HORACE AND JAMES SMITH

Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant,Laudo id quoque.Terence.

Quicquid dicunt, laudo: id rursum si negant,

Laudo id quoque.

Terence.

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,Where I may loll, cry bravo! and professThe boundless powers of England's glorious press;While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore,'Quashee ma boo!'—the slave-trade is no more!In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,Since ruined by that arch-apostate Boney),A phœnix late was caught: the Arab hostLong ponder'd—part would boil it, part would roast;But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him riseTo heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,Then by old renters to hot water doom'd,By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek,Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance[3]From Paris, the metropolis of France;By this day month the monster shall not gainA foot of land in Portugal or Spain.See Wellington in Salamanca's fieldForces his favourite general to yield,Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted MarmontExpiring on the plain without his arm on;Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,And then the villages still further south.Base Buonapartè, fill'd with deadly ire,Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire.Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee onThe Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames;Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![4]pass'd in a trice,Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice;Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum,Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry—('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey).Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twainOf Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch?Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?—Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,'The tree of freedom is the British oak.'Bless every man possess'd of aught to give;Long may Long Tilney, Wellesley, Long Pole live;God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet,God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte;God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off;And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,England's prime minister, then bless the devil!

Hail, glorious edifice, stupendous work!

God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!

Ye Muses! by whose aid I cried down Fox,

Grant me in Drury Lane a private box,

Where I may loll, cry bravo! and profess

The boundless powers of England's glorious press;

While Afric's sons exclaim, from shore to shore,

'Quashee ma boo!'—the slave-trade is no more!

In fair Arabia (happy once, now stony,

Since ruined by that arch-apostate Boney),

A phœnix late was caught: the Arab host

Long ponder'd—part would boil it, part would roast;

But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies,

Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him rise

To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies.

So Drury, first in roasting flames consumed,

Then by old renters to hot water doom'd,

By Wyatt's trowel patted, plump and sleek,

Soars without wings, and caws without a beak.

Gallia's stern despot shall in vain advance[3]

From Paris, the metropolis of France;

By this day month the monster shall not gain

A foot of land in Portugal or Spain.

See Wellington in Salamanca's field

Forces his favourite general to yield,

Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Marmont

Expiring on the plain without his arm on;

Madrid he enters at the cannon's mouth,

And then the villages still further south.

Base Buonapartè, fill'd with deadly ire,

Sets, one by one, our playhouses on fire.

Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on

The Opera House, then burnt down the Pantheon;

Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames,

Next at Millbank he cross'd the river Thames;

Thy hatch, O Halfpenny![4]pass'd in a trice,

Boil'd some black pitch, and burnt down Astley's twice;

Then buzzing on through ether with a vile hum,

Turn'd to the left hand, fronting the Asylum,

And burnt the Royal Circus in a hurry—

('Twas call'd the Circus then, but now the Surrey).

Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain

Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane?

Who, while the British squadron lay off Cork

(God bless the Regent and the Duke of York!)

With a foul earthquake ravaged the Caraccas,

And raised the price of dry goods and tobaccos?

Who makes the quartern loaf and Luddites rise?

Who fills the butchers' shops with large blue flies?

Who thought in flames St. James's court to pinch?

Who burnt the wardrobe of poor Lady Finch?—

Why he, who, forging for this isle a yoke,

Reminds me of a line I lately spoke,

'The tree of freedom is the British oak.'

Bless every man possess'd of aught to give;

Long may Long Tilney, Wellesley, Long Pole live;

God bless the Army, bless their coats of scarlet,

God bless the Navy, bless the Princess Charlotte;

God bless the Guards, though worsted Gallia scoff,

God bless their pig-tails, though they're now cut off;

And, oh! in Downing Street should Old Nick revel,

England's prime minister, then bless the devil!

Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and sheWho is right foolish hath the better plea:Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.Cumberland.

Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait,

All thy false mimic fooleries I hate;

For thou art Folly's counterfeit, and she

Who is right foolish hath the better plea:

Nature's true idiot I prefer to thee.

Cumberland.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,[6]And I was eight on New-year's-day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,—He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang, with might and main,Its head against the parlour-door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot,Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried, 'O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury Lane for you to-day!'And while Papa said, 'Pooh, she may!'Mamma said, 'No, she sha'n't!'Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to PentonvilleStood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,And brush'd it with a broom.My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise along the flags,And leaves me where I am.My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.At first I caught hold of the wing,And kept away; but Mr. Thing-umbob, the prompter man,Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;'Speak to 'em, little Nan.'You've only got to curtsy, whisp-er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,And then you're sure to take:I've known the day when brats, not quiteThirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7]Then why not Nancy Lake?'But while I'm speaking, where's papa?And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?Where's Jack? O, there they sit!They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,And order round poor Billy's chaise,To join them in the pit.And now, good gentlefolks, I goTo join mamma, and see the show;So, bidding you adieu,I curtsy, like a pretty miss,And if you'll blow to me a kiss,I'll blow a kiss to you.[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,[6]And I was eight on New-year's-day;So in Kate Wilson's shopPapa (he's my papa and Jack's)Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,And brother Jack a top.

My brother Jack was nine in May,[6]

And I was eight on New-year's-day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop

Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)

Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,—He thinks mine came to more than his;So to my drawer he goes,Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!He pokes her head between the bars,And melts off half her nose!

