24 MARCH 1883, Page 13

POETRY.

BRAITH WAITE AND BUTTE RMERE RAILWAY. A CRY FROM LANCASHIRE TO TFIE PEERS.

You ask high thought, pure poetry, and prate Of England's wealth and happiness secure, Then, whirled at ease on Continental tour, Forget the rush of Town, the hot Debate, The Factory stench, the steamy sounds that grate On fevered brains. Our Poets are but poor !- Who toil in Hells need Heavens at their door ! The student has small time to recreate !

My Lords. since Commerce, with her clarions rude, Has scared our birds, and quite disflowered our homes, Unleaved our trees, fouled every Northern stream, Spare us one little mountain solitude, Where still in quiet beauty Summer comes, And men may find the England of their dream.

H. D. RAWNSLE Y.