LORD TENNYSON’S JUBILEE ODE.

The April number of Macmillan’s Magazine contained the Poet Laureate’s contribution to Jubilee literature. As usual, portions of the Ode were quoted in the London papers almost before the magazine was published, and The Daily News went so far as to reprint the whole of the Ode, an infringement of Messrs. Macmillan’s rights, for which an apology had to be made. As to the poetical merits of the Ode public opinion has been tolerably well expressed by the parodies on it which have appeared. A few verses of the original are here given, to lead up to the parodies.

CARMEN SÆCULARE.

AN ODE

IN HONOUR OF

The Jubilee of Queen Victoria.

Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,

Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,

Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

II.

She beloved for a kindliness

Rare in Fable or History,

Queen, and Empress of India,

Crown’d so long with a diadem

Never worn by a worthier,

Now with prosperous auguries

Comes at last to the bounteous

Crowning year of her Jubilee.

* * * * *

VI.

You, that wanton in affluence,

Spare not now to be bountiful,

Call your poor to regale with you,

Make their neighbourhood healthfuller,

Give your gold to the Hospital,

Let the weary be comforted,

Let the needy be banqueted,

Let the maim’d in his heart rejoice

At this year of her Jubilee.

* * * * *

VIII.

You, the Patriot Architect,

Shape a stately memorial,

Make it regally gorgeous,

Some Imperial Institute,

Rich in symbol, in ornament,

Which may speak to the centuries,

All the centuries after us,

Of this year of her Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty years of ever-broadening Commerce!

Fifty years of ever-brightening Science!

Fifty years of ever-widening Empire!

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,

You, the Lord-territorial,

You, the Lord-manufacturer,

You, the hardy, laborious,

Patient children of Albion,

You, Canadian, Indian,

Australasian, African,

All your hearts be in harmony,

All your voices in unison,

Singing “Hail to the glorious

Golden year of her Jubilee!”

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance?

Are there spectres moving in the darkness?

Trust the Lord of Light to guide her people.

Till the thunders pass, the spectres vanish,

And the Light is Victor, and the darkness

Dawns into the Jubilee of the Ages.

The Globe remarked:—

“It is to be feared that the Laureate’s Jubilee Ode will sadly disappoint all his admirers. It has a certain rhetorical neatness, no doubt; but it cannot be regarded as adequate to the occasion. The poet has chosen, for the most part, very prosaic rhythms, and the Ode, trite and even common in ideas, is not even endowed with occasional felicities of expression, On the contrary, it is sometimes positively unlucky in its phraseology, as when the world is most unnecessarily assured that Her Majesty has about her—

‘Nothing of the lawless, of the Despot,

Nothing of the vulgar, or vain-glorious.’

“By no means happy are the references to those who ‘wanton in affluence’ (why ‘wanton?’) to the ‘Lord manufacturers,’ and to the ‘Imperial Institute,’ which latter surely savours a little of bathos? The six concluding lines have more inspiration, perhaps, than most; but they do not harmonise very well in their allusion to ‘thunders moaning in the distance,’ with the Laureate’s allusion elsewhere to the ‘prosperous auguries’ of the Jubilee. On the whole, Lord Rosslyn, Mr. Morris, and Lord Tennyson having all spoken, it must be confessed that the Jubilee still lacks a vates sacer.”

Another Ode.

Fifty times the Laureate sharpened his pencil:

Fifty times he turned over the Rhyming Dictionary:

Then he decided to give up rhymes altogether.

He, the Patriot Laureate,

He, the Lord-manufacturer,

Shaped a stately memorial,

Made it regally gorgeous

After Walt Whitman’s pattern,

Rich in blackness, in dullness,

Which might speak to the centuries

Through the Magazine Macmillan,

Of this year of our Jubilee.

* * * * *

Fifty lines at last completed!

Fifty more at least to make a century;

Where the dickens shall the other fifty come from?

But—

Is that the printer’s boy moaning in the passage?

Is that the ——? ——! There goes my lead pencil.

Trust the public to make out the glory of these verses.

The Globe. March 29, 1887.