Jack 's in the pouts, and this it is,—

He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars!

He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,And tie it to his peg-top's peg,And bang, with might and main,Its head against the parlour-door:Off flies the head, and hits the floor,And breaks a window-pane.

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,

And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,

Its head against the parlour-door:

Off flies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:Well, let him cry, it serves him right.A pretty thing, forsooth!If he's to melt, all scalding hot,Half my doll's nose, and I am notTo draw his peg-top's tooth!

This made him cry with rage and spite:

Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!

If he's to melt, all scalding hot,

Half my doll's nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,And cried, 'O naughty Nancy Lake,Thus to distress your aunt:No Drury Lane for you to-day!'And while Papa said, 'Pooh, she may!'Mamma said, 'No, she sha'n't!'

Aunt Hannah heard the window break,

And cried, 'O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt:

No Drury Lane for you to-day!'

And while Papa said, 'Pooh, she may!'

Mamma said, 'No, she sha'n't!'

Well, after many a sad reproach,They got into a hackney coach,And trotted down the street.I saw them go: one horse was blind,The tails of both hung down behind,Their shoes were on their feet.

Well, after many a sad reproach,

They got into a hackney coach,

And trotted down the street.

I saw them go: one horse was blind,

The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother BillUsed to be drawn to PentonvilleStood in the lumber-room:I wiped the dust from off the top,While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,And brush'd it with a broom.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill

Used to be drawn to Pentonville

Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,

While Molly mopp'd it with a mop,

And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,Came in at six to black the shoes,(I always talk to Sam:)So what does he, but takes, and dragsMe in the chaise along the flags,And leaves me where I am.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,

Came in at six to black the shoes,

(I always talk to Sam:)

So what does he, but takes, and drags

Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,But not so tall and not so thickAs these; and, goodness me!My father's beams are made of wood,But never, never half so goodAs those that now I see.

My father's walls are made of brick,

But not so tall and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me!

My father's beams are made of wood,

But never, never half so good

As those that now I see.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!The carpet, when they lay it down,Won't hide it, I'll be bound;And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!How they do blaze! I wonder whyThey keep them on the ground.

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!

The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound;

And there's a row of lamps!—my eye!

How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,And kept away; but Mr. Thing-umbob, the prompter man,Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;'Speak to 'em, little Nan.

At first I caught hold of the wing,

And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,

And said, 'Go on, my pretty love;

'Speak to 'em, little Nan.

'You've only got to curtsy, whisp-er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,And then you're sure to take:I've known the day when brats, not quiteThirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7]Then why not Nancy Lake?'

'You've only got to curtsy, whisp-

er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,

And then you're sure to take:

I've known the day when brats, not quite

Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7]

Then why not Nancy Lake?'

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?Where's Jack? O, there they sit!They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,And order round poor Billy's chaise,To join them in the pit.

But while I'm speaking, where's papa?

And where's my aunt? and where's mamma?

Where's Jack? O, there they sit!

They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,

And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I goTo join mamma, and see the show;So, bidding you adieu,I curtsy, like a pretty miss,And if you'll blow to me a kiss,I'll blow a kiss to you.[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

And now, good gentlefolks, I go

To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,

I curtsy, like a pretty miss,

And if you'll blow to me a kiss,

I'll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows a kiss, and exit.]

'The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his maukish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of hisAlice Fell, and the greater part of his last volumes—of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair; and indeed we think a flattering, imitation.'—Edinburgh Review.

WITHOUT A PHŒNIX.

This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.What You Will.

This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.

What You Will.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain?It is, it is, and Drury lives again!Around each grateful veteran attends,Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,Endear the past, and make the future bright:Yes, generous patrons, your returning smileBlesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.When last we met, Fate's unrelenting handAlready grasped the devastating brand;Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,Then burst resistless to the astonished skies.The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide,Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,And raptured thousands on their music hung,Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced,Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste;And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raiseMore magic wonders than Amphion's lays,Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engageTo rear the prostrate glories of the stage.Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell,And Drury's genius saw his temple swell;Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause,Worthy of British arts, andyourapplause.Guided by you, our earnest aims presumeTo renovate the Drama with the dome;The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,With due observance splendidly unfold,Yet raise and foster with parental handThe living talent of our native land.O! may we still, to sense and nature true,Delight the many, nor offend the few.Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim,Still be its moral tendency the same,To win by precept, by example warn,To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn,And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!

Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain?

It is, it is, and Drury lives again!

Around each grateful veteran attends,

Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,

Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,

Endear the past, and make the future bright:

Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile

Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting handAlready grasped the devastating brand;Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,Then burst resistless to the astonished skies.The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide,Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand

Already grasped the devastating brand;

Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize,

Then burst resistless to the astonished skies.

The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride,

In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide,

Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall,

Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,And raptured thousands on their music hung,Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced,Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste;And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raiseMore magic wonders than Amphion's lays,Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engageTo rear the prostrate glories of the stage.Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell,And Drury's genius saw his temple swell;Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause,Worthy of British arts, andyourapplause.

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung,

And raptured thousands on their music hung,

Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced,

Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste;

And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raise

More magic wonders than Amphion's lays,

Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage

To rear the prostrate glories of the stage.

Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell,

And Drury's genius saw his temple swell;

Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause,

Worthy of British arts, andyourapplause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presumeTo renovate the Drama with the dome;The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,With due observance splendidly unfold,Yet raise and foster with parental handThe living talent of our native land.O! may we still, to sense and nature true,Delight the many, nor offend the few.Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim,Still be its moral tendency the same,To win by precept, by example warn,To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn,And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume

To renovate the Drama with the dome;

The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,

With due observance splendidly unfold,

Yet raise and foster with parental hand

The living talent of our native land.

O! may we still, to sense and nature true,

Delight the many, nor offend the few.

Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim,

Still be its moral tendency the same,

To win by precept, by example warn,

To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn,

And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

I.Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[10]Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,The restless soul is driven to ramble home;Sated with both, beneath new Drury's domeThe fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.II.Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your wayTo gaze on puppets in a painted dome,Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gaveAre but as flowers that decorate a tomb.Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave,Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.III.Has life so little store of real woes,That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,Ye court the lying drama for relief?Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:Or if one tolerable page appearsIn folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.IV.Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!Light as the mote that danceth in the beam,He liveth only in man's present e'e,His life a flash, his memory a dream,Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream.Yet what are they, the learned and the great?Awhile of longer wonderment the theme,Who shall presume to prophesytheirdate,Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?V.This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,Perchance than Holland's edifice[11]more fleet,Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat,And all be strewed y-smoking at your feet!Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent,Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.VI.Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste;The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear;The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste;The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear.Who can arrest your prodigal career?Who can keep down the levity of youth?What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruthMen true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth?VII.To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to makeThe Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!—Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy,Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youthWith cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[12]Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.VIII.For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl.Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!'To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,—The song of Braham is an Irish howl,—Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought.IX.Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black;Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè's grove,But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track,Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song.X.So fares the follower in the Muses' train;He toils to starve, and only lives in death;We slight him, till our patronage is vain,Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe—Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)To find the stage again a Thespian cart,And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's art.XI.Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place.Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race,His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.XII.Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?Is it for these your superstition seeksTo build a temple worthy of a god,To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks?Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks,A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays her pranks,And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[10]Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,The restless soul is driven to ramble home;Sated with both, beneath new Drury's domeThe fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

Sated with home, of wife, of children tired,

The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;[10]

Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,

The restless soul is driven to ramble home;

Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome

The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,

There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,

Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the Nine.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your wayTo gaze on puppets in a painted dome,Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gaveAre but as flowers that decorate a tomb.Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave,Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way

To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,

Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,

Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,

What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?

Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave

Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave,

Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

Has life so little store of real woes,That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,Ye court the lying drama for relief?Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:Or if one tolerable page appearsIn folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?

Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,

Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief:

Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future years.

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!Light as the mote that danceth in the beam,He liveth only in man's present e'e,His life a flash, his memory a dream,Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream.Yet what are they, the learned and the great?Awhile of longer wonderment the theme,Who shall presume to prophesytheirdate,Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

Albeit, how like young Betty doth he flee!

Light as the mote that danceth in the beam,

He liveth only in man's present e'e,

His life a flash, his memory a dream,

Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream.

Yet what are they, the learned and the great?

Awhile of longer wonderment the theme,

Who shall presume to prophesytheirdate,

Where nought is certain, save the uncertainty of fate?

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,Perchance than Holland's edifice[11]more fleet,Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat,And all be strewed y-smoking at your feet!Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent,Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,

Perchance than Holland's edifice[11]more fleet,

Again red Lemnos' artisan may spoil;

The fire-alarm and midnight drum may beat,

And all be strewed y-smoking at your feet!

Start ye? perchance Death's angel may be sent,

Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat;

And ye who met, on revel idlesse bent,

May find, in pleasure's fane, your grave and monument.

Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste;The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear;The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste;The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear.Who can arrest your prodigal career?Who can keep down the levity of youth?What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruthMen true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth?

Your debts mount high—ye plunge in deeper waste;

The tradesman duns—no warning voice ye hear;

The plaintiff sues—to public shows ye haste;

The bailiff threats—ye feel no idle fear.

Who can arrest your prodigal career?

Who can keep down the levity of youth?

What sound can startle age's stubborn ear?

Who can redeem from wretchedness and ruth

Men true to falsehood's voice, false to the voice of truth?

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to makeThe Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!—Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy,Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youthWith cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[12]Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.

To thee, blest saint! who doffed thy skin to make

The Smithfield rabble leap from theirs with joy,

We dedicate the pile—arise! awake!—

Knock down the Muses, wit and sense destroy,

Clear our new stage from reason's dull alloy,

Charm hobbling age, and tickle capering youth

With cleaver, marrow-bone, and Tunbridge toy;

While, vibrating in unbelieving tooth,[12]

Harps twang in Drury's walls, and make her boards a booth.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl.Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!'To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,—The song of Braham is an Irish howl,—Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought.

For what is Hamlet, but a hare in March?

And what is Brutus, but a croaking owl?

And what is Rolla? Cupid steeped in starch,

Orlando's helmet in Augustine's cowl.

Shakespeare, how true thine adage, 'fair is foul!'

To him whose soul is with fruition fraught,—

The song of Braham is an Irish howl,—

Thinking is but an idle waste of thought,

And nought is every thing, and every thing is nought.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black;Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè's grove,But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track,Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song.

Sons of Parnassus! whom I view above,

Not laurel-crown'd, but clad in rusty black;

Not spurring Pegasus through Tempè's grove,

But pacing Grub-street on a jaded hack;

What reams of foolscap, while your brains ye rack,

Ye mar to make again! for sure, ere long,

Condemn'd to tread the bard's time-sanction'd track,

Ye all shall join the bailiff-haunted throng,

And reproduce, in rags, the rags ye blot in song.

So fares the follower in the Muses' train;He toils to starve, and only lives in death;We slight him, till our patronage is vain,Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe—Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)To find the stage again a Thespian cart,And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's art.

So fares the follower in the Muses' train;

He toils to starve, and only lives in death;

We slight him, till our patronage is vain,

Then round his skeleton a garland wreathe,

And o'er his bones an empty requiem breathe—

Oh! with what tragic horror would he start,

(Could he be conjured from the grave beneath)

To find the stage again a Thespian cart,

And elephants and colts down-trampling Shakespeare's art.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place.Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race,His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.

Hence, pedant Nature! with thy Grecian rules!

Centaurs (not fabulous) those rules efface;

Back, sister Muses, to your native schools;

Here booted grooms usurp Apollo's place.

Hoofs shame the boards that Garrick used to grace,

The play of limbs succeeds the play of wit,

Man yields the drama to the Hou'yn'm race,

His prompter spurs, his licenser the bit,

The stage a stable-yard, a jockey-club the pit.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?Is it for these your superstition seeksTo build a temple worthy of a god,To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks?Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks,A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays her pranks,And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

Is it for these ye rear this proud abode?

Is it for these your superstition seeks

To build a temple worthy of a god,

To laud a monkey, or to worship leeks?

Then be the stage, to recompense your freaks,

A motley chaos, jumbling age and ranks,

Where Punch, the lignum-vitæ Roscius, squeaks,

And Wisdom weeps, and Folly plays her pranks,

And moody Madness laughs and hugs the chain he clanks.

'The author has succeeded better in copying the moody and misanthropic sentiments ofChilde Harold, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them. The attempt, however, indicates very considerable power; and the flow of the verse and the construction of the poetical period are imitated with no ordinary skill.'—Edinburgh Review.

TO THE

SECRETARY OF THE MANAGING COMMITTEEOF DRURY-LANE PLAYHOUSE.

Sir,

To the gewgaw fetters ofrhyme(invented by the monks to enslave the people) I have a rooted objection. I have therefore written an address for your theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman'sprose; in the doing whereof hope I am swayed by nothing but anindependentwish to open the eyes of this gulled people, to prevent a repetition of the dramaticbamboozlingthey have hitherto laboured under. If you like what I have done, and mean to make use of it, I don't want any sucharistocraticreward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling upon it, or adogand ajackassfighting for a ha'p'worth ofgilt gingerbread, or any such Bartholomew-fair nonsense. All I ask is, that the door-keepers of your playhouse may take all thesets of my Registernow on hand, andforceevery body who enters your doors to buy one, giving afterwards a debtor and creditor account of what they have received,post-paid, and in due course remitting me the money and unsold Registers,carriage-paid.

I am, &c.

W. C.[13]

IN THE CHARACTER OF

A HAMPSHIRE FARMER.

——Rabidâ qui concitus irâImplevit pariter ternis latratibus auras,Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros.Ovid.

——Rabidâ qui concitus irâ

Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras,

Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros.

Ovid.

