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THE POETRY OF ANCIENT DAYS.

(_For the Mirror_.)


Little Jack Horner, sat in a corner,
Eating a Christmas pie,
He pulled out a plum with his finger and thumb,
And said what a good boy am I.

Of all the poems that delight our infancy, there is no one perhaps which
makes a more lasting impression on the memory and the imagination, than
the preceding. The name of its author is lost in the shades of remote
antiquity; and even the century when it first made its appearance, has
eluded the vigilance of antiquarian research. Before entering upon its
poetical merits, we must observe a striking peculiarity in the diction:
there is not a single word in it, but that is of Anglo-Saxon origin, so
that it may be considered as an admirable specimen of pure English, and
as calculated to inspire the infant mind with a distaste for the
numerous exotic terms, which, in the present age, disfigure our
language. It has been well remarked in the review of that ancient poem,
Jack and Jill, that the reader's interest in the hero and heroine is not
divided with subordinate characters. But the poem of Jack Horner
possesses this excellence in a more eminent degree; in the former the
interest, is divided between two, in the latter it is concentrated in
one; and, notwithstanding the ingenuity of the reviewer, it must be