Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,

Arm'd in adamantine chains,

Lead me to the crystal mirrors,

Watering soft Elysian plains.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,

Gilding my Aurelia's brows,

Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,

Hear me pay my dying vows.

Melancholy smooth Meander,

Swiftly purling in a round,

On thy margin lovers wander,

With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

Thus when Philomela drooping,

Softly seeks her silent mate,

See the bird of Juno stooping;

Melody resigns to fate.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE

PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH

BOOK OF OVID.

DEAN SWIFT

In ancient time, as story tells,

The saints would often leave their cells,

And stroll about, but hide their quality,

To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,

As authors of the legend write,

Two brother hermits, saints by trade,

Taking their tour in masquerade,

Disguised in tatter'd habits, went

To a small village down in Kent;

Where, in the strollers' canting strain,

They begg'd from door to door in vain,

Tried every tone might pity win;

But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state,

Treated at this ungodly rate,

Having through all the village past,

To a small cottage came at last

Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,

Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon;

Who kindly did these saints invite

In his poor hut to pass the night;

And then the hospitable sire

Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;

While he from out the chimney took

A flitch of bacon off the hook,

And freely from the fattest side

Cut out large slices to be fried;

Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,

Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,

And saw it fairly twice go round;

Yet (what was wonderful) they found

'T was still replenish'd to the top,

As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amazed,

And often on each other gazed;

For both were frighten'd to the heart,

And just began to cry, "What ar't!"

Then softly turn'd aside, to view

Whether the lights were burning blue

The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,

Told them their calling and their errand:

"Good folks, you need not be afraid,

We are but saints," the hermits said;

"No hurt shall come to you or yours:

But for that pack of churlish boors,

Not fit to live on Christian ground,

They and their houses shall be drown'd,

While you shall see your cottage rise,

And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,

The roof began to mount aloft;

Aloft rose every beam and rafter;

The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,

Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,

And there stood fasten'd to a joist,

But with the upside down, to show

Its inclination for below:

In vain; for a superior force

Applied at bottom stops its course:

Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,

'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost

Lost by disuse the art to roast,

A sudden alteration feels,

Increased by new intestine wheels;

And, what exalts the wonder more,

The number made the motion slower.

The flier, though it had leaden feet,

Turn'd round so quick you scarce could see't;

But, slacken'd by some secret power,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

The jack and chimney, near allied,

Had never left each other's side;

The chimney to a steeple grown,

The jack would not be left alone;

But, up against the steeple rear'd,

Became a clock, and still adhered;

And still its love to household cares,

By a shrill voice at noon, declares,

Warning the cook-maid not to burn

That roast meat, which it can not turn.

The groaning-chair began to crawl,

Like a huge snail, along the wall;

There stuck aloft in public view,

And with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row

Hung high, and made a glittering show,

To a less noble substance changed,

Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads, pasted on the wall,

Of Joan of France, and English Moll

Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,

The little Children in the Wood,

Now seem'd to look abundance better,

Improved in picture, size, and letter:

And, high in order placed, describe

The heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,

Compact of timber many a load,

Such as our ancestors did use,

Was metamorphosed into pews;

Which still their ancient nature keep

By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage, by such feats as these,

Grown to a church by just degrees,

The hermits then desired their host

To ask for what he fancied most

Philemon, having paused a while,

Return'd them thanks in homely style;

Then said, "My house is grown so fine,

Methinks, I still would call it mine.

I'm old, and fain would live at ease;

Make me the parson if you please."

He spoke, and presently he feels

His grazier's coat fall down his heels:

He sees, yet hardly can believe,

About each arm a pudding sleeve;

His waistcoat to a cassock grew,

And both assumed a sable hue;

But, being old, continued just

As threadbare, and as full of dust.

His talk was now of tithes and dues:

He smoked his pipe, and read the news;

Knew how to preach old sermons next,

Vamp'd in the preface and the text;

At christenings well could act his part,

And had the service all by heart;

Wish'd women might have children fast,

And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;

Against dissenters would repine,

And stood up firm for "right divine;"

Found his head fill'd with many a system;

But classic authors--he ne'er miss'd 'em.

