William I.
William II.
Henry I.
Stephen.

Henry II.

Richard I.
John.

Henry III.
Edward I.

Edward II.
Edward III.
Richard II.
Henry IV.
Henry V.
Henry VI.

Edward IV.
Edward V.

THE ROYAL LINE.

(1860.)

The sturdy Conqueror, politic, severe;
Light-minded Rufus, dying like the deer;
Beau-clerc, who everything but virtue knew;
Stephen, who graced the lawless sword he
drew;

Fine Henry, hapless in his sons and priest;
Richard, the glorious trifler in the East;
John, the mean wretch, tyrant and slave, a
liar;

Imbecile Henry, worthy of his sire;.
Long-shanks, well named, a great encroacher

he;

Edward the minion dying dreadfully;
The splendid veteran, weak in his decline;
Another minion, sure untimely sign;
Usurping Lancaster, whom wrongs advance;
Harry the Fifth, the tennis-boy of France;
The beadsman, praying while his Margaret
fought;

Edward, too sensual for a kindly thought;
The little head, that never wore a crown;
Richard III. Crookback, to nature giving frown for frown;
Henry VII. Close-hearted Henry, the shrewd carking sire;
Henry VIII. The British Bluebeard, fat, and full of ire;
Edward VI. The sickly boy, endowing and endowed;
Mary.
Ill Mary, lighting many a living shroud;
Elizabeth. The lion-queen, with her stiff muslin mane;
James I. The shambling pedant, and his minion train;
Charles I. Weak Charles, the victim of the dawn of
right;

Cromwell.

Charles II.

Cromwell, misuser of his homespun right; The swarthy scapegrace, all for ease and wit; The bigot out of season, forced to quit; William III. The Dutchman, called to see our vessel

James II.

Anne.

through;

Anna made great by conquering Marl

borough ;

George, vulgar soul, a woman-hated name;
Another, fonder of his fee than fame;
A third, too weak, instead of strong, to

swerve;

And fourth, whom Canning and Sir Will preserve.

TO CHARLES DICKENS.

(1860.)

As when a friend (himself in music's list)
Stands by some rare, full-handed organist,
And glorying as he sees the master roll

The surging sweets through all their depths of soul,
Cannot, encouraged by his smile, forbear

With his own hand to join them here and there;
And so, if little, yet add something more

To the sound's volume and the golden roar;

So I, dear friend, Charles Dickens, though thy hand
Needs but itself, to charm from land to land,
Make bold to join in summoning men's ears
To this thy new-found music of our spheres,
In hopes that by thy Household Words and thee
The world may haste to days of harmony.

LEIGH HUNT'S ESSAYS.

HAD the Author attempted to alter the general spirit cf his writings, he would have belied the love of truth that is in him, and even shown himself ungrateful to public warrant. Not that he has abated a jot of those cheerful and wholesome opinions in the diffusion of which he has now been occupied for nearly thirty years of a life passed in combined struggle and studiousness. For, if there is anything which consoles him for those shortcomings either in life or writings which most men of any decent powers of reflection are bound to discover in themselves as they grow old, and of which he has acquired an abundant perception, it is the consciousness, not merely of having been consistent in opinion (which might have been bigotry), or of having lived to see his political opinions triumph (which was good luck), or even of having outlived misconstruction and enmity (though the goodwill of generous enemies is inexpressibly dear to him), but of having done his best to recommend that belief in good, that cheerfulness in endeavour, that discernment of universal duty, that brotherly consideration for mistake and circumstance, and that repose on the happy destiny of the whole human race, which appeared to him not only the healthiest and most animating principles of action, but the only truly religious homage to Him who made us all. Let adversity be allowed the comfort of these reflections; and may all who allow them, experience the writer's cheerfulness, with none of the troubles that have rendered it almost his only possession.-Preface to LEIGH HUNT'S "Men, Women, and Books."

LEIGH HUNT'S

HUNT'S ESSAYS.

A DAY BY THE FIRE.

(The Reflector, 1812.)

I AM One of those that delight in a fireside, and can enjoy it without even the help of a cat or a tea-kettle. To cats, indeed, I have an aversion, as animals that only affect a sociality without caring a jot for anything but their own luxury; and my tea-kettle, I frankly confess, has long been displaced, or rather dismissed, by a bronze-coloured and graceful urn; though, between ourselves, I am not sure that I have gained anything by the exchange. Cowper, it is true, talks of the "bubbling and loud hissing urn," which "throws up a steamy column." But there was something so primitive and unaffected, so warm-hearted and unpresuming, in the tea-kettle, its song was so much more cheerful and continued, and it kept the water so hot and comfortable as long as you wanted it, that I sometimes feel as if I had sent off a good, plain, faithful old friend, who had but one wish to serve me, for a superficial, smooth-faced upstart of a fellow, who, after a little promising and vapouring, grows cold and contemptuous, and thinks himself bound to do nothing but stand on a rug and have his person admired by the circle. To this admiration, in fact, I have been obliged to resort, in order to make myself think well of my bargain, if possible; and accordingly I say to myself every now and then during the tea,-" A pretty look with it, that urn;"

G