RECOLLECTIONS OF THE OPERA

By W. M. Thackeray.

I’ve known a god on clouds of gauze
With patience hear a people’s prayer,
And, bending to the pit’s applause,
Wait while the priest repeats the air.

I’ve seen a black-wigg’d Jove hurl down
A thunderbolt along a wire,
To burn some distant canvas town,
Which—how vexatious!—won’t catch fire.

I’ve known a tyrant doom a maid
(With trills and roulades many a score)
To instant death. She, sore afraid,
Sings; and the audience cries encore.

I’ve seen two warriors in a rage
Draw glist’ning swords, and—awful sight!—
Meet face to face upon the stage
To sing a song, but not to fight!

I’ve heard a king exclaim “To arms”
Some twenty times, yet still remain;
I’ve known his army ’midst alarms,
Help by a bass their monarch’s strain.

I’ve known a hero wounded sore
With well-tuned voice his foes defy;
And warbling stoutly on the floor,
With the last flourish fall and die.

I’ve seen a mermaid dress’d in blue;
I’ve seen a Cupid burn a wing;
I’ve known a Neptune lose a shoe;
I’ve heard a guilty spectre sing.

I’ve seen, spectators of a dance,
Two Brahmins, Mahomet, the Cid,
Four Pagan kings, four knights of France,
Jove and the Muses—scene Madrid.

Punch, 1843.

[WE DON’T SING ENOUGH.]

Sailors sing at their work. Why don’t clerks, lawyers, doctors, brokers, and shopkeepers? It would add to the variety of life.

THE HIGH NOTE.

THE LOW NOTE.