OUT A SCYTHE?"]

* * * * *

LORD LYTTON.

BORN NOV. 8, 1831. DIED NOV. 24, 1891.

Were clever wise, were grandiose great,
How many a servant of the State
Had left a more enduring name.
But all is not for all; 'tis far
From flaming meteor to fixed star,
From notoriety to fame.

Picturesque son of brilliant sire,
It wanted but the touch of fire
Prometheus only knows to bring
The flame divine in him to wake
Who moved our plaudits when he spake,
But stirred no passion when he'd sing.

The Orient pageantry he loved,
The histrio not the hero moved,
The _dilettante_ not the sage.
Hence in our England's East his hand
Turned, in a story sternly grand,
A motley mock-heroic page.

He by the Seine found fitter place
For courtly wit and modish grace,
Than by the Indus. There right well
His facile talent served his Chief;
And England hears with genuine grief
That sudden-sounding passing bell.

* * * * *

NEW NAME.

Who prizes Literature? All sorts and sizes
Of literary wares now hang on "prizes."
'Tis not prose fictionists or poem-spinners
The public rush for; no, 'tis "all the winners!"
Letters in lotteries find support most sure--
Let us be frank, and call them _Lottery_ture!

* * * * *

SUITOR RESARTUS.

_A SENTIMENTAL DILEMMA._

[Illustration]

How can I woo you in this ancient suit?
You do not notice it, of course; I know it.
My soul is burdened with a shapeless boot,
Your heart is singing welcome to your poet.
Here in the shadowy settle I can sit
And sparkle with you, brightly confidential,
But when into the lamp-bright zone you flit,
I shrink into some corner penitential.
A well-dressed crowd, their tailors all unpaid,
Throng round you there, and cuffs and collars glisten;
Of pity's blindness, as of scorn, afraid,
I shun the merry fray, and darkling listen,
For who could urge the timidest of suits,
Conscious of such indifferent clothes and boots?

You think me quite as good as other men;
Nay, more, I think you think me vastly better;
Your candid glances seem to ask me when
I'll seek to bind you in a willing fetter.
Is this presumption? Not from friend to friend,
Whose souls unite like clasping hands of lovers;
Yet can I breathe no word of love, to end
The