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 Hither and yon on the barren breast of the breeze, Though we wander on gusts of a god’s breast shaken and shifted, The salt of us stings, and is sore for the sobbing seas. For home’s sake hungry at heart, we sicken in pillared porches Of bliss made sick for a life that is barren of bliss, For the place whereon is a light out of heaven that sears not nor scorches, Nor elsewhere than this. (_An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain_――) For here we know shall no gold thing glisten No bright thing burn, and no sweet thing shine; Nor Love lower never an ear to listen To words that work in the heart like wine. What time we are set from our land apart, For pain of passion and hunger of heart, Though we walk with exiles fame faints to christen, Or sing at the Cytherean’s shrine. (VARIATION: _An exile from home_.) Whether with him whose head of gods is honorèd With song made splendent in the sight of men Whose heart most sweetly stout, From ravished France cast out, Bring firstly hers, was hers most wholly then―― Or where on shining seas like wine The dove’s wings draw the drooping Erycine. (_Give me my lowly thatched cottage_――) For Joy finds Love grow bitter, And spreads his wings to quit her, At thoughts of birds that twitter Beneath the roof-tree’s straw―― Of birds that come for calling, No fear or fright appalling, When dews of dusk are falling, Or day light’s draperies draw. (_Give me them, and the peace of mind._) Give me these things then back, though the giving Be at cost of earth’s garner of gold; There is no life without these worth living, No treasure where these are not told. For the heart give the hope that it knows not, Give the balm for the burn of the breast―― For the soul and the mind that repose not, O, give us a rest! H. C. BUNNER. This Parody originally appeared in _Scribner’s Monthly_, May, 1881, with imitations of Bret Harte, Austin Dobson, Oliver Goldsmith, and Walt Whitman. They were afterwards republished in a volume, entitled _Airs from Arcady_, by H. C. Bunner. London, Charles Hutt, 1885. ――――:o:―――― A SWINBURNIAN INTERLUDE. Short space shall be hereafter Ere April brings the hour Of weeping and of laughter, Of sunshine and of shower, Of groaning and of gladness, Of singing and of sadness, Of melody and madness, Of all sweet things and sour. Sweet to the blithe bucolic Who knows nor cribs nor crams, Who sees the frisky frolic Of lanky little lambs: But sour beyond expression To one in deep depression Who sees the closing session, And imminent exams.