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Alfred Tennyson,

Poet Laureate.

ALFRED TENNYSON, the third of seven brothers, was born August 5th, 1809, at Somersby, a small village near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire. His father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was the rector of this parish, he was a man remarkable for his strength, stature and varied attainments as poet, painter, musician and linguist. In 1827, Alfred Tennyson, with his elder brother Charles, both then being scholars at the Louth Grammer school, published a small volume entitled "Poems by Two Brothers." Shortly afterwards, these two brothers removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, and in 1829, Alfred Tennyson obtained the Chancellor's Gold Medal for his poem on "Timbuctoo." His subsequent poetical works rapidly attracted attention, and, on the death of William Wordsworth, he was created Poet Laureate, the Warrant being dated the 19th November, 1850. As a poet he has achieved almost the highest fame, but in his numerous efforts as a dramatist he has been less successful.

For the consideration of the Parodies of Tennyson's poems, they may conveniently be divided into three periods, namely, his early Poems, Poems in connection with his appointment in 1850 to the office of Poet Laureate, and Poems since that date. Although Tennyson has suppressed many of his early works, yet he occasionally furbishes up, and re-issues as a new poem some of his youthful compositions.

Fastidious as he is known to be in his selection of what he thus re-publishes, it is still a matter of some surprise that he should have entirely suppressed his prize poem Timbuctoo, which would always be of interest as a specimen of his early work, and is, besides, far removed above the average of Prize Poems.

The poems were sent in for competition in the month of April, 1829; and on June 12, 1829, the Cambridge Chronicle recorded that "On Saturday last, the Chancellor's Gold Medal for the best English poem by a resident undergraduate was adjudged to Alfred Tennyson, of Trinity College." Shortly afterwards the poem was published, and was favourably reviewed in The Athenæum, which, speaking of Prize poems generally, stated, "These productions have often been ingenious "and elegant, but we have never before seen one "of them which indicated really first-rate poetical genius, and which would have done "honour to any man that ever wrote. Such, we "do not hesitate to affirm, is the little work before

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us."

W. M. Thackeray was at Cambridge at the same time as Tennyson, and early in 1829 he commenced the publication of a small paper entitled "THE SNOB, a Literary and Scientific Journal, not conducted by members of the University." This was published by W. H. Smith, of Rose Crescent, Cambridge, and ran for eleven weeks its contents were humourous sketches in prose and verse, and the most remarkable paper amongst them is the following droll poem on Timbuctoo, which appeared on the 30th April, 1829, and has most unaccountably been omitted from recent editions of Thackeray's works:

To the Editor of the "SNOB."

SIR,-Though your name be Snob, I trust you will not refuse this tiny "Poem of a Gownsman," which was unluckily not finished on the day appointed for delivery of the several copies of verses on Timbuctoo. I thought, Sir, it would be a pity that such a poem should be lost to the world; and conceiving "THE SNOB" to be the most widely circulated periodical in Europe, I have taken the liberty of submitting it for insertion or approbation.-I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c..

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Lines 15-18.-A concise, but affecting description is here given of the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.

Although this poem is not actually a parody of Tennyson's Timbuctoo, it is inserted as a clever burlesque of Prize poems in general, and derives interest as being one of Thackeray's earliest writings.

The first independent volume of poems which Tennyson published, in 1830, contained Mariana, The Ballad of Oriana, Adeline, Lilian, The Poet, The Merman, and the Mermaid, all of which are so well known, that the following parodies require no introduction:

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"Friend WAGGLES " struggling with a story, Oriana.

A youth, in managerial glory,
Striving, in vain, tho' con amore,
Oriana,

As (save the mark !) primo tenore,

I came! I saw ! I mark'd each word,
Oriana!

Ah, had my visit been deferr'd,
Oriana,

Some better things I might have heard;
But judging from what then occurr'd,
Oriana,
You seem'd a trifle too absurd,

Oriana!

From Fun, February 26th, 1873.

"Oriana," a romantic legend in three acts, by James Albery, music by F. Clay, was first performed at the Globe Theatre, on Saturday, February 15th, 1873. The lessee and manager, Mr. H. J. Montague, performed the part of King Raymond, that of Oriana being represented by Miss Rose Massey. The plot was founded on a fairy tale, slightly resembling Mr. Gilbert's "Palace of Truth," but, beyond the name, the play had nothing in common with Tennyson's poem of "Oriana."

MARIANA.

(At the Railway Station.)

Her parcels, tied with many a knot,
Were thickly labelled, one and all;
And sitting down beside the lot,

She waited for the train to call.
The waiting-room looked sad and strange-
Closed was the booking-office latch;
She watched the sleepy porter scratch
His head, or whistle as a change;
She only said, "The night is dreary-
It cometh not," she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary-
I would I were in bed."

