(By a Swinburnean Lofty Liner.) IMPARADISED by my environment, Let me scribble, as poor proud Byron meant I'll strain, as the sinuous cameleopard Impish idiom's idiosyncrasy Shall my verse festoon with flowers; I shall wield prosodian powers. Let my glory grow as the icicle The critics are all anthropophagous, My heart nestles in my esophagous, So my soul from prosody's phosphorus Funny Folks, May 11, 1878. The Family Herald (London) for July 28, 1888, contained an amusing article on Parodies, from which the following is an extract: "But we wish to get away from well-trodden tracks, and we will for once forsake our usual purely didactic groove in order that we may give our readers an idea of what we regard as artistic drollery, Take this dreadful imitation of Mr. Swinburne's manner. The parodist seems to have genuinely enjoyed his work; and we have no doubt but that Mr. Swinburne laughed as heartily as anybody. The poet is supposed to be attending a wedding of distinguished persons in Westminster Abbey, and the naughty scoffer represents him as bursting forth with the following rather alarming clarion call THERE is glee in the groves of the Galilean— The groves that were wont to be gray and glum— The sound of a noise of cab or carriage, What shall I sing to them? How shall I speak to them? Gush and glow and be understanded, Yea, though a minute should seem a week to them, For winter's coughs and cossets are over, Blooms and blossoms and breaks love's rose. A masterpiece! And there is not a touch of malignity in the lines; the poet's curious way of writing occasionally in the Hebraic style, his vagueness, his peculiar mode of procuring musical effects, are all picked out and shown with a smile. No one has quite equalled Caldecott, but this anonymous wit runs him hard." Unfortunately the author of the article omits to state the source from whence he derived the parody he praises so highly. HOME, SWEET HOME. As Algernon Charles Swinburne might have wrapped it up in Variations. ('Mid pleasures and palaces—) As sea-foam blown of the winds, as blossom of brine that is drifted 15 I see black care upon thy brow, "I met a lady at a bail, Full beautiful-a fairy bright; Her hair was golden (dyed, I find!) Struck by the sight "I gazed, and long'd to know her then : So I entreated the M.C. To introduce me-and he did! "We paced the mazy dance, and too, We talked thro' that sweet evening long, And to her-it came to pass, I breathed Love's song. "She promised me her lily hand, She seemed particularly cool : No warning voice then whispered low, 'Thou art a fool!' "Next day I found I lov'd her not, And then she wept and sigh'd full sore, "She brought an action, too, for breach Five thousand pounds! "And this is why I sojourn here Alone, and idly loitering, Tho' all the season's through and tho' The Figaro. September 15, 1875. :0: A SONG AFTER SUNSET. THE breeze o'er the bridge was a-blowing, Amid the cold coigns of the causeway. Aloof, out of laughter's and law's way, In crowds that seemed never to cease, men From pockets that penniless sounded They seemed with a cynical sorrow, We know you of old, sworn tormentor! Avuncular author of anguish, We damn you with deepest disdain ! I smiled on the speakers unheeding, I grinned at their garrulous games- They scattered, as seed that is sown, or The fringe of the fast flowing foam, Judy. June, 16, 1380. :0: THE MAD, MAD MUSE. OUT on the margin of moonshine land, Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Out where the whing-whang loves to stand, Writing his name with his tail on the sand, And wipes it out with his oogerish hand; Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks, Crouching low by winding creeks, And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. Anoint him the wealthiest of wealthy things! 'Tis a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, |