f)8 " Fantasia" a-la-Hoorf. [JAN. 



ful correspondent ; who vows that, though he is only nine years' old 

 now, he could go on inditing them till he is ninety-nine, without stop- 

 ping. Posterity, however, will no doubt excuse us for transcribing some 

 five-and-twenty of these triple-toned lines. Our juvenile genius is one of 

 Mr. Murray's errand-boys ; we shall not give his name at present, 

 because, if he were known to be clever, it would be fatal to his charac- 

 ter. Aristocratic authors do not like errand-boys to be greater geniuses 

 than themselves ; and we scorn to expose him to the jealousy of Lord 

 Leveson Gower. It will be seen that he fancies himself a sort of poetical 

 Jack-the-giant-killer ; but if, instead of slaying all the living authors, as 

 he proposes, he should slaughter one half of them only, we shall hold it 

 to be some atonement for his presumption. " What stuff!" he begins, 



" What stuff ! at such the whole divine Nine pine ; 



And so, I'm sure it's understood, Hood should. 



Why, I would rhyme so, till John Jones moans, groans, 



Frightening to fits Haynes Bayly, gaily daily. 



Nothing so easy : though the book Hook shook, 



I'd beat it nor could Mrs. Bray say nay. 



I'd crop at once, like flowers, Power's hours, 



And cloud with deadly stupors, Cooper's troopers. 



And Scott yes, while a rod of flames lames James, 



You'd see before my altar, Walter falter ; 



Strangling with arms like Biffen's, Wiffen's griffins. 



Flat at a single stroke I'd floor poor Moore, 



And maul, with puns like pokers, Croker's jokers ; 



Then make, with showers of attic salt, Gait halt ; 



And while I stop with brambles Campbell's rambles, 



Lo ! death, with one or two small shots, pots Watts. 



I'd burn (in time all dross goes) Roscoe's Moscows, 



And shoot, with well-aimed arrows, Barrow's sparrows. 



Then, quick despatching Delta, helter-skelter, 



'Midst shouts of " shame," make Mrs. Gore roar more. 



Driving to deep dishonoured holes Knowles, Bowles, 



I'd give, like other codgers, Rogers podgers, 



And put down James and Horace Smith with pith, 



Scattering, like deer before the dogs, Hogg's fogs. 



No more you'd hear, when 'neath a slab, Crabbe blab ; 



Nor heed, amidst my guerdons, Jerdan's burdens. 



Mistake not, for Trueba's Shebas, Heber's ; 



I'd make them both, as well as Crowe, go slow ; 



And knock down topsy-turvey (scurvy !) Hervey. 



Poems and prose by L. E. L. sell well. 



But mine should of his kindest milk bilk Dilke, 



And melt with music's organs Morgan's gorgons. 



Then would the author of " Tremaine" gain pain, 



While he, the sire of " The Disowned" (stoned) groaned. 



Thus leaving to dramatic fools Poole's rules, 



And making, seven nights a week, Peake squeak ; 



I'd crush, great trio ! Moreton, Norton, Gorton, 



And down fame's hill send Croly roley-poley \" 