She sought the grim refreshment stall-
The saucy barmaid long had slept ;
O'er biscuit, bun, and sandwich small
The shining beetles slowly crept.
Hard by a signal post alway

Shot coloured beams into the dark.
She called the porter to remark,

In tones the opposite of gay:

The hour is late, the night is dreary

It cometh not," she said; Then mentally : "The man is beeryI would I were in bed."

About the middle of the night

She heard the shrill steam-whistle blow, And saw the signals gleaming bright; And from dark pens the oxen's low Came to her; but she watched with pain A train with many a cattle van Sweep past her, and the signal man Reversed his lamps, and snoozed again. She only said, "The night is drearyIt cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

The tired officials kept aloof,

The telegraphic wires did sound Their notes Æolian on the roof,

And goods trains shunting did confound Her sense; yet still she waited on, Until the porter came in sight"There is no other train to night; The next will stop at early dawn." She only said, "I am aweary;

It seems to me," she said,

"Your tables, like yourself, are beeryGo find me now a bed."

When I fain would go to sleep
In my easy-chair,

Wherefore on my slumbers creep--
Wherefore start me from repose,
Tickling of my hookéd nose,
Pulling of my hair?
Wherefore then, if thou dost love me,
So to words of anger move me,
Corking of this face of mine,
Tricksy cousin Caroline?

THE WEDDING DRESS.

In picturesque confusion lies

Her scattered finery on the floor, And here and there her handmaid flies With parcels to increase the store. But dolefully she paced the room,

Although it was her wedding morn,
And often spoke in tones of scorn,
And brow of ever-deepening gloom.

She only said, "The morn is dreary;"
"It cometh not," she said.
She said, "The milliner is weary,
Or stayed too late in bed."

She hears the sound of pipe and drum,
And from the window looketh she:
Nodding their heads before her come
The merry Teuton minstrelsy,
Who wait to play "The Wedding March.”
A member of the "force" stalks by,
And little urchins mocking cry,
"Oh, ain't he swallowed lots o' starch?"

She laughed not, for she heard a chime :
"Eleven o'clock!" she said.

"I wonder if 'twill be in time?
I would that I were wed.'

How swiftly now the minutes pass,

With ribbons, laces, pins, and thread-
With peeps into the looking-glass,

And tossings of the pretty head.
Full half an hour of anxious strife;
But still no wedding dress is there
To decorate the form so fair
Of her who would be made a wife.

"Three-quarters!" cried she weeping-weary.
"It cometh now!" they said.
The maiden looked no longer dreary,

But hastened to be wed.

From Funny Folks.

In the Bon Gaultier Ballads is a parody of Lilian entitled Caroline, which commences thus:

LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine,
Easy, breezy, Caroline l

With thy locks all raven shaded,
From thy merry brow up-braided,
And thine eyes of laughter full,
Brightsome cousin mine!

Thou in chains of love hast bound me,
Wherefore dost thou flit around me,

:

I next give an extract from a capital parody of The Merman, taken from The Bon Gaultier Ballads, in which not only is the style of the original admirably imitated, but the allusions to the Laureate's office are happily introduced.

THE LAUREAte.

WHO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry
To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?
'Tis I would be the Laureate bold !

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,
With Her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
I'd not care a pin for the waiting lord;
But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, Lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I'd let my fancies roam abroad
In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
Crazily, Crazily!

Oh, would not that be a merry life,
Apart from care and apart from strife,

With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,
And no deductions at quarter day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,
And scribble of verses remarkably few,

And at evening empty a bottle or two!

Quaffingly, Quaffingly!

'Tis I would be

The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

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Lines 15-18.-A concise, but affecting description is here given of the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26.

Although this poem is not actually a parody of Tennyson's Timbuctoo, it is inserted as a clever burlesque of Prize poems in general, and derives interest as being one of Thackeray's earliest writings.

The first independent volume of poems which Tennyson published, in 1830, contained Mariana, The Ballad of Oriana, Adeline, Lilian, The Poet, The Merman, and the Mermaid, all of which are so well known, that the following parodies require no introduction :—

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Friend WAGGLES" struggling with a story,
Oriana.

A youth, in managerial glory,
Striving, in vain, tho' con amore,
Oriana,

As (save the mark !) primo tenore,

I came ! I saw ! I mark'd each word,
Oriana!

Ah, had my visit been deferr'd,

Oriana, Some better things I might have heard ; But judging from what then occurr'd,

Oriana, You seem'd a trifle too absurd,

Oriana!

