DOI Heft:
September 7, 1867
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16880#0108
96
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
[September 7, 1867.
AN OBJECTIONABLE OLD MAN.
Young Ladies. “ Going to make a Flower-Bed here, Smithers ? Why, it ’ll quite spoil our Croquet Ground ! ”
Gardener. “Well, that’s yer Pa’s orders, Miss ! He’ll hey’ it laid out for ’Orticultur’, not for ’Usbandry ! !”
A FAREWELL TO KATE TERRY.
Shall they that have charmed us, beguiled us, bewitched us.
Pass hence with no guerdon of thanks and farewell,
For the mem’ries with which their true Art has enriched us,
The hours of delight we have owed to their spell ?
No —let mole-eyed, hen-hearted, and snow-blooded scribblers,
Who write themselves “ asses ” in blame as in praise.
The vipers who still at the steel must be mbblers,
Who, blind to all good, call the sense of it “ craze,—”
Fling the mud that soils them, and not those it is flung at,
The sneers that recoil on the pens whence they flow—
If their game please the slingers, it hurts not the slung at,
And envy and malice are wide in their blow.
Be ours the more manly and pleasanter duty
To offer our homage where homage is due.
At the fair shrine of Genius and Goodness and Beauty,
Of grace ever present, and Art ever true.
God-speed to Kate Terry, who leaves all too early
A stage such as she are sore needed to grace ;
It taxes philosophy not to feel surly
For the loss of that innocent sensitive face—
Where the ripples of feminine thought and emotion,
Of gladness’s rapture, and sadness’s shade,
Like sunshine and cloud o’er the surface of ocean,
With utt’rance and action in harmony played.
For the loss of that presence, still gentle and gracious.
And womanly ever, in act or repose;
The merriment chastened when most ’twas vivacious,
The grief that was rythmic, to height though it rose.
In a time of coarse cravings and coarser purveying,
When the craft of the stage ’tis a task to sustain,
Her delicate influence seemed a gainsaying
Of those who despaired of true Art and its reign.
She has passed from us, just as the goal she had sighted
From the top of the ladder, reached fairly at last;
With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted.
And a future—how bright, may be gauged by her past.
From childhood through girlhood to womanhood toiling,
Un-hasting, un-resting, she went on her way *
Neglect ne’er discouraged, nor praise led to spoiling,
Right instincts, sound teaching, she felt, to obey.
Nor of bounds of good taste deem the rhymester unwitting,
If of privacy’s curtain so much he withdraw,
As to peep on a life such an artist befitting,
Pure, gen’rous, unselfish—a fame without flaw.
May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her;
And fragrant with flowers be the paths of her life;
May the joy she has given, in blessings attend her,
And her happiest part be the part of “ The Wife.”
Truly Base.
The Americans want to buy the Danish possessions in the West
Indies. Advocating the sale, a Copenhagen paper says:—
“ The cession might, perhaps, be disagreeable to England, but no cause at present
exists to take that consideration into account.”
Ungrateful Danes. When we forgave them for giving Nelson the
trouble of destroying their fleet; when we gave them such good reasons
for not helping them against Prussia; and when we hold Hamlet as our
first favourite in tragedy. Some folks have no sense of favours.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
[September 7, 1867.
AN OBJECTIONABLE OLD MAN.
Young Ladies. “ Going to make a Flower-Bed here, Smithers ? Why, it ’ll quite spoil our Croquet Ground ! ”
Gardener. “Well, that’s yer Pa’s orders, Miss ! He’ll hey’ it laid out for ’Orticultur’, not for ’Usbandry ! !”
A FAREWELL TO KATE TERRY.
Shall they that have charmed us, beguiled us, bewitched us.
Pass hence with no guerdon of thanks and farewell,
For the mem’ries with which their true Art has enriched us,
The hours of delight we have owed to their spell ?
No —let mole-eyed, hen-hearted, and snow-blooded scribblers,
Who write themselves “ asses ” in blame as in praise.
The vipers who still at the steel must be mbblers,
Who, blind to all good, call the sense of it “ craze,—”
Fling the mud that soils them, and not those it is flung at,
The sneers that recoil on the pens whence they flow—
If their game please the slingers, it hurts not the slung at,
And envy and malice are wide in their blow.
Be ours the more manly and pleasanter duty
To offer our homage where homage is due.
At the fair shrine of Genius and Goodness and Beauty,
Of grace ever present, and Art ever true.
God-speed to Kate Terry, who leaves all too early
A stage such as she are sore needed to grace ;
It taxes philosophy not to feel surly
For the loss of that innocent sensitive face—
Where the ripples of feminine thought and emotion,
Of gladness’s rapture, and sadness’s shade,
Like sunshine and cloud o’er the surface of ocean,
With utt’rance and action in harmony played.
For the loss of that presence, still gentle and gracious.
And womanly ever, in act or repose;
The merriment chastened when most ’twas vivacious,
The grief that was rythmic, to height though it rose.
In a time of coarse cravings and coarser purveying,
When the craft of the stage ’tis a task to sustain,
Her delicate influence seemed a gainsaying
Of those who despaired of true Art and its reign.
She has passed from us, just as the goal she had sighted
From the top of the ladder, reached fairly at last;
With her laurels still springing, no leaf of them blighted.
And a future—how bright, may be gauged by her past.
From childhood through girlhood to womanhood toiling,
Un-hasting, un-resting, she went on her way *
Neglect ne’er discouraged, nor praise led to spoiling,
Right instincts, sound teaching, she felt, to obey.
Nor of bounds of good taste deem the rhymester unwitting,
If of privacy’s curtain so much he withdraw,
As to peep on a life such an artist befitting,
Pure, gen’rous, unselfish—a fame without flaw.
May this rhyme, kindly meant as it is, not offend her;
And fragrant with flowers be the paths of her life;
May the joy she has given, in blessings attend her,
And her happiest part be the part of “ The Wife.”
Truly Base.
The Americans want to buy the Danish possessions in the West
Indies. Advocating the sale, a Copenhagen paper says:—
“ The cession might, perhaps, be disagreeable to England, but no cause at present
exists to take that consideration into account.”
Ungrateful Danes. When we forgave them for giving Nelson the
trouble of destroying their fleet; when we gave them such good reasons
for not helping them against Prussia; and when we hold Hamlet as our
first favourite in tragedy. Some folks have no sense of favours.