THE PALACE OF ART.
I BUILT myself a high-art pleasure-house
For my sick soul at peace therein to dwell.
I said, "I have the true æsthetic nous,
And can design it well."
'Twas dull red brick, with gables set galore,
And little light did through the windows pass,
For 'twas shut out by thick lead frames that bore
Quarrels of grey-green glass,
The dadoed walls, in green were stained, no tint
Which common blue and yellow mingled make;
But a green y-wrought—of sepia without stint—
With indigo and lake.
Nor grainèd panel nor enamelled slate
Was there to jar on my artistic sight;
Plain ebon wood-work framed the open grate,
And over,—blue and white.
Two lovely griffins, made of burnished brass,
I found, to guard the fireplace on each side.
With curling tails (though one was lost, alas!),
And mouths that gapèd wide.
All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal,
On which stood pots and plates of every hue;
Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel
In Robbia white and blue.
One deep recess, serge-covered, like a lawn,
Held, on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state,
Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn,
An ancient kitchen-plate.
"Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said,
"I will send forth my wits to gather wool;
With task or toil I will not vex my head;
But on that plate feed full."
So day and night upon that plate I gazed,
And strove to fix thereon what thought I had;
Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed,
And my digestion bad.
My brain shrank like a nut adust and dried;
I felt that I was not at all myself,
And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside
That plate upon that shelf.
That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue,
Which so absorbèd had my every thought,
I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew
Confucian, clear of thought.
One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate,
Till at the last the sight began to pall.
I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date,
Or China-ware at all?"
So when one year was wholly finishèd,
I put that willow-pattern plate away.
"Now rather bring me Satsuma!" I said,
"Or blue-green Cloisonnée.
"For I am sick of this pervading hue,
Steepèd wherein this landscape, stream, and sky,
To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?'
'Yea, all is blue,' reply.
"Yet do not smash the plate I so admired,
When first my high æsthetic house I built;
I may come back to it, of Dresden tired,
And Sèvres gaily gilt."
Although taken from Cruikshank's Comic Almanack, for 1846, the following parody of The May Queen is so fresh and so funny that it might have been written yesterday:—
THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE.
By Alfred Tennyson.
I.—THE DAY BEFORE.
[To be read with liveliness.]
If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak;
To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week;
It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay,
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
There's many a bright barege, they say, but none so bright as mine,
And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine;
But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say;
And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may.
I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,
If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake;
For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay.
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet,
But Harry—looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street;
He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae—
But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may.
They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be;
They say he's left off raking, mother—what is that to me?
I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I may.
The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass,
And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass;
The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day,
And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may.
The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers."
The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers,
Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest—
The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best.
Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day;
And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may.
II.—THE DAY AFTER.
[Slow, and with sad expression.]
If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear;
The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear;
I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me,
Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea.
I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day,
When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away;
And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain:
I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again.
I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now,
I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how
I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild;
He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child.
Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet;
Had it been fine—I cannot tell—he might have had my arm;
But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm.
I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,—
Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in;
But do not let her see it yet—she's not so very green,
And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been.
So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn;
I dread to look at my barege—it must be so forlorn;
We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year;
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
Light Green, a magazine published at Cambridge, in 1872, contained another parody of the same original, it is called "The May Dream," by Alfred Pennysong.
The following appeared in The Tomahawk, of December 5th, 1868.