Thus having furbish'd up a parson,

Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.

Instead of homespun coifs, were seen

Good pinners edged with colberteen;

Her petticoat transform'd apace,

Became black satin, flounced with lace.

"Plain Goody" would no longer down,

'T was "Madam," in her grogram gown.

Philemon was in great surprise,

And hardly could believe his eyes.

Amazed to see her look so prim,

And she admired as much at him.

Thus happy in their change of life,

Were several years this man and wife:

When on a day, which proved their last,

Discoursing o'er old stories past,

They went by chance, amid their talk,

To the church-yard to take a walk;

When Baucis hastily cried out,

"My dear, I see your forehead sprout!"--

"Sprout," quoth the man; "what's this you tell us?

I hope you don't believe me jealous!

But yet, methinks I feel it true,

And really yours is budding too--

Nay--now I can not stir my foot;

It feels as if 't were taking root."

Description would but tire my Muse,

In short, they both were turn'd to yews.

Old Goodman Dobson of the green

Remembers he the trees has seen;

He'll talk of them from noon till night,

And goes with folks to show the sight;

On Sundays, after evening prayer,

He gathers all the parish there;

Points out the place of either yew,

Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:

Till once a parson of our town,

To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;

At which, 'tis hard to be believed

How much the other tree was grieved,

Grew scrubbed, died a-top, was stunted,

So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER

IN IMITATION OP VIRGIL'S GEORGICS.

DEAN SWIFT.

Careful, observers may foretell the hour,

(By sure prognostics), when to dread a shower.

While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er

Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.

Returning home at night, you'll find the sink

Strike your offended sense with double stink.

If you be wise, then, go not far to dine:

You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine

A coming shower your shooting corns presage,

Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage;

Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;

He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.

Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,

A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,

That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,

And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,

While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;

Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear.

Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:

You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop

To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.

Not yet the dust had shunn'd the unequal strife,

But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,

And wafted with its foe by violent gust,

'T was doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.

Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,

When dust and rain at once his coat invade?

Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,

Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!

Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,

Threatening with deluge this DEVOTED town.

To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,

Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.

The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach.

Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.

The tuck'd up sempstress walks with hasty strides,

While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.

Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,

Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.

Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,

Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.

Box'd in a chair the beau impatient sits,

While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,

And ever and anon with frightful din

The leather sounds; he trembles from within.

So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,

Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,

(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,

Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through),

Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,

And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.

Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,

And bear their trophies with them as they go:

Filth of all hues and odor, seem to tell

What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell.

They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,

From Smithfield to St. Pulchre's shape their course,

And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge,

Fall from the conduit prone to Holborne bridge.

Sweeping from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood;

Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud,

Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood.

THE PROGRESS OF CURIOSITY;

OR A ROYAL VISIT TO WHITBKEAD'S BREWERY.

PETER PINDAR.

Sic transit gloria mundi!--Old Sun Dials.

From House of Buckingham, in grand parade,

To Whitbread's Brewhouse, moved the cavalcade.

THE ARGUMENT.--Peter's loyalty.--He suspecteth Mr. Warton [Footnote:

The Poet Laureate.] of joking.--Complimenteth the poet Laureate.--

Peter differeth in opinion from Mr. Warton.--Taketh up the cudgels for

King Edward, King Harry V., and Queen Bess.--Feats on Blackheath and

Wimbledon performed by our most gracious sovereign.--King Charles the

Second half damned by Peter, yet praised for keeping company with

gentlemen.--Peter praiseth himself.--Peter reproved by Mr.

Warton.--Desireth Mr. Warton's prayers.--A fine simile.--Peter still

suspecteth the Laureate of ironical dealings.--Peter expostulateth

with Mr. Warton.--Mr. Warton replieth.--Peter administereth bold

advice.--Wittily calleth death and physicians poachers.--Praiseth the

king for parental tenderness.--Peter maketh a natural simile.--Peter

furthermore telleth Thomas Warton what to say.--Peter giveth a

beautiful example of ode-writing.