Most Thinking People,

When persons address an audience from the stage, it is usual, either in words or gesture, to say, 'Ladies and Gentlemen, your servant.' If I were base enough,mean enough, paltry enough, andbrute beastenough, to follow that fashion, I should tell two lies in a breath. In the first place, you arenotLadies and Gentlemen, but I hope something better, that is to say, honest men and women; and in the next place, if you were ever so much ladies, and ever so much gentlemen, I am not,nor ever will be, your humble servant. You see me here,most thinking people, by mere chance. I have not been within the doors of a playhouse before for these ten years; nor, till that abominable custom of taking money at the doors is discontinued, will I ever sanction a theatre with my presence. The stage-door is the only gate offreedomin the whole edifice, and through that I made my way from Bagshaw's[14]in Brydges Street, to accost you. Look about you. Are you not all comfortable? Nay, never slink, mun; speak out, if you are dissatisfied, and tell me so before I leave town. You are now, (thanks toMr. Whitbread,) got into a large, comfortable house. Not into agimcrack palace; not into aSolomon's temple; not into a frost-work of Brobdingnag filigree; but into a plain, honest, homely, industrious, wholesome,brown brick playhouse. You have been struggling for independence and elbow-room these three years; and who gave it you? Who helped you out of Lilliput? Who routed you from a rat-hole, five inches by four, to perch you in a palace? Again and again I answer,Mr. Whitbread. You might have sweltered in that place with the Greek name[15]till doomsday, and neitherLord Castlereagh,Mr. Canning, no, nor theMarquess Wellesley, would have turned a trowel to help you out! Remember that. Never forget that. Read it to your children, and to your children's children! And now,most thinking people, cast your eyes over my head to what the builder (I beg his pardon, the architect) calls theproscenium. No motto, no slang, no popish Latin, to keep the people in the dark. Noveluti in speculum. Nothing in the dead languages, properly so called, for they ought to die, aye and bedamnedto boot! The Covent Garden manager triedthat, and a pretty business he made of it! When a man saysveluti in speculum, he is called a man of letters. Very well, and is not a man who cries O. P. a man of letters too? You ran your O. P. against hisveluti in speculum, and pray which beat? I prophesied that, though I never told any body. I take it for granted, that every intelligent man, woman, and child, to whom I address myself, has stood severally and respectively in Little Russell Street, and cast their, his, her, and its eyes on the outside of this building before they paid their money to view the inside. Look at the brick-work,English Audience! Look at the brick-work! All plain and smooth like a quakers' meeting. None of your Egyptian pyramids, to entomb subscribers' capitals. No overgrown colonnades of stone, like an alderman's gouty legs in white cotton stockings, fit only to use as rammers for paving Tottenham Court Road. This house is neither after the model of a temple in Athens, no, nor atempleinMoorfields, but it is built to act English plays in; and, provided you have good scenery, dresses, and decorations, I daresay you wouldn't break your hearts if the outside were as plain as the pikestaff I used to carry when I was a sergeant.Apropos, as the French valets say, who cut their masters' throats[16]—apropos, a word about dresses. You must, many of you, have seen what I have read a description of, Kemble and Mrs. Siddons in Macbeth, with more gold and silver plastered on their doublets than would have kept an honest family in butcher's meat and flannel from year's end to year's end! I am informed, (now mind, I do not vouch for the fact,) but I am informed that all such extravagant idleness is to be done away with here. Lady Macbeth is to have a plain quilted petticoat, a cotton gown, and a mob cap (as the court parasites call it;—it will be well for them, if, one of these days, they don't wear amob cap—I mean awhite cap, with amobto look at them); and Macbeth is to appear in an honest yeoman's drab coat, and a pair of black calamanco breeches. NotSalamanca; no, norTalaveraneither, my most Noble Marquess; but plain, honest, black calamancostuff breeches. This is right; this is as it should be.Most thinking people, I have heard you much abused. There is not a compound in the language but is strung fifty in a rope, like onions, by the Morning Post, and hurled in your teeth. You are called the mob; and when they have made you out to be the mob, you are called thescumof the people, and thedregsof the people. I should like to know how you can be both. Take a basin of broth—notcheap soup, Mr. Wilberforce—not soup for the poor, at a penny a quart, as your mixture of horses' legs, brick-dust, and old shoes, was denominated—but plain, wholesome, patriotic beef or mutton broth; take this, examine it, and you will find—mind, I don't vouch for the fact, but I am told—you will find the dregs at the bottom, and the scum at the top. I will endeavour to explain this to you: England is a largeearthenware pipkin; John Bull is thebeefthrown into it; taxes are thehot waterhe boils in; rotten boroughs are thefuelthat blazes under this same pipkin; parliament is theladlethat stirs the hodge-podge, and sometimes——. But, hold! I don't wish to payMr. Newman[17]a second visit. I leave you better off than you have been this many a day: you have a good house over your head; you have beat the French in Spain; the harvest has turned out well; the comet keeps its distance;[18]and red slippers are hawked about in Constantinople for next to nothing; and for all this,again and againI tell you, you are indebted toMr. Whitbread!!!

Jam te juvaveritViros relinquere,Doctæque conjugisSinu quiescere.Sir T. More.

Jam te juvaverit

Viros relinquere,

Doctæque conjugis

Sinu quiescere.

Sir T. More.

I.O why should our dull retrospective addresses[20]Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?Away with blue devils, away with distresses,And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!II.Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,The richest to me is when woman is there;The question of houses I leave to the jury;The fairest to me is the house of the fair.III.When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders,And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart,What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?IV.How well would our actors attend to their duties,Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beautiesGlanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!V.The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledgeBy woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize,To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.VI.There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.VII.Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushesOf beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!And flourish, ye pillars,[21]as green as the rushesThat pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!VIII.For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion,Though joyous, are sober—though peaceful, are brave.IX.The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.X.O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shacklesWhich each panting bosom indignantly names,Until not one goose at the capital cacklesAgainst the grand question of Catholic claims.XI.And then shall each Paddy, who once on the LiffeyPerchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffyMore fishes than ever he caught when a boy.XII.And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,When bred toourbar shall be Gibbses and Garrows,Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.XIII.For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,As Dian outshines each encircling star;And the spheres and the heavens could never have kept tuneTill set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

O why should our dull retrospective addresses[20]Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?Away with blue devils, away with distresses,And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

O why should our dull retrospective addresses[20]

Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?

Away with blue devils, away with distresses,

And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,The richest to me is when woman is there;The question of houses I leave to the jury;The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury,

The richest to me is when woman is there;

The question of houses I leave to the jury;

The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders,And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart,What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders,

And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart,

What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?

With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

How well would our actors attend to their duties,Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beautiesGlanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!

How well would our actors attend to their duties,

Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit,

In lieu of yon lamps, if a row of young beauties

Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit!

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledgeBy woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize,To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge

By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize,

To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college—

I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling,

Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair;

For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling,

Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushesOf beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!And flourish, ye pillars,[21]as green as the rushesThat pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes

Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!

And flourish, ye pillars,[21]as green as the rushes

That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion,Though joyous, are sober—though peaceful, are brave.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean,

Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave,

Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion,

Though joyous, are sober—though peaceful, are brave.

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

The shamrock their olive, sworn foe to a quarrel,

Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows;

Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel,

Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shacklesWhich each panting bosom indignantly names,Until not one goose at the capital cacklesAgainst the grand question of Catholic claims.