From Fun, February 26th, 1873.

"Oriana," a romantic legend in three acts, by James Albery, music by F. Clay, was first performed at the Globe Theatre, on Saturday, February 15th, 1873. The lessee and manager, Mr. H. J. Montague, performed the part of King Raymond, that of Oriana being represented by Miss Rose Massey. The plot was founded on a fairy tale, slightly resembling Mr. Gilbert's "Palace of Truth," but, beyond the name, the play had nothing in common with Tennyson's poem of "Oriana."

MARIANA.

(At the Railway Station.)

Her parcels, tied with many a knot,
Were thickly labelled, one and all;
And sitting down beside the lot,

She waited for the train to call.
The waiting-room looked sad and strange-
Closed was the booking-office latch ;
She watched the sleepy porter scratch
His head, or whistle as a change;
She only said, "The night is dreary—
It cometh not," she said;

She said, "I am aweary, aweary-
I would I were in bed."

She sought the grim refreshment stall-
The saucy barmaid long had slept ;
O'er biscuit, bun, and sandwich small
The shining beetles slowly crept.
Hard by a signal post alway

Shot coloured beams into the dark.
She called the porter to remark,

In tones the opposite of gay:

The hour is late, the night is dreary

It cometh not," she said; Then mentally: "The man is beeryI would I were in bed."

About the middle of the night

She heard the shrill steam-whistle blow, And saw the signals gleaming bright; And from dark pens the oxen's low Came to her; but she watched with pain A train with many a cattle van Sweep past her, and the signal man Reversed his lamps, and snoozed again. She only said, "The night is drearyIt cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary,

The tired officials kept aloof,

The telegraphic wires did sound Their notes Æolian on the roof,

And goods trains shunting did confound Her sense; yet still she waited on, Until the porter came in sight"There is no other train to night; The next will stop at early dawn." She only said, "I am aweary;

It seems to me," she said,

"Your tables, like yourself, are beeryGo find me now a bed."

When I fain would go to sleep
In my easy-chair,

Wherefore on my slumbers creep--
Wherefore start me from repose,
Tickling of my hookéd nose,
Pulling of my hair?
Wherefore then, if thou dost love me,
So to words of anger move me,
Corking of this face of mine,
Tricksy cousin Caroline?

THE WEDDING DRESS.

In picturesque confusion lies

Her scattered finery on the floor, And here and there her handmaid flies With parcels to increase the store. But dolefully she paced the room,

Although it was her wedding morn,
And often spoke in tones of scorn,
And brow of ever-deepening gloom.

She only said, "The morn is dreary;"
"It cometh not," she said.
She said, "The milliner is weary,
Or stayed too late in bed."

She hears the sound of pipe and drum,
And from the window looketh she:
Nodding their heads before her come
The merry Teuton minstrelsy,

Who wait to play "The Wedding March."
A member of the "force" stalks by,
And little urchins mocking cry,

66 Oh, ain't he swallowed lots o' starch?"

She laughed not, for she heard a chime :
"Eleven o'clock!" she said.

"I wonder if 'twill be in time?
I would that I were wed.'

How swiftly now the minutes pass,

With ribbons, laces, pins, and threadWith peeps into the looking-glass,

And tossings of the pretty head. Full half an hour of anxious strife; But still no wedding dress is there To decorate the form so fair

Of her who would be made a wife.

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I next give an extract from a capital parody of The Merman, taken from The Bon Gaultier Ballads, in which not only is the style of the original admirably imitated, but the allusions to the Laureate's office are happily introduced.

THE LAUREATE.

WHO would not be

The Laureate bold,

With his butt of sherry

To keep him merry,

And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!

When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,
With Her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
I'd not care a pin for the waiting lord;
But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, Lazily!

And I'd pick the moss and daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I'd let my fancies roam abroad
In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
Crazily, Crazily!

From Funny Folks.

In the Bon Gaultier Ballads is a parody of Lilian entitled Caroline, which commences thus:

LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine,
Easy, breezy, Caroline 1

With thy locks all raven shaded,
From thy merry brow up-braided,
And thine eyes of laughter full,
Brightsome cousin mine!

Thou in chains of love hast bound me,
Wherefore dost thou flit around me,

:

Oh, would not that be a merry life,
Apart from care and apart from strife,

With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay,
And no deductions at quarter day?

Oh, that would be the post for me!

With plenty to get and nothing to do,

But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo,
And scribble of verses remarkably few,

And at evening empty a bottle or two!

Quaffingly, Quaffingly!

'Tis I would be

The Laureate bold,

With my butt of sherry

To keep me merry,

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