Very Hard Lines.

HOW THEY WERE WRITTEN TO ORDER.

(Leaf from a Laureate’s Diary.)

9 A.M.—Bother the Jubilee! What in the name of fortune, can one do with such a rubbishing subject? But here’s Macmillan waiting, and I haven’t done a single line yet. Must get something put on to paper, if only to quiet him. But how on earth to begin! Get in “fifty” somehow. Want fifty somethings that come but once a year. Christmas? Good. That suggests Clown. I have it.

Fifty times the Clown has grinned and tumbled.

No. That won’t do. It’s too shoppy, stagey. Has a soupçon of the Promise of May about it. Wants something wider Ha! The Row, suggesting the Season, of course.

Fifty times the Row has filled and emptied.

No. Don’t like it. Reads as if I was talking of a cistern. Too heavy. Try something lighter. Pastry? Feathers? Flowers? Ha! that’s it. Flowers, of course. Here, I’ve got it!

Fifty times the Rose has flowered and faded.

Anyhow, that’ll do to go off with. Let’s see. I want fifty something elses to follow it up with. What shall it be? Cartloads? Handfuls? Armfuls? Autumns? Harvests? Good again. Not that there’s any precise connection between them; but one must stick down something, How’ll this do?

Fifty times the golden harvest fallen.

Yes, that reads all right. Is there any other way of putting “fifty?” Yes, “twice twenty-five.” But that won’t come in. Then there’s “four times twelve and a half.” No; that won’t do. Enough “fifty.” Now we want some allusion to Her Majesty. Must get in a “since.” I have it, “Since our Queen assumed,” Capital. Here you are!

Since our Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

Come; that’s a beginning anyhow. Three lines! But they’ve quite dried me up. Besides, I can’t go on in blank verse like this. Don’t feel up to it. Must try another metre. What metre. And then what on earth am I to say in it? I haven’t had such a job as this for a long time. Could weep over it. A precious Ode I shall make of it.

For though I, know not anything,

Yet must I not my lot upbraid;

Since as the Laureate I am paid,

And, being paid, am bound to sing.

But, “a glass of sherry, will make me merry.” I’ll try one.!

6 P.M.—Confound the Jubilee Ode! Have now been at it all day, and am floundering worse than ever. Have got in something about illuminations, sanitary improvements, subscribing to a Hospital and Penny dinners, and given a kind of back-hander to George the Third, but who, on earth, I refer to as the “Patriot Architect,” and what I mean by asking him to Shape a stately memorial, Make it regularly—no, “regally”—gorgeous, Some Imperial Institute, I don’t know. But if I arrange it in parallel lines it will look like poetry, and that’ll be near enough.

Feel I’m making a horrible hash of it. Might go for a turn on my bicycle. May clear my head. Might try it. Will.

* * * * *

Have dined, and now, at 9 P.M., have again settled down to it over a pipe and a glass of grog. Am in a more hopeless muddle than ever. Trying to bring in everybody in a kind of wind-up appeal. But look at this,—

You, the snubbed, the unfortunate

You, the Lord-Undertaker,

You, the Lord-Omnibus-Conductor,

That doesn’t seem to run very well, but it’s the kind of idea I want to work in. Don’t seem able to manage it.

You, the Lady-Amateur Actor?

No, that won’t do! Shall never get it done to-night.

* * * * *

10 P.M.—After awful hammering, managed to knock off two more lines. Head spinning, but must stick to it. Feel I’ve never turned out such stuff in my life before. Hopeless!

* * * * *

10.30 P.M.—Two more lines screwed out. But what lines! Won’t scan, and as to rhyme,—ha! ha!—catch me rhyming to-night!

* * * * *

11 P.M.—Have come to a dead stand-still. Equal to it. Have had recourse to the wet towel. Refreshes me. Ha! I see light. Happy thought! As I can’t do it in verse, why not write it all in prose, and then cut it up into poetry afterwards? Sure to get cut up when it appears. Why not do it myself first? I will. Anyhow, here goes.

