, and the Moravian's deadly feud; nor much of that fine book, which is called 'the Young Duke,' with his slippers of velvet blue, with clasps of snowy-white hue, made out of the pearl's mother, or some equally fine thing or other; and 'Fleming' (_Contarini_), which will cost ye but a guinea; and 'Gallomania' (get through it, can you?) in which he made war on (assisted by a whiskered baron--his name was Von Haber, whose Germanical jabber, Master Ben, with ready pen, put into English smart and jinglish), King Philippe and his court; and many other great works of the same sort--why, we leave them to the reader to peruse; that is to say, if he should choose.

"He lately stood for Wycombe, but there Colonel Grey did lick him, he being parcel Tory and parcel Radical--which is what in general mad we call; and the latest affair of his we chanced to see, is 'What is he?'

a question which, by this time, we have somewhat answered in this our pedestrian rhyme. As for the rest,--but writing rhyme is, after all, a pest; and therefore"----

_MISCELLANEOUS ODDS AND ENDS._

Some years ago _Punch_ gave "revised versions" of a few of the old popular songs, and, referring to the one we have chosen as a specimen, says that "its simplicity, its truthfulness, and, above all, its high moral, have recommended it to him for selection. It is well known to the million--of whose singing, indeed, it forms a part. Perhaps it will be recognised; perhaps not."

A POLISHED POEM.

_Air._--"If I had a donkey vot vouldn't go, Do you think I'd wallop," &c.

"Had I an ass averse to speed, Deem'st thou I'd strike him? No, indeed!

Mark me, I'd try persuasion's art, For cruelty offends my heart: Had all resembled me, I ween, Martin, thy law had needless been Of speechless brutes from blows to screen The poor head; For had I an ass averse to speed I ne'er would strike him, no, indeed!

I'd give him hay, and cry, 'Proceed,'

And 'Go on, Edward!'

Why speak I thus? This very morn, I saw that cruel William Burn, Whilst crying 'Greens' upon his course, Assail his ass with all his force; He smote him o'er the head and thighs, Till tears bedimmed the creature's eyes!

Oh! 'twas too much, my blood 'gan rise And I exclaimed, 'Had I an,' &c.

Burn turn'd and cried, with scornful eye, 'Perchance thou'rt one of Martin's fry, And seek'st occasion base to take, The vile informer's gain to make.'

Word of denial though I spoke, Full on my brow his fury broke, And thus, while I return'd the stroke, I exclaimed, 'Had I an,' &c.

To us, infringing thus the peace, Approach'd his guardians--the police; And, like inevitable Fate, Bore us to where stern Justice sate; Her minister the tale I told; And to support my word, made bold To crave he would the ass behold: 'For,' I declared, 'Had I an,' &c.

They called the creature into court Where, sooth to say, he made some sport, With ears erect, and parted jaws, As though he strove to plead his cause: I gained the palm of feelings kind; The ass was righted; William fined.

For Justice, one with me in mind, Exclaimed, by her Minister, 'Had I an,' &c.

Cried William to his judge, ''Tis hard (Think not the fine that I regard), But things have reached a goodly pass-- One may not beat a stubborn ass!'

Nought spoke the judge, but closed his book; So William thence the creature took, Eyeing me--ah! with what a look, As gently whispering in his ear, I said, 'William, had I an,' &c."

CUMULATIVE PARODYING.

There was a young damsel; oh, bless her, It cost very little to dress her; She was sweet as a rose In her everyday clothes, But had no young man to caress her.

--_Meridien Recorder._

There was a young turkey; oh, bless her: It cost very little to dress her; Some dry bread and thyme, About Thanksgiving time, And they ate the last bit from the dresser.

--_American Punch._

A newspaper poet; oh, dang him!

And pelt him and club him and bang him!

He kept writing away, Till the people one day Rose up and proceeded to hang him.

--_Detroit Free Press._

BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.

(A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.)

"Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark The signal of the setting sun--one gun!

And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-lane Dane slain,-- Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span; Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets, and take up Pall Mall Sal, Who hastening to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.

Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee, And while they're going whisper low, 'No go!'

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads, And sleepers waking, grumble--'Drat that cat!'

Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize-size, rise In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor Georgey, or Charles, or Billy, willy-nilly; But nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes!"

--_Thomas Hood._

The following excellent specimen of mono-syllabic verse comes from an old play in the Garrick Collection:

SONG.

"Let us sip, and let it slip, And go which way it will a; Let us trip, and let us skip, And let us drink our fill a.

Take the cup, and drink all up, Give me the can to fill a; Every sup, and every cup, Hold here and my good will a.

Gossip mine and gossip thine; Now let us gossip still a; Here is good wine, this ale is fine, Now drink of which you will a.

Round about, till all be out, I pray you let us swill a; This jolly grout is jolly and stout, I pray you stout it still a.

Let us laugh and let us quaff, Good drinkers think none ill a; Here is your bag, here is your staffe, Be packing to the mill a."

ELESSDe.

"In a certain fair island, for commerce renown'd, Whose fleets sailed in every sea, A set of fanatics, men say, there was found, Who set up an island and worship around, And called it by name Elessde.

Many heads had the monster, and tails not a few, Of divers rare metals was he And temples they built him right goodly to view, Where oft they would meet, and, like idolists true, Pay their vows to the great Elessde.

Moreover, at times would their frenzy attain ('Twas nought less) to so high a degree, That his soul-blinded votaries did not complain, But e'en laid down their lives his false favour to gain-- So great was thy power, Elessde.

As for morals, this somewhat unscrupulous race Were lax enough, 'twixt you and me; Men would poison their friends with professional grace, And of the fell deed leave behind ne'er a trace, For the sake of the fiend, Elessde.

Then forgery flourished, and rampant and rife Was each form of diablerie; While the midnight assassin, with mallet and knife, Would steal on his victim and rob him of life, And all for thy love, Elessde.

There were giants of crime on the earth in that day, The like of which we may not see: Although, peradventure, some sceptic will say There be those even now who acknowledge the sway Of the god of the world--_ s. d._"

EARTH.