O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles

Which each panting bosom indignantly names,

Until not one goose at the capital cackles

Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the LiffeyPerchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffyMore fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey

Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy,

Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy

More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,When bred toourbar shall be Gibbses and Garrows,Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows,

In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock,

When bred toourbar shall be Gibbses and Garrows,

Assume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,As Dian outshines each encircling star;And the spheres and the heavens could never have kept tuneTill set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

For Erin surpasses the daughters of Neptune,

As Dian outshines each encircling star;

And the spheres and the heavens could never have kept tune

Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

——Per audaces nova dithyrambosVerba devolvit, numerisque ferturLege solutis.Horat.

——Per audaces nova dithyrambos

Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur

Lege solutis.

Horat.

[Spoken by a Glendoveer.]

I am a blessed Glendoveer:[23]'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.[24]Midnight, yet not a noseFrom Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored!Midnight, yet not a noseFrom Indra drew the essence of repose!See with what crimson fury,By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls ofDrury!Tops of houses, blue with lead,Bend beneath the landlord's tread.Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord,Nailor and tailor,Grazier and brazier,Through streets and alleys pour'd—All, all abroad to gaze,And wonder at the blaze.Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,Mounted on roof and chimney,[25]The mighty roast, the mighty stewTo see;As if the dismal viewWere but to them a Brentford jubilee.Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton(By Greeks call'd Apollo[26]),HollowSounds from thy harp proceed;Combustible as reed,The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs,Thou tumblest,Humblest,Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high;While, by thy somerset excited, flyTen millionBillionSparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas runHope gallops first, and second Sun;On flying heelSee Hand-in-HandO'ertake the band!View with what glowing wheelHe nicksPhœnix!While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars—Drury Lane! Drury Lane!Drury Lane! Drury Lane!They shout and they bellow again and again.All, all in vain!Water turns steam;Each blazing beamHisses defiance to the eddying spout:It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!Drury Lane! Drury Lane!See, Drury Lane expires!Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,Shorn of his ray,Surya in durance lay:The workmen heard him shout,But thought it would not pay,To dig him out.When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,Solemn as lead,Judge of the dead,Sworn foe to witticism,By men call'd criticism,Came passing by that way:Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!Behold the rival theatre!I've set O. P. at her,[27]Who, like a bull-dog bold,Growls and fastens on his hold.The many-headed rabble roar in madness;Thy rival staggers: come and spy herDeep in the mud as thou art in the mire.So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,And crossing Russell Street,He placed him on his feet'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound,As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,[28]Ran echoing round the walls; paper placardsBlotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit;On paper wings O. P.'sReclin'd in lettered ease;While shout and scoff,Ya! ya! off! off!Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell,And seem'd to paintThe savage oddities of SaintBartholomew in hell.Tears dimm'd the god of light—'Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick,Oh! bury me again in brick;Shall I on New Drury tremble,To be O. P.'d like Kemble?No,Better remain by rubbish guarded,Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,And bury me again in brick.'Obedient YamenAnswered, 'Amen,'And didAs he was bid.There lay the buried god, and TimeSeemed to decree eternity of lime;But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prestAlmighty Veeshnoo's[29]adamantine breast:He, the preserver, ardent stillTo do whate'er he says he will,From South-hill wing'd his way,To raise the drooping lord of day.All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd;He treats with men of all conditions,Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians;Nay, even venturesTo attack the renters,Old and new:A list he getsOf claims and debts,And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.Yamen beheld, and wither'd at the sight;Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control,For light was hateful to his soul:'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spite;'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,'Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen,I'll toil to undo every night.'Ye sons of song, rejoice!Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements,The spheres hymn music;Again the god of dayPeeps forth with trembling ray,Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,And pours at intervals a strain divine.'I have an iron yet in the fire,' cried Yamen;'The vollied flame rides in my breath,My blast is elemental death;This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;Engross your deeds, assignments, leases,My breath shall every line eraseSoon as I blow the blaze.'The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker;The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown:Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;The solicitor reads,And, merit of merit!Red wax and green ferretAre fixed at the foot of the deeds!Yamen beheld and shiver'd;His finger and thumb were cramped;His ear by the flea in't was bitten,When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written,Sealed and delivered,Being first duly stamped.'Now for my turn!' the demon cries, and blowsA blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend,Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,Is judged in his turn;Parchment won't burn!His schemes of vengeance are dissolv'd in air,Parchment won't tear!!Is it not written in the Himakoot book,(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)'Who blows on pounceMust the Swerga renounce?'It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:Like as an eagle claws an asp,Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,And hurl'd him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,Three times as high as Meru mountain,Which isNinety-nine times as high as St. Paul's.Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[30]Who a durable grave meantTo dig in the pavementOf Monument-yard:To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,And he fell, and he fellTo the regions of hell;Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet,Arrayed in blue and white and scarlet,And cried, 'Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!'He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;When lo! upstarting into birthA fabric, gorgeous to behold,Outshone in elegance the old,And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, 'Hail, playhouse mine!'Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:'Soon as thy maiden sister DiCaps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,And through the fissures of her clouded fanPeeps at the naughty monster man,Go mount yon edifice,And show thy steady faceIn renovated pride,More bright, more glorious than before!'But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,Still smarted from his former singe;And to Veeshnoo replied,In a tone rather gruff,'No, thank you! one tumble's enough!'

