[In May, 1860, Mrs. Akers (known by her nom de plume of Florence Percy), published her popular poem, "Rock Me to Sleep." By the operation of some law of fraud, which Quetelet or Buckle might explain, no less than ten persons, supported by respectable testimony, have since severally laid claim to the lady's verses; and most prominent among them appeared, during the past year, the Hon. Mr. Ball, of the New Jersey Legislature, whose claim was advocated by the Hon. Messrs. Morse and Marsh in probably the absurdest pamphlet ever printed; which, nevertheless, seems to have had sufficient plausibility to obtain general credence for a time. Its fate, however, and Mr. Ball's as well, were shortly sealed by an elaborate review, signed "W," in the New York "Times." "Never," says the Newburyport "Herald," in serio-comic vein—"never since Junius hurled his polished shafts at the British aristocracy; never since Demosthenes thundered at Philip; never since poor vexed Job exclaimed 'O that mine enemy had vrritten a book!' did ever mortal work catch such double-distilled damnation, such utter annihilation, as did this unhappy bantling of Messrs. Morse and Marsh in that five-column review in the New York "Times." By the unanimous verdict of press and public, the Hon. Mr. Ball was at once laid upon the shelf. Since then, however, after the lapse of eight months, determined, one might think, to make his the prime case in the causes célèbres of literary crime, the Hon. Mr. Ball has reappeared (his original eight "witnesses" augmented to sixteen), in six and a half extremely mortal columns of fine type in the "Tribune," signed with a little *, and inserted at great cost, as an advertisement. As an answer to the redoubtable "W," to whom it is mainly devoted, it is the merest nullity. At this stage of the matter, Thalia, the Muse of Comedy, now takes up the tale.]
THE BALLAD OF SIR BALL.
Sir Ariost, Sir Pulci bothe, didde bringe this ballade ayde,
For one the clavi-citherne sweete, ande one the rebeck playde;
Ande methynketh welle, theire melodye gaye didde into the measure roame—
Which was mosten lyke, "Whenn agen, ah hah, Sir Jon hee comes marchynge hoam!"
I.
IT was when leaves are large and long, the month y-clepen May,
The Lady Florence Percy sang her magic-woven lay;
And for the lady's heart was full with woes ye know not of,
She sang of dark and gentle Death, the comforter of Love.
O fair was Florence Percy, with her eyes of pansied blue,
Her face of pale forget-me-not, her soul of love-me-true!
And sad and sweet the magic song that plaining from her bower,
Remained in air, a spirit voice, that sings this very hour—
Sings passionate, lone, aloft, alow, till every heart is stirred,
And marvels, is it lady then, or deathful love his bird?
II.
It was the good Sir Public, the gentle old man gray;
He loves the lutes of troubadours, or knight's or lady's lay;
And though with dire cacophanies his patient ears are sore,
He only loves great harmonies, sweet melodies, the more.
And hearkening that aërial song, all rapt and passion-pale.
He spake—"And is it a lady's voice, or is it the nightingale?—
And tell me where she preens her plumes or combs her hair this hour?—
And is it in some mournful wood, or in some silken bower?
O hie, my messengers, and find or if it lady be!—
This singer true and tender must be better known to me."
III.
It was Sir Ball, the enchanter curst, whose carols murder joy
For households in the jovial realm of Camden and Amboy:
