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Into thy supple suit Napoleone.
Next stalks a Spanish general, proud and bony,—
Six times a day he changes everything—
August in all, and every hair a king.
And when he gives a banquet to his magnates
The tables groan beneath the load of dainties,
There peacock pasty, bright with every paint, is
And ’mid such tarts the vase of orchids stagnates.
Exalted guests sit round it circumspectly
And carve away, it does you good to see them,
At platefuls of well-moulded, graceful fishes,
And ptarmigan fried fast to golden dishes,
Though seldom knives are raised from what’s beneath them
And but for form: for e’en apes’ wit it passes
To learn a taste for coloured paper masses:
But who would in your cultured State aspire
Replete from your State banquet to retire.
Then there’s a tasteful park for recreation,
With groves of palms and creepers’ starry bowers,
Such as a tropic flora’s bounty showers.
There apes bent double weed without cessation,
And now grand transformation scenes enthral
The eye, disposed at random here and there,
Bushes cut out in cardboard, flowers as rare,
E’en an old-fashioned fountain ’mid them all
Flings painted water-jets to heights aerial,
Here in these canvas grounds our Hanuman
Loved to parade, revolving many a plan,
Upon his brow a crowd of cares imperial,
And these, behind the rose—that one of paper—
He sometimes banished with an agile caper.
The rest, ’tis true, more poorly are provided,
