Volume 101 — Lord Lytton.

Were clever wise, were grandiose great, How many a servant of the State Had left a more enduring name. But all is not for all; 'tis far From flaming meteor to fixed star, From notoriety to fame. Picturesque son of brilliant sire, It wanted but the touch of fire Prometheus only knows to bring The flame divine in him to wake Who moved our plaudits when he spake, But stirred no passion when he'd sing. The Orient pageantry he loved, The histrio not the hero moved, The dilettante not the sage. Hence in our England's East his hand Turned, in a story sternly grand, A motley mock-heroic page. He by the Seine found fitter place For courtly wit and modish grace, Than by the Indus. There right well His facile talent served his Chief; And England hears with genuine grief That sudden-sounding passing bell.

Who prizes Literature? All sorts and sizes Of literary wares now hang on "prizes." 'Tis not prose fictionists or poem-spinners The public rush for; no, 'tis "all the winners!" Letters in lotteries find support most sure— Let us be frank, and call them Lotteryture!