* * * * *

Midnight.—Done it! Labelled it Carmen Sæculare. Looks all right, but quite the toughest piece of work I’ve ever had to turn out. Posted it to Macmillan. Hope he’ll like it.

Punch. April 9, 1887.

Another Jubilee Ode.

Fifty times the lines have slipped and halted;

Fifty times some golden lines have fallen

Since this man—the poet—became the Laureate.

II.

He, renowned for a wordiness,

Rare in fable or history,

Poet—and Rhymster of England,

Crowned at last by strawberry leaf,

Never worn by a wordier.

Now with numbers unmusical,

Comes at last to the psalm-front,

Singing the year of Jubilee.

* * * * *

VI.

You whose bank balance is right side

Spare not of cheques the distributing.

Ask your labourers to dine with you,

Make cleanlier their cottages,

Double infirmary subscriptions,

Let the ragged all be clothed,

Let the hungry have bellies full,

Let those one-legged have a wooden one

At this year of the Jubilee.

* * * * *

Fifty years of ever-growing taxes;

Fifty years of ever world-mending

Fifty years of ever muddling Ireland.

* * * * *

You—the taxpayer unfortunate,

You—the Lord Knows-who, and lady,

You—the Lord, shoddy-mixer,

You—the almighty working man,

Patient grumblers of England.

You—all sorts of men—and others,

Irish, Yankee, dynamiters—

All your hearts be in harmony,

All your pockets open lib’rally

To the numerous funds in progress,

Gilding the year of Jubilee.

* * * * *

XI.

Were there poets living in past ages?

Are there poets writing still amongst us?

Pray the Lord of Rhyme to guide weak pens

Till the bards do pass. Song giants come back,

And old sweet Poetry as the victor

Dawns into a Jubilee of the ages.

Scraps. April 16, 1887.

Owed to Lord Tennyson.

(Carmen Sequel-airy.)

Fifty times our nose has twirled and tilted,

Fifty times our silvern laughter fallen,

Since, my Lord, we read your Ode—your metre.

II.

You, renowned for a stateliness

Rare in Prose, or in Poetry,

Keen with impress of Genius,

Crowned so long with a laurel-wreath

Seldom worn by a worthier,

Now with preposterous flummeries

Come at last to this flatulent

Droning Ode on the Jubilee!

III.

Nothing of the flawless—but the tin pot—

Nothing of the dulcet, or strain glorious,

All is fussy, feeble, flat—writ poorly.

* * * * *

VI.

You that wanton in epithets,

Spare not now to be bountiful,

Call Tom Moore to regale with you,

Make your sentiments mirthfuller,

Send your spleen to the hospital,

Let the reader be comforted,

Let the seedy be junketed,

Let MacM. in his purse rejoice

At your Ode on the Jubilee.

VII.

Henry’s fifty truths are all in shadows,

Green with envy Edmund’s fifty t’others,

Ananias’ forti-tude forgotten.

VIII.

You, the Patriot Laureate,

Write a better memorial!—

Something really gorgeous

’Bout th’ Imperial Institute,

Rich in jingle, in ornament,

Which may fetch South Kensington,

All South Kensington after us,

In this year of the Jubilee.

IX.

Fifty lines of ever-broadening Outlook,

Fifty lines of ever-brightening Promise,

Fifty lines of ever-widening Meaning.

You, the Flighty, the Fortunate,

You, the Lord-in-Memoriam,

You, the Word-manufacturer.

* * * * *

All your parts be in harmony,

All your verses in unison,

Singing—“There’ll be a glorious

Golden harvest, this Jubilee!”

XI.

Are there blunders glooming in the Navy?

Are inspectors moving in the darkness?

Trust My Lords aright to guide the people

Till the blunders pass, th’ inspectors vanish,

And the Press is Victor, and the darkness

Dawns into the—Jubilee of the Pages.

Moonshine. April 6, 1887.

The Home Rule Jubilation Ode.

Fifty times seven days are past and ended,

Eighty Whigs have ratted and turned Tory,

Since your William burned his boats, his bridges

He renowned for a wordiness

Rare in fable or history,

King and God of the Radicals,

Crowned with Papal diadem

Never worn by a wordier,

Now with splendid audacity

Reigns the King of Obstructionists.

