Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed “setting” by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison—whose every fibre seems to murmur “Excelsior!”—yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also -
I never loved a dear Gazelle— Nor anything that cost me much: High prices profit those who sell, But why should I be fond of such?
To glad me with his soft black eye My son comes trotting home from school; He’s had a fight but can’t tell why— He always was a little fool!
But, when he came to know me well, He kicked me out, her testy Sire: And when I stained my hair, that Belle Might note the change, and thus admire
And love me, it was sure to dye A muddy green or staring blue: Whilst one might trace, with half an eye, The still triumphant carrot through.
c.f. Lalla Rookh
I never loved a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nurst a dear gazelle To glad me with its soft black eye But when it came to know me well And love me it was sure to die!