THE NEW ŒNONE.—AN EPIC FRAGMENT.
(With Apologies to the Poet Laureate.)
O BRITISH Public, many-fadded public,
Queer British Public, harken ere I die!
It was the bright forenoon: one silvery cloud
Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust
Of Mayfair. To the studio they came.
Scant-robed they came before the camera.
And at their feet was laid a carpet fair,
Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey,
Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose
And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew
This way and that in many a subtle shift
For fine effect of light and shade, and placed
Background of statuary and drooping boughs,
With cloud and curtain, tower and portico.
O British Public harken ere I die!
I heard great Heré. She to Paris made
Proffer of popular power, public rule,
Unquestioned, an elastic revenue
Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans,
Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and toll
From many a Place of Arms and haven large,
And Scientific Frontiers, and all else
That patriotic potency may crave;
To all most welcome, seeing men in power
Then only are like gods, having attained
Rest in "another place," and quiet seats
Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution,
In shelter of their great majority.
O British Public harken ere I die!
She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit
Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power
Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood
Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs
Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold.
The while above her full and earnest eye
Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek
Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
"Unselfishness, high honour, justice clear,
These three alone give worth to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of itself
Is a base burden) but to hold as law
The fiat high, 'Be just and do not fear.'
And because right is right to follow right,
With a serene contempt of consequence."
* * * * * *
And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris,
Give it to Pallas!" But he heard me not,
Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me!
O British Public, many-headed Public,
Crass British Public, harken ere I die!
Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful
Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells,
With soft seductive fingers backward drew
From her bold brow and bosom her long hair
Auricomous, and bared her shining throat
And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet
Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form,
Between the shadows of the studio blinds,
Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved.
O British Public, harken ere I die!
She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes,
The herald of her triumph, well assured,
Half whispered in his ear, "I promise thee
The negative of my next photograph!"
She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear,
And when I looked, Paris had not the apple.
And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes
As she withdrew from forth the studio door,
And I was left alone within the place!
* * * *
From Punch, December, 1879.
There still remain to be quoted a few amusing parodies of Tennyson's early poems, the first in order being Mariana, which was thus closely burlesqued in George Cruikshank's Comic Almanack for 1846.