POETRY.

AN ELEGY ON THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. [Suggested by a phrase in "Poets at Play," Spectator, December 22nd, 1881] " On ! where are the quips of Trevelyan" For all the old lovers of fun ?

The odds against such are a million To one !

Oh! where have the wits, once so numer- ous, packed up their budgets and fled? In the Lapland of Politics, Humour Is dead.

The sword keen for lunge and for parry, Rusts now with the things not to be ; No rapiers for Tom, Dick, and Harry, M.P.

The rapier of Tom is a bludgeon, And Dick thinks back-kicking a hit; And Harry believes a curmudgeon A wit.

The old royal standard of manners, Which floated o'er Westminster Hall, Did never anticipate Tanner's At all.

But breeding we never dissect, for Such trifles are laid on the shelf ; Love of country no more means respect for Yourself.

Discussion has turned into racket, And speech has been banished for talk, Since the Crownless One took off his jacket Of Cork. Now Silence is not worth a dollar, And Modesty voted a bore, While Riot and Impudence collar The floor.

The bright soul of Curran, which ran on With eloquence, fancy, and fun, Leaves heirs upon Liffey and Shannon Not one.

Hail Dullness, Pope's prophesied goddess!

Thou only, enthroned upon Row, Inspirest our Itiads and Odyss- eys now.

Once Whig suffered Tory as brother, And Tory was playful with Whig : Now each side addresses the other As "Pig.'

Now Senators sit upon tenter- hooks how to shout best to be heard ; And "liar's" a mild parliamentar- y word.

They wander about in a loose lab- yrinth of splenetic Despair, Lit only by twinkles of donee Lab- °where_ Oh! place me on Sunium's marble Steep, where but the waters and I May Byron alternately garble,

And die—

Oh ! sink me in snows of December, Or scuttled ship leave me aboard, Make me tramp—pointsman—poet—but Member t Good Lord!