THE WAGNER FESTIVAL.
(By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully sat through the six concerts.)
This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth,
Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed garments,
Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms,
Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ
Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.
This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner
Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna;
Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj,
And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton—brand new, silver-mounted;
But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes?
Where are the men—tawny swells—who talked of clubs, races, or billiards,
Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral?
Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed,
And the critic goes—glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.
Funny Folks.
Another parody of Evangeline, entitled Picnicaline occurs in "Mirth and Metre," 1855.