THE CONTENTS OF THE ODE.--His Majesty's [Footnote: George III.] love

for the arts and sciences, even in quadrupeds.--His resolution to know

the history of brewing beer.--Billy Ramus sent ambassador to Chiswell

street.--Interview between Messrs. Ramus and Whitbread.--Mr.

Whitbread's bow, and compliments to Majesty.--Mr. Ramus's return from

his embassy.--Mr. Whitbread's terrors described to Majesty by Mr.

Ramus.--The King's pleasure thereat.--Description of people of

worship.--Account of the Whitbread preparation.--The royal cavalcade

to Chiswell-street.--The arrival at the brewhouse.--Great joy of Mr.

Whitbread.--His Majesty's nod, the Queen's dip, and a number of

questions.--A West India simile.--The marvelings of the draymen

described.--His Majesty peepeth into a pump.--Beautifully compared to

a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone.--The MINUTE curiosity of the

King.--Mr. Whitbread endeavoreth to surprise Majesty.--His Majesty

puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's horse espresseth

wonder.--Also Mr. Whitbread's dog.--His Majesty maketh laudable

inquiry about Porter.--Again puzzleth Mr. Whitbread.--King noteth

NOTABLE things.--Profound questions proposed by Majesty.--As

profoundly answered by Mr. Whitbread.--Majesty in a

mistake.--Corrected by the brewer.--A nose simile.--Majesty's

admiration of the bell.--Good manners of the bell.--Fine appearance of

Mr. Whitbread's pigs.--Majesty proposeth questions, but benevolently

waiteth not for answers.--Peter telleth the duty of Kings.--

Discovereth one of his shrewd maxims.--Sublime sympathy of a water-

spout and a king.--The great use of asking questions.--The habitation

of truth.--The collation.--The wonders performed by the Royal

Visitors.--Majesty proposeth to take leave.--Offereth knighthood to

Whitbread.--Mr. Whitbread's objections.--The king runneth a rig on his

host.--Mr. Whitbread thanketh Majesty.--Miss Whitbread curtsieth.--The

queen dippeth.--The Cavalcade departeth.

Peter triumpheth.--Admonisheth the Laureate.--Peter croweth over the

Laureate.--Discovereth deep knowledge of kings, and surgeons, and men

who have lost their legs.--Peter reasoneth.--Vaunteth.--Even insulteth

the Laureate.--Peter proclaimeth his peaceable disposition.--Praiseth

Majesty, and concludeth with a prayer for curious kings.

Tom, soon as e'er thou strik'st thy golden lyre,

Thy brother Peter's muse is all on fire,

To sing of kings and queens, and such rare folk

Yet, 'midst thy heap of compliments so fine,

Say, may we venture to believe a line?

You Oxford wits most dearly love a joke.

Son of the Nine, thou writest well on naught;

Thy thundering stanza, and its pompous thought,

I think, must put a dog into a laugh:

Edward and Harry were much braver men

Than this new-christened hero of thy pen.

Yes, laurelled Odeman, braver far by half;

Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain,

George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain;

Sees swords and bayonets without a dread,

Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head:

Although at grand reviews he seems so blest,

And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest,

Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster;

Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming,

And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine,

With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters.

Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess:

His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless

With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality,

Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche

As that old queen, though often called old b--ch,

In fame's colossal house of immortality.

As for John Dryden's Charles--that king

Indeed was never any mighty thing;

He merited few honors from the pen:

And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow,

Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow,

And mind--kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms,

Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms,

Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight--

Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids,

Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades:

Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover;

In short, I'm candor's self all over;

Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe;

Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised,

And humble Merit from the ground be raised:

What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king,

Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing;

That king has virtues that should make thee stare."

