Smith, Horace, born 1779, died 1849.
Smollett, Tobias, born 1721, died 1771.
Southey, Robert, born 1774, died 1843.
Spenser, Edmund, born 1553, died 1598/99.

Sprague, Charles, (American), born 1791, lives at Boston.
Suckling, Sir John, born 1608, died 1641.

Surrey, Henry Howard, Earl of, born 1516, beheaded 1547.
Swain, Charles, born 1803, lives at Manchester.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles, born 1843, lives in London.
Talfourd, Thomas Noon, born about 1796, died 1854.

Taylor, Bayard, (American), born 1825, lives at Cedar Croft, near
Philadelphia.

Tennyson, Alfred, Poet Laureate, born 1810, lives at Freshwater, Isle of Wight.

Thackeray, William Makepeace, born 1811, died 1863.

Thomson, James, born 1700, died 1748.

Waller, Edmund, born 1603, died 1687.

White, Henry Kirke, born 1785, died 1806.

Whitman, Walt, (American), born 1819, lives at Washington.

Whittier, John Greenleaf, (American), born 1808, lives at Washington.

Willis, Nathaniel P., (American), born 1807, died 1867.

Wilson, John, born 1788, died 1854.

Wolfe, Charles, born 1791, died 1823.

Wordsworth, William, born 1770, died 1850.

Wotton, Sir Henry, born 1568, died 1639.

POESY AND THE POETS.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

I can refel opinion; and approve
The state of Poesie, such as it is,
Blessed, eternal, and most true divine:
Indeed, if you will look on Poesie,

As she appears in many, poor and lame,
Patch'd up in remnants and old worn-out rags,
Half-starved for want of her peculiar food:
Sacred Invention; then I must confirm
Both your conceit and censure of her merit.
But view her in her glorious ornaments,
Attired in the majesty of art,

Set high in spirit with the precious taste
Of sweet philosophy, and, which is most,
Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul,
That hates to have her dignity profaned
With any relish of an earthly thought:
Oh then how proud a presence does she bear!
Then is she like herself; fit to be seen

Of none but grave and consecrated eyes!

BEN JONSON.

Catsbibliott,
Mfinchen

AN ODE

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams; Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;World losers and world forsakers

On whom the pale moon gleams: Yet we are the movers and shakers Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story

We fashion an empire's glory;
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three, with a new song's measure,
Can trample a kingdom down.

We in the ages lying

In the buried past of the earth, Built Nineveh with our sighing,

And Babel itself in our mirth; And o'erthrew them with prophesying To the old of the new world's worth; For each age is a dream that is dying, Or one that is coming to birth.

A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;

A wondrous thing of our dreaming,
Unearthly, impossible seeming—
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,

Till our dream shall become their Present,
And their work in the world be done.

They had no vision amazing

Of the goodly house they are raising,
They had no divine foreshowing

Of the land to which they are going;
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart,
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.

And, therefore, to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;

And the multitudes are enlisted

In the faith that their fathers resisted; And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, Are bringing to pass as they may In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, The dream that was scorned yesterday.

But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!

The glory about us clinging

Of the glorious futures we see,

Our souls with high music ringing

O men, it must ever be

That we dwell in our dreaming and singing

A little apart from ye.