I am a blessed Glendoveer:[23]

'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.[24]

Midnight, yet not a nose

From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored!

Midnight, yet not a nose

From Indra drew the essence of repose!

See with what crimson fury,

By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of

Drury!

Tops of houses, blue with lead,Bend beneath the landlord's tread.Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord,Nailor and tailor,Grazier and brazier,Through streets and alleys pour'd—All, all abroad to gaze,And wonder at the blaze.Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,Mounted on roof and chimney,[25]The mighty roast, the mighty stewTo see;As if the dismal viewWere but to them a Brentford jubilee.

Tops of houses, blue with lead,

Bend beneath the landlord's tread.

Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord,

Nailor and tailor,

Grazier and brazier,

Through streets and alleys pour'd—

All, all abroad to gaze,

And wonder at the blaze.

Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee,

Mounted on roof and chimney,[25]

The mighty roast, the mighty stew

To see;

As if the dismal view

Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.

Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton(By Greeks call'd Apollo[26]),HollowSounds from thy harp proceed;Combustible as reed,The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs,Thou tumblest,Humblest,Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high;While, by thy somerset excited, flyTen millionBillionSparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton

(By Greeks call'd Apollo[26]),

Hollow

Sounds from thy harp proceed;

Combustible as reed,

The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs:

From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs,

Thou tumblest,

Humblest,

Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high;

While, by thy somerset excited, fly

Ten million

Billion

Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas runHope gallops first, and second Sun;On flying heelSee Hand-in-HandO'ertake the band!View with what glowing wheelHe nicksPhœnix!While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars—Drury Lane! Drury Lane!Drury Lane! Drury Lane!They shout and they bellow again and again.All, all in vain!Water turns steam;Each blazing beamHisses defiance to the eddying spout:It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!Drury Lane! Drury Lane!See, Drury Lane expires!

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires:

To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run

Hope gallops first, and second Sun;

On flying heel

See Hand-in-Hand

O'ertake the band!

View with what glowing wheel

He nicks

Phœnix!

While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars—

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain!

Water turns steam;

Each blazing beam

Hisses defiance to the eddying spout:

It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

See, Drury Lane expires!

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,Shorn of his ray,Surya in durance lay:The workmen heard him shout,But thought it would not pay,To dig him out.When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,Solemn as lead,Judge of the dead,Sworn foe to witticism,By men call'd criticism,Came passing by that way:Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!Behold the rival theatre!I've set O. P. at her,[27]Who, like a bull-dog bold,Growls and fastens on his hold.The many-headed rabble roar in madness;Thy rival staggers: come and spy herDeep in the mud as thou art in the mire.

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more,

Shorn of his ray,

Surya in durance lay:

The workmen heard him shout,

But thought it would not pay,

To dig him out.

When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell,

Solemn as lead,

Judge of the dead,

Sworn foe to witticism,

By men call'd criticism,

Came passing by that way:

Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!

Behold the rival theatre!

I've set O. P. at her,[27]

Who, like a bull-dog bold,

Growls and fastens on his hold.

The many-headed rabble roar in madness;

Thy rival staggers: come and spy her

Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.

So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,And crossing Russell Street,He placed him on his feet'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound,As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,[28]Ran echoing round the walls; paper placardsBlotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit;On paper wings O. P.'sReclin'd in lettered ease;While shout and scoff,Ya! ya! off! off!Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell,And seem'd to paintThe savage oddities of SaintBartholomew in hell.

So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one,

And crossing Russell Street,

He placed him on his feet

'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound,

As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose:

Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper,

Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes,

From the knobb'd bludgeon to the taper switch,[28]

Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards

Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches;

A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit;

On paper wings O. P.'s

Reclin'd in lettered ease;

While shout and scoff,

Ya! ya! off! off!

Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell,

And seem'd to paint

The savage oddities of Saint

Bartholomew in hell.

Tears dimm'd the god of light—'Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick,Oh! bury me again in brick;Shall I on New Drury tremble,To be O. P.'d like Kemble?No,Better remain by rubbish guarded,Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,And bury me again in brick.'Obedient YamenAnswered, 'Amen,'And didAs he was bid.

Tears dimm'd the god of light—

'Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight;

Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick,

Oh! bury me again in brick;

Shall I on New Drury tremble,

To be O. P.'d like Kemble?

No,

Better remain by rubbish guarded,

Than thus hubbubish groan placarded;

Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick,

And bury me again in brick.'

Obedient Yamen

Answered, 'Amen,'

And did

As he was bid.

There lay the buried god, and TimeSeemed to decree eternity of lime;But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prestAlmighty Veeshnoo's[29]adamantine breast:He, the preserver, ardent stillTo do whate'er he says he will,From South-hill wing'd his way,To raise the drooping lord of day.All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd;He treats with men of all conditions,Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians;Nay, even venturesTo attack the renters,Old and new:A list he getsOf claims and debts,And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.Yamen beheld, and wither'd at the sight;Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control,For light was hateful to his soul:'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spite;'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,'Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen,I'll toil to undo every night.'

There lay the buried god, and Time

Seemed to decree eternity of lime;

But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest

Almighty Veeshnoo's[29]adamantine breast:

He, the preserver, ardent still

To do whate'er he says he will,

From South-hill wing'd his way,

To raise the drooping lord of day.