Is it so?--Then the sin's in me--

'Tis my vile optics that can't see;

Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne,

So distant, O ye gods! from every one,

The royal virtues are like many a star,

From this our pigmy system rather far:

Whose light, though flying ever since creation,

Has not yet pitched upon our nation.

[Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer,

Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored--

And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming,

I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word

The instant I behold it coming.

But, Thomas Warton, without joking,

Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare,

That George the Third

With Cressy's Edward can compare,

Or Harry?--'Tis too bad, upon my word:

George is a clever king, I needs must own,

And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray

What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom:

Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying,

His gracious eyes and ears was edifying,

By abbey company and kettle drum:

Leaving that son to death and the physician,

Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition;

Two poachers, who make man their game,

And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son,

He kept aloof through fatherly affection;

Determined nothing should be done,

To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection.

For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs?

Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes;

And what are sighs and tears but wind and water,

That show the leakiness of feeble nature?

Tom, with my simile thou wilt not quarrel;

Like air and any sort of drink,

Whizzing and oozing through each chink,

That proves the weakness of the barrel.

Say--for the prince, when wet was every eye,

And thousands poured to heaven the pitying sigh Devout;

Say how a King, unable to dissemble,

Ordered Dame Siddons to his house, and Kemble, To spout:

Gave them ice creams and wines, so dear!

Denied till then a thimble full of beer;

For which they've thanked the author of this meter,

Videlicet, the moral mender, Peter

Who, in his Ode on Ode, did dare exclaim,

And call such royal avarice, a shame.

Say--but I'll teach thee how to make an ode;

Thus shall thy labors visit fame's abode,

In company with my immortal lay;

And look, Tom--thus I fire away--

BIRTH-DAY ODE.

This day, this very day, gave birth,

Not to the brightest monarch upon earth,

Because there are some brighter and as big;

Who love the arts that man exalt to heaven,

George loves them also, when they're given

To four-legged Gentry, christened dog and pig.*

Whose deeds in this our wonder-hunting nation

Prove what a charming thing is education.

*[Footnote: The dancing dogs and wise pig have formed a considerable

part of the royal amusement.]

Full of the art of brewing beer,

The monarch heard of Mr. Whitbread's fame:

Quoth he unto the queen "My dear, my dear,

Whitbread hath got a marvelous great name;

Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brew--

Rich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew:

Shame, shame, we have not yet his brewhouse seen!"

Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen!

Red-hot with novelty's delightful rage,

To Mr. Whitbread forth he sent a page,

To say that majesty proposed to view,

With thirst of wondrous knowledge deep inflamed,

His vats, and tubs, and hops, and hogsheads famed,

And learn the noble secret how to brew.

Of such undreamt-of honor proud,

Meet reverently the brewer bowed;

So humbly (so the humble story goes,)

He touched even terra firma with his nose;

Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus,

"Happy are we that our great king should name us,

As worthy unto majesty to show,

How we poor Chiswell people brew."

Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought,

To majesty tha welcome tidings brought,

How Whitbread, staring, stood like any stake,

And trembled--then the civil things he said--

On which the king did smile and nod his head:

For monarchs like to see their subjects quake:

Such horrors unto kings most pleasant are,

Proclaiming reverence and humility:

High thoughts, too, all those shaking fits declare

Of kingly grandeur and great capability!

People of worship, wealth, and birth,

Look on the humbler sons of earth,

Indeed in a most humble light, God knows!

High stations are like Dover's towering cliffs,

Where ships below appear like little skiffs,

While people walking on the strand like crows.

Muse, sing the stir that Mr. Whitbread made;

Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid

He should not charm enough his guests divine:

He gave his maids new aprons, gowns and smocks;

And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,

To make the apprentices and draymen fine:

Busy as horses in a field of clover,

Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over,

Amid the Whitbread rout of preparation,

To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,

To visit the first brewer in the land;

Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat

In a snug corner christened Chiswell-street;

But oftener charmed with fashionable air,

Amid the gaudy great of Portman-square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's Lord ALSO,

His grace the Duke of Montague LIKEWISE.

