DOI issue:
October 5, 1867
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16880#0152
140
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[October 5, 1867.
IfKiC
PLEASURES OF PIC-NICS.
Aun Jemima (who has been rather fidgety for some time, and hates dining out-of-doors). “ Well, Girls, you may do as you like,
BUT / don’t INTEND SITTING UPON ANTS’ NESTS ANY LONGER ! ”
TO THE POET-LAUREATE.
Mr. Tennyson, Sir,
Shut up in an old and obscure country inn, I execrated the
rain, the idiotic practice of leaving one’s comfortable home, and men
and things generally. The only book I could get was a volume of
“Poems” by Henry James Pye, Esq., published in 1787 by
Stockdale.
Mr. Pye, Sir, afterwards became Laureate.
I do not believe that you have ever read his works. At least I have
observed no sign that they have produced any effect on your mind.
Therefore, Sir, I wish to point out to you how, some eighty years
ago, proper and becoming poetic homage could be paid to a Royal
Infant.
Early in the volume, Sir, in an Ode on the Birth of the Prince of
Wales, child of King George the Third.
Mr. Pye begins by stating that
“ The fading beam of parting day
Forsakes the Western Sky,
Now shines Diana’s gentler ray
With virgin Majesty.”
From this elegant language you will infer that the poet means to say
that it was a moonlight night, in further illustration of which fact he
adduces a variety of phenomena, such as the silvery appearance on the
water, and sad Philomela’s pouring her plaintive note to the lunar orb,
all perfectly refined and sweet. He then hears dreadful sounds, and a
Form Divine appears on the sedgy brink of the Cherwell. The costume
of this divine form is striking. It consists of an azure length of robe
behind, which loosely wantons on the wind. His eyeballs, glowing
like the vernal morning, shed benign beams. The poet, re-assured,
begins to ask questions, and demands whether we are licking proud
Iberia, or flees the Gaul at the dread alarms of the Marquis of
Granby, or stalks the giant rage of war in India.
The Form Divine mildly snubs him for his bad guesses, and informs
him that Mirth and the Muses now reign on Albion’s shore, the former
revelling, and the latter twining each fragrant flower to crown the-
hour—
“ Which gave to George a Blooming Heir."
This Bloomer was his late Majesty King George the Fourth.
Now, Sir, hear how your predecessor could undress—I mean address a.
baby.
2.
“ Come, happy child, delight the laud
Where Time shall fix thy throne.
0 come and take from Freedom’s hand
A sceptre all her own :
And when the sacred love of truth
Display’d, shall form thy ripening youth,
May every joyful Briton find.
The soul of George's godlike race,
With lovely Charlotte's softer grace
Attemper'd, in thy mind."
There, Mr. Tennyson, Sir. And you will not be surprised to learn
that after a few hilarious observations, of much geographical merit, the-
Form Divine finishes—
“ He said, and rushing from my wondering eyes,
On volley’d lightning borne, he sought his native skies.”
I have double pleasure in transcribing these beautiful lines (a feat
which I do not suppose has ever been performed before, except by the
lamented Pye himself) because they will have an interest for you. Sir,
and because they reveal to the present generation a fact of which the
majority of us were ignorant; namely, that an Angel came down express
to Oxford to congratulate England on the birth of George the
Fourth, and to offer up a prayer that he might unite the merits of his
godlike father and his lovely mother.
How Mr. Pye would have liked Mr. Tupper. I dare say Pye
would have subscribed to the Testimonial.
Ever, dear Sir, yours respectfully.
Somewhere in Yorkshire. An Admirer of Loyal Poetry.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[October 5, 1867.
IfKiC
PLEASURES OF PIC-NICS.
Aun Jemima (who has been rather fidgety for some time, and hates dining out-of-doors). “ Well, Girls, you may do as you like,
BUT / don’t INTEND SITTING UPON ANTS’ NESTS ANY LONGER ! ”
TO THE POET-LAUREATE.
Mr. Tennyson, Sir,
Shut up in an old and obscure country inn, I execrated the
rain, the idiotic practice of leaving one’s comfortable home, and men
and things generally. The only book I could get was a volume of
“Poems” by Henry James Pye, Esq., published in 1787 by
Stockdale.
Mr. Pye, Sir, afterwards became Laureate.
I do not believe that you have ever read his works. At least I have
observed no sign that they have produced any effect on your mind.
Therefore, Sir, I wish to point out to you how, some eighty years
ago, proper and becoming poetic homage could be paid to a Royal
Infant.
Early in the volume, Sir, in an Ode on the Birth of the Prince of
Wales, child of King George the Third.
Mr. Pye begins by stating that
“ The fading beam of parting day
Forsakes the Western Sky,
Now shines Diana’s gentler ray
With virgin Majesty.”
From this elegant language you will infer that the poet means to say
that it was a moonlight night, in further illustration of which fact he
adduces a variety of phenomena, such as the silvery appearance on the
water, and sad Philomela’s pouring her plaintive note to the lunar orb,
all perfectly refined and sweet. He then hears dreadful sounds, and a
Form Divine appears on the sedgy brink of the Cherwell. The costume
of this divine form is striking. It consists of an azure length of robe
behind, which loosely wantons on the wind. His eyeballs, glowing
like the vernal morning, shed benign beams. The poet, re-assured,
begins to ask questions, and demands whether we are licking proud
Iberia, or flees the Gaul at the dread alarms of the Marquis of
Granby, or stalks the giant rage of war in India.
The Form Divine mildly snubs him for his bad guesses, and informs
him that Mirth and the Muses now reign on Albion’s shore, the former
revelling, and the latter twining each fragrant flower to crown the-
hour—
“ Which gave to George a Blooming Heir."
This Bloomer was his late Majesty King George the Fourth.
Now, Sir, hear how your predecessor could undress—I mean address a.
baby.
2.
“ Come, happy child, delight the laud
Where Time shall fix thy throne.
0 come and take from Freedom’s hand
A sceptre all her own :
And when the sacred love of truth
Display’d, shall form thy ripening youth,
May every joyful Briton find.
The soul of George's godlike race,
With lovely Charlotte's softer grace
Attemper'd, in thy mind."
There, Mr. Tennyson, Sir. And you will not be surprised to learn
that after a few hilarious observations, of much geographical merit, the-
Form Divine finishes—
“ He said, and rushing from my wondering eyes,
On volley’d lightning borne, he sought his native skies.”
I have double pleasure in transcribing these beautiful lines (a feat
which I do not suppose has ever been performed before, except by the
lamented Pye himself) because they will have an interest for you. Sir,
and because they reveal to the present generation a fact of which the
majority of us were ignorant; namely, that an Angel came down express
to Oxford to congratulate England on the birth of George the
Fourth, and to offer up a prayer that he might unite the merits of his
godlike father and his lovely mother.
How Mr. Pye would have liked Mr. Tupper. I dare say Pye
would have subscribed to the Testimonial.
Ever, dear Sir, yours respectfully.
Somewhere in Yorkshire. An Admirer of Loyal Poetry.