SIMPLICITY. "Simplicity is a characteristic of the highest species of poetry. Now, no one has carried the simple so far as Wordsworth; and, as I hold it good always to imitate perfection, I have taken the following lines for my model :VIOLETS, do what they will, Wither'd on the ground must lie: Daisies they must live and die. I fear much, lest some meaning, which may have crept into my verses should prove destructive of that exquisite simplicity at which I aim; however, what scholar is not inferior to the master? FAIR women win the hearts of men, Then your mother, child, did wrong. (The last verse is omitted, not because it is too long, but because it is too broad.) I HEARD her singing lively notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair face had nature linked Soft blushes would, in that sweet hour, Bright couples round me danced and played, My outstretched hands caught hold her arm, And drew her to my side. I told my love, confessed her charm; The maiden quick replied "Here comes my husband;" then she went; The maiden even ran ! Have I not reason to lament What maidens make of man! :0: Wм. E. DOUBLEDAY. He tells me that the sky above Is bluer far and brighter Than that which spans the isle we love; Of brilliant plume but tuneless throat, When shall I breathe that purer air? Fair chance of being summoned there. More musical than new Adare And Tennyson's meek Lady Clare Had not my Muse such gems to spare She would not waste a double share On this one stanza, Yarra ! There is not unity of theme I grant it, in these stanzas, The subjects as far sundered seeni As Kensington and Kansas. A SONNET ON THE SONNET. It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp WILLIAM WORDSWORTH TRANSLATION BY M. DE ST. BEUVE. NE ris point des sonnets, ô critique moqueur; Camoens de son exil abrège la longueur, Spenser, s'en revenant de l'ile des féeries, AN AMERICAN PARODY. SCORN not the meerschaum. Housewives, you have croaked The Muse with glowing pipe, and Thackeray joked Hawthorne with this hath cheered his solitude BULL IN THE PRINTING OFFICE. A Wordsworthian Sonnet. OH! BULL, strong labourer, much enduring beast, In growing heap, írom thy poor brethren fleeced. How woulds't thou crush, and toss, and rend, and gore, For the sad trash that issues from the same. If they would print no other works than mine, Of audience few and unfit I complain, Bull won't believe in Southey's verse and mine. All who bid Wordsworth rise for Byron to make room. Cruikshank's Comic Almanack. 1846. BILLY ROUTING. A Lyrical Ballad. FIT subject for heroic story, I sing a youth of noble fame; Of gallant Billy Routing's name! This poem, written in imitation of Wordsworth, consists of thirteen verses. It will be found in Vol. I. Miscellanies by W. Maginn, London. Sampson, Low and Co. 1885. In the same Volume will be found a rather dull imitation of Wordsworth's Excursion, entitled The Kail Pot, which originally appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for May, 1821, as did also the following much more clever parody:— BILLY BLINN. I KNEW a man that died for love, His name, I ween, was Billy Blinn ; His back was hump'd, his hair was grey, And, on a sultry summer day, We found him floating in the linn. Once as we stood before his door Smoking, and wondering who should pass, Then trundling past him in a cart Came Susan Foy, she won his heart, She was a gallant lass. And Billy Blinn conceal'd the flame That burn'd, and scorch'd his very blood; But often was he heard to sigh, And with his sleeve he wiped his eye, In a dejected mood. A party of recruiters came To wile our cottars, man and boy; Their coats were red, their cuffs were blue, And boldly, without more ado, Off with the troop went Susan Foy ! When poor old Billy heard the news, He tore his hairs so thin and grey; Ohon, oh me !-alas a-day!" And saunter'd here and there. But misery overcame his heart, For all was waste and war within; We found him when the morning sun Oh reckless woman, Susan Foy, To leave the poor, old, loving man, And with a soldier, young and gay, Thus harlot-like to run away To India or Japan. Poor Billy Blinn, with hair so white Poor Billy Blinn was stiff and cold; Will Adze he made a coffin neat, We placed him in it head and feet, And laid him in the mould ! -:0: WILLIAM MAGINN. FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF Wordsworth. THERE is a river clear and fair, 'Tis neither broad nor narrow; It winds a little here and there It were a blessed sight to see And live three times as long. This parody was written by Miss Catherine Maria Fanshawe, and is included in her "Literary Remains," published in 1876 by B. M. Pickering, London. In a foot note to the parody it is stated that a distinguished lady friend, and admirer, of Wordsworth thought it beautiful and was surprised that he had never shown it to her. The same little volume contains an "Ode in imitation of Gray," in which the following lines occur relating to the purchase of a lady's hat : THE milliner officious pours Of hats and caps her ready stores, The unbought elegance of spring; Some wide, disclose the full round face, Some shadowy, lend a modest grace And stretch their sheltering wing. Such is the title of a series of short clever parodies which appeared in The Cambridge Fortnightly (Feb. 7, 1888). This bright little magazine is published by Mr. Octavus Tomson, 16, King's Parade, Cambridge. Four verses are here omitted, but the titles are given :Macaulay, who made it. POUR, varlet, pour the water, We shall not drink from amber, With port at thirty-six ; Whiter than snow the crystals Grown sweet 'neath tropic fires, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield The tea-pot of her sires! Tennyson, who took it hot. Wordsworth, who gave it away. She had a rustic, woodland grin, And she replied, "Sir, please put in "Why, what put milk into your head? "You call me pig-head," she replied; 'My proper name is Ruth, "I called that milk-she blushed with pride "You bade me speak the truth." Poe, who got excited over it. Here's a mellow cup of tea-golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune, tune To the tintinabulation of the spoon. Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n-1th, Rossetti, who took six cups of it. The lilies lie in my lady's bower, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost) They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady's head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand, (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), She poured; I drank at her command, Drank deep, and now-you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost). Burns, who liked it adulterated. Weel, gin ye speir, I'm no inclined, For, gin I tak the first, I'm fou, And gin the next, I'm dull as you, Mix a' thegither. |