With Lady Harcourt joined the raree-show,

And fixed all Smithfield's marveling eyes:

For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters,

Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs.

Arrived, the king broad grinned, and gave a nod

To smiling Whitbread, who, had God

Come with his angels to behold his beer,

With more respect he never could have met--

Indeed the man was in a sweat,

So much the brewer did the king revere.

Her majesty contrived to make a dip:

Light as a feather then the king did skip,

And asked a thousand questions, with a laugh,

Before poor Whitbread comprehended half.

Reader, my Ode should have a simile--

Well, in Jamaica, on a tamarind tree,

Five hundred parrots, gabbling just like Jews,

I've seen--such noise the feathered imps did make,

As made my very pericranium ache--

Asking and telling parrot news:

Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise,

Whilst draymen and the brewer's boys,

Devoured the questions that the king did ask:

In different parties were they staring seen,

Wondering to think they saw a king and queen!

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon)

Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon;

And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye,

To view, and be assured what sort of things

Were princesses, and queens, and kings,

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!

And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan,

Few were the mouths that had not got a man!

Now majesty into a pump so deep

Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:

Examining with care each wondrous matter

That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,

A chattering bird we often meet,

A bird for curiosity well known;

With head awry,

And cunning eye,

Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone.

And now his curious majesty did stoop

To count the nails on every hoop;

And, lo! no single thing came in his way,

That, full of deep research, he did not say,

"What's this! hae, hae? what's that? what's this? what's that?"

So quick the words, too, when he deigned to speak,

As if each syllable would break his neck.

Thus, to the world of GREAT whilst others crawl,

Our sovereign peeps into the world of SMALL;

Thus microscopic genuises explore

Things that too oft provoke the public scorn,

Yet swell of useful knowledges the store,

By finding systems in a pepper-corn.

Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare,

To make the majesty of England stare,

That he had butts enough, he knew,

Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew:

On which the king with wonder swiftly cried,

"What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side,

What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?"

To whom with knitted, calculating brow,

The man of beer most solemnly did vow,

Almost to Windsor that they would extend;

On which the king, with wondering mien,

Repeated it unto the wondering queen:

On which, quick turning round his haltered head,

The brewer's horse, with face astonished neighed;

The brewer's dog too poured a note of thunder,

Rattled his chain, and wagged his tail for wonder.

Now did the king for other beers inquire,

For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire

And, after talking of these different beers,

Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs?

This was a puzzling, disagreeing question;

Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion:

A kind of question to the man of cask,

That not even Solomon himself would ask.

Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took

A very pretty memorandum-book,

With gilded leaves of asses' skin so white,

And in it legibly began to write--

MEMORANDUM.

A charming place beneath the grates

For roasting chestnuts or potates.

MEM.

'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer--

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

QUOERE.

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?

Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

MEM.

To try it soon on our small beer--

'Twill save us several pound a year.

MEM.

To remember to forget to ask

Old Whitbread to my house one day

MEM.

Not to forget to take of beer the cask,

The brewer offered me, away.

Now having penciled his remarks so shrewd,

Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin,

His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,

And then put up his asses' skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say,

"Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay!"

"Yes, please your majesty," in humble notes,

The brewer answered--"also, sir, of oats:

Another thing my horses too maintains,

And that, an't please your majesty, are grains."

"Grains, grains," said majesty, "to fill their crops?

Grains, grains?--that comes from hops--yes, hops, hops?

hops?"

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault--

"Sire," cried the humble brewer, "give me leave

Your sacred majesty to undeceive;

Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt."

"True," said the cautious monarch, with a smile:

"From malt, malt, malt--I meant malt all the while."

"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,

"An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure."

"Yes," answered majesty, with quick reply,

"I did, I did, I did I, I, I, I."

Now this was wise in Whitbread--here we find

A very pretty knowledge of mankind;

As monarchs never must be in the wrong,

'Twas really a bright thought in Whitbread's tongue,

To tell a little fib, or some such thing,

To save the sinking credit of a king.

