Queer convolutions of dim drapery Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare. I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry Of copper-coloured hair. I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall; The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves-- I loathed them one and all. I howled aloud, "I would no more behold A witch, an angel, or a saint. Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, Or _cinque-cento_ quaint. "It may be that my taste has come to grief, But if the spectral, dismal, dry, _Do_ constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief High Art is all my eye." So when four weeks were wholly finishéd, I from my gallery turned away. "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said, "Fresh air and light of day. I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart Of the affected, strained, and queer. What was to me Ambrosia of Art Hath grown as drugged small-beer. "Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare: When Art abjures the crude and dim, I yet may house the High Ideal there. Purged from preposterous Whim!" _Punch_, July 14, 1877. * * * * * The following poem appeared in _The Times_ for May 9, 1859, and although not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever:-- THE WAR. There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Well, if it do not roll our way. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns! Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? How should a despot set men free? Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Look to your butts, and take good aims. Better a rotten borough or so, Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! Form! form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! Form, be ready to do or die! Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally,[9] But only the devil knows what he means. Form! form! Riflemen, form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! T. * * * * * INTO THEM GOWN.[10] _A Wicked Parody on_ RIFLEMEN FORM.