thing, and whose graver and deeper impulses are subordinated to a code of artificial manners. Of these Praed is the laureate-elect; and the narrow circle in which they move is the 'haunt, and the main region of his song.' Now and again, it may be, he appears to quit it, but never in reality, and even when he seems to do so, like Landor's shell remote from the sea, he still 'remembers its august abodes.'" Suckling and Herrick, Swift and Prior, Cowper, Landor, and Thomas Moore, and Praed, and Thackeray, may be considered the representative men in this class of literature. The collection has been restricted to the writings of deceased British authors, and as this kind of metrical composition is little cultivated at the present day, the Editor hopes that his book will not suffer much in consequence, although, at the same time, he regrets that the rules which he has laid down prevent his giving specimens from the writings of Lord Tennyson, Sir Theodore Martin, Sir Edwin Arnold, Messrs. Austin Dobson, Andrew Lang, F. C. Burnand, H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, W. S. Gilbert, J. Ashby Sterry, Godfrey Turner, Savile Clarke, F. Anstey, Lewis Carroll, Miss May Probyn, and others; and of Dr. O. W. Holmes, and Messrs. James Russell Lowell, Bret Harte, J. G. Saxe, C. G. Leland, and some who have written anonymously. For permission to make extracts from Mr. T. H. Bayly's works, the Editor's thanks are due to Messrs. R. Bentley & Son; from Mr. Shirley Brooks's, to Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew, & Co.; from Mr. H. S. Leigh's, to Messrs. Chatto & Windus; from Mr. W. J. Prowse's, to Messrs. Dalziel Bros.; from Mr. Mortimer Collins's, to Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co.; and from Sir Francis Hastings Doyle's and the Rev. Charles Tennyson-Turner's, to Messrs. Macmillan & Co. In thanking Messrs. G. Bell & Son, for permission to print the verses by the late C. S. Calverley which are given in the volume, it should be added that the selection from Mr. Calverley was, by Messrs. Bell & Son's request, limited to three pieces, otherwise the lines entitled “Motherhood," "Forever,” and “Beer,” would also have appeared. In one or two cases the Editor was unable to discover to whom to apply for permission to include a poem, or leave would first have been asked, and an acknowledgment made. The reading of several of the poems varies in different collections, and much difficulty has been encountered in discovering which was correct. When any doubt about the authorship of a poem was entertained, it was thought best to leave the question open. The Editor has taken great care to make the selection as complete as possible; still, he trusts to the indulgence of his readers for any errors or omissions which may be found. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON, UNIVERSITY LYRA ELEGANTIARUM. L TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY, MERRY Margaret, As Midsummer flower, Or hawk of the tower; Or hawk of the tower; Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Well made, well wrought. B Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, Or hawk of the tower. John Skelton. II. THE ONE HE WOULD LOVE. A FACE that should content me wondrous well Of lively look, all grief for to repel With right good grace, so would I that it should Speak without words, such words as none can tell; Her tress also should be of crisped gold. With wit, and these, perchance, I might be tried, III. THE SERENADE. "WHO is it that this dark night Underneath my window plaineth?" It is one who from thy sight Being (ah!) exiled, disdaineth Every other vulgar light. "Why, alas! and are you he? Are not yet these fancies changed?" Dear, when you find change in me, "What if you new beauties see? Will not they stir new affection?". I will think they pictures be (Image-like of saint perfection) Poorly counterfeiting thee. "Peace! I think that some give ear, Fearing, sweet, you to endanger; "Well, begone: begone, I say, Lest that Argus' eyes perceive you.”— O! unjust is Fortune's sway, Which can make me thus to leave you, And from louts to run away! Sir Philip Sydney. IV. LOVE is a sickness full of woes, A plant that most with cutting grows, More we enjoy it, more it dies, Love is a torment of the mind, And Jove hath made it of a kind More we enjoy it, more it dies; Samuel Daniel. V. A DITTY. My true love hath my heart, and I have his, My true love hath my heart, and I have his. |