Some brewers, in a rage of information,

Proud to instruct the ruler of a nation,

Had on the folly dwelt, to seem damned clever!

Now, what had been the consequence? Too plain!

The man had cut his consequence in twain;

The king had hated the WISE fool forever!

Reader, whene'er thou dost espy a nose

That bright with many a ruby glows,

That nose thou mayest pronounce, nay safely swear,

Is nursed on something better than small-beer.

Thus when thou findest kings in brewing wise,

Or natural history holding lofty station,

Thou mayest conclude, with marveling eyes,

Such kings have had a goodly education.

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,

That daily asks the draymen all to dine:

On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)

To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.

And now before their sovereign's curious eye,

Parents and children, fine, fat, hopeful sprigs,

All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their style,

Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs:

On which the observant man, who fills a throne,

Declared the pigs were vastly like his own:

On which, the brewer, swallowed up in joys,

Tears and astonishment in both his eyes,

His soul brim full of sentiments so loyal,

Exclaimed, "O heavens! and can my swine

Be deemed by majesty so fine!

Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?"

To which the king assented with a nod;

On which the brewer bowed, and said, "Good God!"

Then winked significant on Miss;

Significant of wonder and of bliss;

Who, bridling in her chin divine,

Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,

And then her lowest courtesy made

For such high honor done her father's swine.

Now did his majesty so gracious say

To Mr. Whitbread, in his flying way,

"Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then?

Hae, Whitbread, when d'ye think to leave off trade?

Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid?

What, what's the matter with the men?

"D'ye hunt!--hae, hunt? No, no, you are too old--

You'll be lord mayor--lord mayor one day--

Yes, yes, I've heard so--yes, yes, so I'm told:

Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay?

I'll prick you every year, man, I declare:

Yes, Whitbread-yes, yes-you shall be lord mayor.

"Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best

You put your liveries on the draymen-hee?

Hae, Whitbread? you have feather'd well your nest.

What, what's the price now, hee, of all your stock?

But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?"

Now Whitbread inward said, "May I be cursed

If I know what to answer first;"

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye:

But e'er the man of malt an answer found,

Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,

Skipped off, and baulked the pleasure of reply.

Kings in inquisitiveness should be strong-

From curiosity doth wisdom flow:

For 'tis a maxim I've adopted long,

The more a man inquires, the more he'll know.

Reader, didst ever see a water-spout?

'Tis possible that thou wilt answer, "No."

Well then! he makes a most infernal rout;

Sucks, like an elephant, the waves below,

With huge proboscis reaching from the sky,

As if he meant to drink the ocean dry:

At length so full he can't hold one drop more-.

He bursts-down rush the waters with a roar

On some poor boat, or sloop, or brig, or ship,

And almost sinks the wand'rer of the deep:

Thus have I seen a monarch at reviews,

Suck from the tribe of officers the news,

Then bear in triumph off each WONDROUS matter,

And souse it on the queen with such a clatter!

I always would advise folks to ask questions;

For, truly, questions are the keys of knowledge:

Soldiers, who forage for the mind's digestions,

Cut figures at the Old Bailey, and at college;

Make chancellors, chief justices, and judges,

Even of the lowest green-bag drudges.

The sages say, Dame Truth delights to dwell,

Strange mansion! in the bottom of a well,

Questions are then the windlass and the rope

That pull the grave old gentlewoman up:

Damn jokes then, and unmannerly suggestions,

Reflecting upon kings for asking questions.

Now having well employed his royal lungs

On nails, hoops, staves, pumps, barrels, and their bungs,

The king and Co. sat down to a collation

Of flesh and fish, and fowl of every nation.

Dire was the clang of plates, of knife and fork,

That merciless fell like tomahawks to work,

And fearless scalped the fowl, the fish, and cattle,

While Whitbread, in the rear, beheld the battle.