All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd;

He treats with men of all conditions,

Poets and players, tradesmen, and musicians;

Nay, even ventures

To attack the renters,

Old and new:

A list he gets

Of claims and debts,

And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.

Yamen beheld, and wither'd at the sight;

Long had he aim'd the sunbeam to control,

For light was hateful to his soul:

'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spite;

'Go on!' cried the hellish one, yellow with spleen,

'Thy toils of the morning, like Ithaca's queen,

I'll toil to undo every night.'

Ye sons of song, rejoice!Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements,The spheres hymn music;Again the god of dayPeeps forth with trembling ray,Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,And pours at intervals a strain divine.'I have an iron yet in the fire,' cried Yamen;'The vollied flame rides in my breath,My blast is elemental death;This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;Engross your deeds, assignments, leases,My breath shall every line eraseSoon as I blow the blaze.'The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker;The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown:Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;The solicitor reads,And, merit of merit!Red wax and green ferretAre fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Ye sons of song, rejoice!

Veeshnoo has still'd the jarring elements,

The spheres hymn music;

Again the god of day

Peeps forth with trembling ray,

Wakes, from their humid caves, the sleeping Nine,

And pours at intervals a strain divine.

'I have an iron yet in the fire,' cried Yamen;

'The vollied flame rides in my breath,

My blast is elemental death;

This hand shall tear your paper bonds to pieces;

Engross your deeds, assignments, leases,

My breath shall every line erase

Soon as I blow the blaze.'

The lawyers are met at the Crown and Anchor,

And Yamen's visage grows blanker and blanker;

The lawyers are met at the Anchor and Crown,

And Yamen's cheek is a russety brown:

Veeshnoo, now thy work proceeds;

The solicitor reads,

And, merit of merit!

Red wax and green ferret

Are fixed at the foot of the deeds!

Yamen beheld and shiver'd;His finger and thumb were cramped;His ear by the flea in't was bitten,When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written,Sealed and delivered,Being first duly stamped.'Now for my turn!' the demon cries, and blowsA blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend,Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,Is judged in his turn;Parchment won't burn!His schemes of vengeance are dissolv'd in air,Parchment won't tear!!

Yamen beheld and shiver'd;

His finger and thumb were cramped;

His ear by the flea in't was bitten,

When he saw by the lawyer's clerk written,

Sealed and delivered,

Being first duly stamped.

'Now for my turn!' the demon cries, and blows

A blast of sulphur from his mouth and nose.

Ah! bootless aim! the critic fiend,

Sagacious Yamen, judge of hell,

Is judged in his turn;

Parchment won't burn!

His schemes of vengeance are dissolv'd in air,

Parchment won't tear!!

Is it not written in the Himakoot book,(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)'Who blows on pounceMust the Swerga renounce?'It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:Like as an eagle claws an asp,Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,And hurl'd him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,Three times as high as Meru mountain,Which isNinety-nine times as high as St. Paul's.Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[30]Who a durable grave meantTo dig in the pavementOf Monument-yard:To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,And he fell, and he fellTo the regions of hell;Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Is it not written in the Himakoot book,

(That mighty Baly from Kehama took)

'Who blows on pounce

Must the Swerga renounce?'

It is! it is! Yamen, thine hour is nigh:

Like as an eagle claws an asp,

Veeshnoo has caught him in his mighty grasp,

And hurl'd him, in spite of his shrieks and his squalls,

Whizzing aloft, like the Temple fountain,

Three times as high as Meru mountain,

Which is

Ninety-nine times as high as St. Paul's.

Descending, he twisted like Levy the Jew,[30]

Who a durable grave meant

To dig in the pavement

Of Monument-yard:

To earth by the laws of attraction he flew,

And he fell, and he fell

To the regions of hell;

Nine centuries bounced he from cavern to rock,

And his head, as he tumbled, went nickety-nock,

Like a pebble in Carisbrook well.

Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet,Arrayed in blue and white and scarlet,And cried, 'Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!'He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;When lo! upstarting into birthA fabric, gorgeous to behold,Outshone in elegance the old,And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, 'Hail, playhouse mine!'Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:'Soon as thy maiden sister DiCaps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,And through the fissures of her clouded fanPeeps at the naughty monster man,Go mount yon edifice,And show thy steady faceIn renovated pride,More bright, more glorious than before!'But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,Still smarted from his former singe;And to Veeshnoo replied,In a tone rather gruff,'No, thank you! one tumble's enough!'

Now Veeshnoo turn'd round to a capering varlet,

Arrayed in blue and white and scarlet,

And cried, 'Oh! brown of slipper as of hat!

Lend me, Harlequin, thy bat!'

He seized the wooden sword, and smote the earth;

When lo! upstarting into birth

A fabric, gorgeous to behold,

Outshone in elegance the old,

And Veeshnoo saw, and cried, 'Hail, playhouse mine!'

Then, bending his head, to Surya he said:

'Soon as thy maiden sister Di

Caps with her copper lid the dark blue sky,

And through the fissures of her clouded fan

Peeps at the naughty monster man,

Go mount yon edifice,

And show thy steady face

In renovated pride,

More bright, more glorious than before!'

But ah! coy Surya still felt a twinge,

Still smarted from his former singe;

And to Veeshnoo replied,

In a tone rather gruff,

'No, thank you! one tumble's enough!'

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