Partner with Parnell, chief of Irish despots,

Stewed in his juice with Harcourt the vainglorious,

Yet is your William noble, great, and god-like.

You then noisily, all of you

Stump the towns for Disunion.

Let Misrule hold high festival;

Everywhere let the multitude,

Home Rule each to the heart of it,

Raise the standard of Anarchy;

Hail the monarch of egotism,

Quod sic volo sic jubeo.

Be as true to England as to Gordon,

Glorying in the trials of her Rulers,

Sorrowing with the griefs of the disloyal.

You that, wanting in intellect,

Spare not now to be boisterous,

Call your thousands to demonstrate,

Make it hot for your neighbourhood.

Give your gold to Invincibles,

Let the landlords be boycotted,

Let the juries be browbeaten,

Let the maimed make the best of it,

Spread the gospel of Anarchy.

Henry’s ears are pricked to catch your brayings,

Gray your ravings to report is burning,

Even my Granny joins the Home Rule chorus.

You, the Paddy-American,

Shape a missile of Dynamite;

Make it really dangerous,

Some explosive material

Like the missile of Clerkenwell,

Which may frighten the Unionists,

All the Unionists terrify,

Frighten them into anarchy.

Fifty times repeat the loud explosion,

Fifty times the midnight crime and outrage,

Till at length you rend the mighty empire.

You, the ruler, the democrat;

You, the serf territorial;

You, the crime-manufacturer;

You, the grimy, uproarious,

Bastard children of Albion,

You, Milesian, Hibernian,

You, the Gael and the Cambrian,

You, the Tyke and the Tynesider,

All your hearts be in harmony,

All your throats shout in unison,

Singing, Hail to the godlike

Grand Old Man, the Obstructionist!

Are there Tories raving in the distance?

Are there landlords moving in the darkness?

Trust the Grand Old Man to blind the people,

Till the Tories fall, the landlords vanish,

And the League is victor, and the darkness

Falls upon the Anarchy of Ireland.

The St. James’s Gazette. April 14, 1887.

PRIZE COMPETITION PARODIES.

The Weekly Dispatch awarded the prize of two guineas for the best Parody of a part of Tennyson’s Jubilee Ode to the following:—

You, the Laureate (O Fortunate),

You, the Bard-territorial,

You, the Verse-manufacturer,

You, whose lines so laborious

Patient children of Albion

Have perused in bewilderment—

List awhile to another “pote.”

All your tones lack in harmony,

All your verse is confusion,

Sing in style less inglorious,

Try these lines for the Jubilee:—

XI.

Hear the thunders moaning not far distant!

See the spectre Want step out from darkness!

Trust we that the Right will guide our people

When they reach that pass, that sceptres vanish,

And the Light is Victor, and these ages

Seem to them the Jubilee of Darkness!

C. R. Ireland.

The following were highly commended:—

II.

He revered for a genius

Rare in annals of poesy,

Poet Laureate of Albion,

Crowned so long with the evergreens

Never donned by a doughtier,

Now with puerile versicles,

Comes at last to inaugurate

This last year of her Jubilee.

VI.

You, that joy in celebrity,

Spare us now more inanities;

Tell your Muse you have done with her,

Make your countrymen happier.

Give way now to the younger men,

Let the critic be quieted,

Let admirers be comforted,

Let your Queen in her heart rejoice

In this year of her Jubilee.

F. B. Doveton.

“Fifty times the rose has flower’d and faded,”

Fifty times it would have bloomed without her—

Smelt as sweet without “the crown, the sceptre.”

XI.

Are there thunders moaning in the distance?—

’Tis the German band of near relations;

Trust the mother Queen to guide her people

Where they’ll live in plenty without labour,

And her Alberts, Victors, Georges, Henries,

Families raise for Jubilees for ages.

T. A. H.

Fifty times the State has fooled and blundered,

Fifty times the royal pension’s risen

Since the Queen assumed the globe, the sceptre.

