Then across my nervous system falls the shrill mosquito’s boom,
And it’s “O, to be in England,” where the may is on the bloom.
I admit the power of Music to inflate the savage breast—
There are songs devoid of language which are quite among the best;
But the present orchestration, with its poignant oboe part,
Is, in my obscure opinion, barely fit to rank as Art.
Will it solace me to-morrow, being hit in either eye,
To be told that this is nothing to the season in July?
Shall I go for help to Ruskin? Would it ease my pimply brow
If I found the doges suffered much as I am suffering now?