If you were Della-Cruscan, And I were A.-Mooresque, We’d make our limbs look less in Artistic folds, and dress in What once were tunics Tuscan In DANTE’S days grotesque; If you were Della-Cruscan, And I were A.-Mooresque. If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek, We’d glide ’mid gaping Vandals In shapeless sheets and sandals, Like shades in Tartarean Dim ways remote and bleak; If I were mock Pompeian, And you Belgravian Greek. If you were Culture’s scarecrow, And I the guy of Art I’d learn in latest phrases Of either’s quaintest crazes To lisp, and let my hair grow, While yours you’d cease to part; If you were Culture’s scarecrow, And I the guy of Art. If I’d a Botticelli, And you’d a new Burne-Jones, We’d doat for days and days on Their mystic hues, and gaze on With lowering looks that felly We’d fix upon their tones; If I’d a Botticelli, And you’d a new Burne-Jones. If you were skilled at crewels, And I, a dab at rhymes, I’d write delirious “ballads,” While you your bilious salads Where stitching upon two ells Of coarsest crass, at times; If you were skilled at crewels, And I, a dab at rhymes. If I were what’s “consummate,” And you were quite “too too,” ’Twould be our Eldorado To have a yellow dado, Our happiness to hum at A teapot tinted blue; If I were what’s “consummate,” And you were quite “too too.” If you were what “intense” is, And I were like “decay,” We’d mutely muse or mutter In terms distinctly utter, And find out what the sense is Of this Æsthetic lay; If you were what “intense” is, And I were like “decay.” If you were wan, my lady, And I, your lover, weird, We’d sit and wink for hours At languid lily-flowers, Till, fain of all things fady, We faintly――disappeared! If you were wan, my lady, And I, your lover, weird. This Parody appeared in _Punch_, (June 18, 1881), at the time when the Æsthetic revival in art and literature was the subject of much undeserved ridicule, because of the absurd extent to which it was carried by a few senseless fanatics. ――――:o:―――― BETWEEN THE SUNSET AND THE SEA. _An American Imitation._ Between the gate post and the gate I lingered with my love till late; And what cared I for time of night Till wakened by the watch dogs bite, And thud of leathering boxtoed fate Between the gate post and the gate. Between the seaside and the sea I kissed my love and she kissed me; But rapturous day was grewsome night And what is love but bloom and blight? And what is kiss of mine to thee Between the seaside and the sea. Between the sunshine and the sun I saw a face that hinted fun; But what is fun and what is face When driven at life’s killing pace? I simply say that I have none Between the sunshade and the sun.