XI.

Are there children starving in our alleys?

Are there famine-stricken homes in cities?

Trust not Queen or Lords to feed the people;

Till the nation rules no troubles vanish.

When the Right is Victor, then the darkness

Dawns into the liberty of the ages.

Alfred Lovett.

On International Copyright.

VI.

Ye, who revel in authorship,

Spare not now to be practical;

Call your “chums” to discuss with you,

Make their industry hopefuller,

Give your works to the publisher.

Let the printer be recompensed,

Let the trader be profited,

Let the scribe in his work rejoice

At the prospect of copyright.

You, the poet, th’ essayist,

You, the faithful historian,

You, the play manufacturer,

You, the writer sensational,

Patient newspaper editor,

You, th’ obscure, the illustrious,

Author, artist, and type-cutter—

All your aims be in harmony,

All your efforts in unison,

Till you succeed in obtaining

International copyright.

J. Marshall.

My Landlady.

II.

She disliked for a craftiness

Rare in kitchen or scullery,

Queen, and slave in a lodging-house,

Crowned so long with a widow’s cap

Never worn by an artfuller,

Now, with sanctified countenance,

Comes to fleece us and plunder us,

Growling, “Here is your weekly bill.

VI.

“You, that wanton in affluence,

Spare not now to be bountiful;

Scan not what I regale you on,

Swear no neighbourhood’s healthfuller,

Leave your gold on your looking-glass,

Let your beer and your tea be boned,

Let the needy (that’s me) be fed,

Let your landlady line her nest

While she tinkers the weekly bill.”

Shawrnlam.

From The Weekly Dispatch. April 17, 1887.

——:o:——

Carmen Expostulatory.

Fifty times my nose I’ve rubbed, and jaded

Is my brain with trying to make out wherein

Of poesy an ounce to find in Carmen Seculare.

II.

He, who as Laureate attained a fame

Rare and great in History,

Babbles now in frothy talk,

Unlike his wonted measure.

And speaks of Empress Queen

And Jubilee, like Whitman would

With ruggedness of diction

To crown this year of Jubilee.

III.

Nothing of the Poetic, but the Crackpot,

Who, with vulgar words bepraising,

All in humdrum rant and rubbish anent the Queen.

IV.

You then mournfully, all of you

Wear your sackcloth, your ashes,

For the sad falling off of one

Who wrote of Arthur Hallam,

In the grand “In Memoriam.”

So will you not with heart

Or voice, Hail this of Tennyson’s

Other than the twaddle tribute

Spawned of this year of Jubilee.

Oh! Alfred, once so true to manhood,

Glorying in the strength to fight all shams.

Sorrowing only with the people in their wrongs.

VI.

You that once in affluence

Of diction, caught the ear of time,

Call we now no longer ours

With diadem, and much belorded.

The people’s friend. Spoiled child

With diadem, and much belorded.

We cannot now be comforted,

Our maimed heart for you doth bleed,

At this, your twaddle talk of Jubilee.

VII.

Who is Henry, that for fifty years in shadow,

Consorts for fifty summers with Edward in gray distance,

And the grandsire’s fifty half forgotten?

VIII.

You, the Patriot Leader,

Shape a stately Memorial.

Record of wrongs not righted,

Of Ireland’s cry not silenced:

But still the symbol badge

Of Saxon oppression,

Which she has worn for centuries.

How will fair Erin

Hail this golden year of Jubilee?

IX.

Fifty years of ever-growing Taxation.

Fifty years of Civil Lists most heavy.

Fifty years of Royal Pauperism.

You, the Mighty, the Fortunate,

Think of the poor who have fallen.

You, the Lord-manufacturer,

Made rich by the hard, laborious,

Patient to suffer—but about to rise.

XI.

Yes, the thunders moan forth in the distance.

See gaunt spectred Poverty moveth in the land.

Trust your common sense to guide you, oh! my people,

So shall thunders pass and spectres vanish,

And Demos crowned a victor, out of darkness’s

Dawn shall come, the Jubilee of the Ages.

Anonymous.