THE LATEST CRISIS.

A crisis! A crisis! The man is a fool Who desires at this moment to talk of Home Rule. Though we know that in Egypt a something is rotten, The intrigues of young Abbas are straightway forgotten; And we think just as much of the woes of Siam As we care for that coin of small value—a dam. For a crisis has come, and the House is unable To detach its attention from questions of table. Their tongues and their brains all the Members exhaust in Discussing the rights of O'Brien and Austen. They debate in an access of anger and gloom As to who took from which what was kept, and for whom. The letters they wrote, the retorts they made tartly Are detailed—gracious Powers preserve us—by Bartley, Who can bend—only statesmen are formed for such feats— His mind, which is massive, to questions of seats, And discuss with a zest which is equal to Tanner's, The absorbing details of a matter of manners. Mr. Bartley you like to be heard than to hear Far more, but, forgive me, a word in your ear. Though we greatly rejoice when all records are cut By your steam-hammer mind in thus smashing a nut, Yet we think it were well if the Kitchen could settle In private this question of pot versus kettle. And in future, when dog-like men fight for a bone, Take a hint, Mr. Bartley, and leave them alone.

Good Izaak of the diction quaint, The calendar holds many a fellow Less worthy to be dubbed a saint (For gentle heart and wisdom mellow) Than thou, the Angler's genial guide By wandering brook and river wide. "I care not, I, to fish in seas," So chirped Will Basse, thy favourite singer, "Fresh rivers best my mind do please." Bard-loving quoter, brave back-bringer Of England's pastoral scenes and songs, All England's praise to thee belongs. Thy Book bewitches more than those Who are sworn "Brothers of the Angle." Scents of fresh pastures, wilding rose, All trailing flowers that intertangle In England's hedgerows, seem to fill Its pages and our pulses thrill. We see the stretch "up Totnam Hil," Toward the "Thatcht House" that fresh May morning; We hear Viator praise the skill That he was first inclined to scorning; We mark the Master's friendly proffer Change him to votary from scoffer. Those "many grave and serious men," He chid as "men of sowr complexions," If they resist his graphic pen, His pastorals sweet, his quaint reflections, Must have indeed mere souls of earth, To beauty blind, untuned to mirth. The "poor-rich-men" he pitied so All Anglers, and wise hearts, must pity. His song's queer "trollie lollie loe," Sounds cheerily as the blackbird's ditty, To men in populous city pent, Who know the Angler's calm content. And even those who know it not, Nor care—poor innocents!—to know it, Whom ne'er the Fisher's favoured lot Has thrilled as sportsman, fired as poet, May love to turn the leaves, and halt on The quaint conceits of honest Walton. The man whose only "quill" 's a pen, Who keeps no rod and tackle handy, May hear thy "merry river" when "It bubbles, dances, and grows sandy." May sit beneath thy beech, and wish To catch thy voice, if not thy fish: May love to sit or stroll with thee, Amidst the grassy water-meadows; The culverkeys and cowslips see, Dancing in summer's lights and shadows; And watch yon youngster gathering stocks Of lilies and of lady-smocks: To hear thy milkmaid, Maudlin, troll Choice morsels from Kit Marlow sweetly; And Maudlin's mother,—honest soul, Whose "golden age" has fled so fleetly!— Respond with Raleigh's answering rhyme Of wisdom past its active prime: To take a draught of sound old ale— What tipple wholesomer or sweeter?— At the old ale-house in the vale, With Corydon and brother Peter; And share the "Musick"'s mellow bout, As they at supper shared the trout. Then to that cleanly room and sweet— After a gay good night to all— Lavender scent about the sheet, And "ballads stuck about the wall," And fall on sleep devoid of sorrow, With fair dreams filled of sport to-morrow. What wonder Walton's work has charmed Three centuries? That his bait has captured The grey recluse, the boy switch-armed, The sage, the statesman, bard enraptured, Gay girl—are fish her only spoil?— And grave Thames-haunting son of toil! Thy votaries, good Saint Izaak, are "All who love quietnesse, and vertue." Is there on whom such praises jar? Well, join for once—it scarce can hurt you— In Punch's Tribute; fortune wishing To gentle souls who "go a-fishing!"