(_By The O'Greedy._)
O bright new-comer, I have seen,
I see thee, and rejoice;
Though what the coster-man may mean
I judge not, by his voice.
I see thee, and to either eye
The tears unbidden start;
O rhubarb! shall I call thee pie,
Or art thou truly tart?
I was not wont thy charms to see
When childhood stubborn stood
Fix'd in the faith, that thou must be
Too wholesome to be good.
Just as we loved the cloying jam,
By no effects dismay'd,
Regarding as a bitter sham
The honest marmalade.
When daffodillies deck the shops,
And hyacinths indoors
Recall the flavour of the drops
We used to suck by scores
(Pear-drops they were,--a subtle blend
Of hyacinthine smell,
And the banana's blackest end,--
We loved them, and were well);
When chrysalis-buds are folded thick,
And crocuses awake,
And, like celestial almonds, stick
In Flora's tipsy-cake;
Before the crews are on the Thames,
The swallows on the wing,
The radiant rhubarb-bundle flames,
The lictor-rod of Spring.
Still, still reluctant Winter keeps
Some chill surprise in store,
And Spring through frosty curtain peeps
On snowdrifts at her door;
The full moon smites the leafless trees,
So full, it bursts with light,
Till the sharp shadows seem to freeze
Along the highway white.
Yet the keen wind has heard the song
Of summer far away.
And, though he's got the music wrong,
We know what he would say.
For in the vegetable cart
Thy radiant stalks we spy.
O rhubarb, should we call thee tart,
Or art thou merely pie?
And why not so? The cushat dove
To such a shrine we trust,
Though in dumb protest she will shove
Her tootsies through the crust;
And larks, that sing at Heaven's gate
When April clouds are high,
Not seldom gain the gourmet's plate
Through portals of the pie.
So thou, sweet harbinger of Spring,
Gules of her blazon'd field,
If in a pie thy praise we sing,
To worthy fate wilt yield.
Enough! I sing; let others eat:
Be mine the poet's lot.
The thought of thee is all too sweet--
The taste of thee is not.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO FEAR FOR THE CONSCIENCE CLAUSE.
_Priest_ (_teaching Catechism in Catholic School_). "NOW, SAUNDERS,
REPEAT THE TEN----" _All the other Boys._ "PLEASE, FATHER, THIS 'ERE
BOY'S A PRO'S'TANT!!"]
* * * * *
"I'LL CALL THEE HAMLET."
Mr. BENSON, the enterprising young Lessee of the Globe Theatre, on two
evenings of the week affords a spectacle of the greatest possible
interest to every Shakspearian student. His _Hamlet_ is rather given to
noisy declamation when greatly moved, but, barring this, seems to be a
thoroughly good-natured harmless creature, who, as fond of dabbling in
private theatricals, would probably be hailed as an acquisition at the
Meistersingers Club and cognate institutions. The innovations introduced
into the action relieve the gloom of the Tragedy. Take for instance, the
treatment of _Ophelia_, which is full of quiet humour. That she should
look as old as _Hamlet's_ Mother, is of course, accidental, and is
purely attributable to the Globe _Gertrude_ being exceptionally comely
and youthful, still it has a very quaint effect. But the idea of the
unfortunate maid, after she has committed suicide, being carried _à la_
GUY FAUX into the throne-room with a sort of "See what we have found"
air, is broadly comic. The funeral with its "maimed rites," is also very
funny. Apparently, the Bishop (whose garb, by the way, seems to be a
compromise between an eccentric Jewish Rabbi and that of a decidedly
demented Roman Catholic Priest) has "contracted" for the procession,
with the result of collecting together a heterogeneous company,
consisting of modern High Church curates, a few members of some humorous
Confraternity, and a sprinkling of other amusing grotesques. But the fun
reaches its climax, when the body of _Ophelia_ herself is produced in,
what seemed to me to be, _a hamper_! The above example of what is being
done twice a week in Newcastle Street, Strand, will show how well worthy
of the scholar's notice is the present revival of _Hamlet_ at the Globe
Theatre. As actors, Mr. BENSON'S company are not entirely satisfactory.
As thinkers, however, they are worthy of the greatest possible respect.
Under these circumstances, it is to be hoped, that should they
ultimately, for sufficient reason, decide to give up acting, they will
yet resolve to continue what they do so well, and, in three words--go on
thinking. (_Signed_) BENE VESTITUS.
* * * * *
COVENT GARDENING PROSPECTS.--The prospectus of the Italian Opera
Season lies on _Mr. Punch's_ table; but though this is its attitude,
there is no reason to doubt the truthfulness of its statements.
More anon. _En attendant_, we may say that the stage-management,
in the hands of AUGUSTUS DRURIOLANUS, is a guarantee for the excellence
of the _mises-en-scène_, of the misses-_en-scène_, and of the
"hits"-_en-scène_.
* * * * *