Yea, I will smite! Grant me but "swerveless wynd,"
And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills;
With "nearness" and "foreverness" I'll bind
A "downflung sheaf" of outslants, pæans and trills;
Pass me th' "quenchless gleam of Titian hair,"
And eke th' "oozing forest's woozy clumps;"
Now will I go upon a metric tear
And smite th' lyre with great resounding thumps.




THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

W. M. THACKERAY.

The noble King of Brentford
Was old and very sick,
He summon'd his physicians
To wait upon him quick:
They stepp'd into their coaches
And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drenched him and they bled him:
They could not cure his ill.
"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer;
I'd better make my will."