Two rugged but rather remarkable sets of stanzas, purporting to
represent the cry of Chartist hate, and the answer of successful power, the one signed " Orson," the second, " Valentine," appeared in the Pall Mall of Thursday. The Globe of yesterday, which does not appear to understand them, first compares them to Jim Crow, and then suggests that they come from Colney Hatch. Whoever their author,—and we do not in the least know who he is,—the lines, though unequal and very rugged, have plenty of fire in them, and are by some really vigorous hand. Take the following, for instance, from the Chartist poem :—
" How rose yon titled lord ?
How rose you golden hoard?
By the &gamin's damask'd sword, By the trader's rotten word; But the stain's worn out, Wrong and right have turned about. • s • • • • "As the sun sucks up the mist, As five fingers make a fist, As the meal knows not the grist, They shall melt and won't be miss'd, Like the breath of one worn out, When we rise and turn about."
The Globe has a poet of its own, fertile in what are called, we believe, vers de societi, and who certainly does not write like that. But eau suere'e, with the sugar-flavour evanescent, is not the standard for all poetry.
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