P OETR Y.

[These spirited linos, written four and twenty years ago, are in many respects so applicable to the events of last Session, that we think they may interest our readors.—ED. Spectator.]

THE CLOSE OF THE SHAM-BATTLE SESSION, 1853. I.

THE Chobham guns have ceased to roar ; No more the serried squadrons rush on ; The dandy Guardsman sighs no more For club repast, or velvet cushion.

IL

Tho mimic fury of the war Rages no more 'twixt Greys and Blues ; And Fleets, like Cockney sportsmen, are Reposing on their weary screws.

The dull dcolaimer's empty brawl, The question sly, that seeks no answer, Disturb no more St. Stephen's hall, And Europe's fate is left to chance, sir.

Tories and Whigs, with practised lips, The fierce retort no longer deal ye, And burly Graham blandly tips A knowing wink to Disraeli.

The vapid vaunt, the mocking cheer, The well-feigned burst of indignation, The clumsy joke, the biting jeer, The oily ooze of adulation, vs.

The cant of "principle" and "truth," Of " honour " and of " purity," Have served their turn, and now, forsooth Are stored up for futurity.

Silent is Whiteside's venomed tongue, Smooth Shaftesbury no longer preaches, Nor sadly gapes the drowsy throng At Russell's mock-heroic speeches.

VIII.

A truce to Gladstone's tricks of fence Oh, sheathe that bright, unpitying steel, Nor waste thy classic eloquence In breaking gnats upon the wheel !

lx.

Farewell to Pakington's dull prose, Lowe's bitter, cold, but lucid flood, Walpole's small rill, that feebly flows In gentle trickle thro' the mud.

x.

No longer round the benches wanders The cold contempt of Dizzy's eye, As, wrapt in the unreal, he ponders Some cloudy Asian mystery,— xL Astute, audacious, wary, stern, Making the puzzled Commons fear The measured passion of his scorn, The icy glitter of his sneer.

XII.

The ready change of Palmerston Passes for sterling coin no longer ; And office pours its oil upon Murphy's light wit, Keogh's patriot anger.

Truce to your toil, obedient rabble Ye slaves to faction or to Throne ; Ye eager rats, who squeal and squabble, Snarling o'er an office-bone ; my.

Ye Bishops, won before you're wooed, For ever gorged and still unsated, Who care not to be understood, Aspiring but to be translated ; xv.

The weary game of humbug o'er,

Close your solemn, sleepy eyes, Rest in peace, and boast no more

The merits of self-sacrifice.

Brains of feather, or of lead,

Throats of brass, and lungs of leather, Rest, your weary task is sped, Sleep in peace and shame together.

Rest, ye sneerers, canters, brawlers,

Speakers rash and voters wary, Dunces, sycophants, and crawlers,—

Rest, your country well can spare ye. S. E. V.