The conquering monarch, stopping to take breath

Amidst the regiments of death,

Now turned to Whitbread with complacence round,

And, merry, thus addressed the man of beer

"Whitbread, is't true? I hear, I hear,

You're of an ancient family--renowned--

What? what? I'm told that you're a limb

Of Pym, the famous fellow Pym:

What Whitbread, is it true what people say?

Son of a round-head are you? hae? hae? hae?

I'm told that you send Bibles to your votes--

A snuffling round-headed society--

Prayer-books instead of cash to buy them coats--

Bunyans, and Practices of Piety:

Your Bedford votes would wish to change their fare--

Rather see cash--yes, yes--than books of prayer.

Thirtieth of January don't you FEED?

Yes, yes, you eat calf's head, you eat calf's head."

Now having wonders done on flesh, fowl, fish,

Whole hosts o'erturned--and seized on all supplies;

The royal visitors expressed a wish

To turn to House of Buckingham their eyes.

But first the monarch, so polite,

Asked Mr. Whitbread if he'd be a KNIGHT.

Unwilling in the list to be enrolled,

Whitbread contemplated the knights of Peg,

Then to his generous sovereign made a leg,

And said, "He was afraid he was too old.

He thanked however his most gracious king,

For offering to make him SUCH A THING."

But, ah! a different reason 'twas I fear!

It was not age that bade the man of beer

The proffered honor of the monarch shun:

The tale of Margaret's knife, and royal fright,

Had almost made him damn the NAME of knight,

A tale that farrowed such a world of fun.

He mocked the prayer too by the king appointed,

Even by himself the Lord's Anointed:--

A foe to FAST too, is he, let me tell ye;

And though a Presbyterian, can not think

Heaven (quarrelling with meat and drink)

Joys in the grumble of a hungry belly!

Now from the table with Caesarean air

Up rose the monarch with his laureled brow,

When Mr. Whitbread, waiting on his chair,

Expressed much thanks, much joy, and made a bow.

Miss Whitbread now so quick her curtsies drops,

Thick as her honored father's Kentish hops;

Which hop-like curtsies were returned by dips

That never hurt the royal knees and hips;

For hips and knees of queens are sacred things,

That only bend on gala days

Before the best of kings,

When odes of triumph sound his praise.--

Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas,

Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws,

The raree-show thought proper to retire;

Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair

Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air,

For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher

*[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or

parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to

huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide-

mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance,

at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the

play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the

theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set

up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles,

acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy.

This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many,

particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible

thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard--P. P.]

Such, Thomas, is the way to write!

Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite;

Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky:

No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings--

Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS;

I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme

Call every king a character sublime;

For conscience will not suffer me to wander

So very widely from the paths of candor.

I know full well SOME kings are to be seen,

To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen,

Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS

I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed--

They MAY have been with such a present blessed,

And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows,

That men who with their legs have parted,

Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES,

And often at the twinges started;

They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!

Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned,

Can fancy those same toes at times returned;

So kings, in matters of intelligences,

May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.

Yes, Tom--mine is the way of writing ode--

Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read;

And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry,

"Is this an action, Peter, this a deed

To raise a monarch to the sky?

Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng,

Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels

On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels--

Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife,

But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact--

Thy Caesar never did an act

More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings,

Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house:

And may they never do more foolish things

Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN

[ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

While at the helm of state you ride,

Our nation's envy, and its pride;

While foreign courts with wonder gaze,

And curse those councils which they praise;

Would you not wonder, sir, to view

Your bard a greater man than you?

Which that he is you can not doubt,

When you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,

Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,

No great analogy between

Greatness and happiness is seen.

If then, as it might follow straight,

WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT;

Forbid it, gods, that you should try

What'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest,

Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;

But latest hours must surely fall

'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know,

Hath been admired by friend and foe:

But can your earthly domes compare

With all my castles--in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove as

To think those greater who're above us;

Another instance of my glory,

Who live above you, twice two story;

And from my garret can look down

On the whole street of ARLINGTON.

Greatness by poets still is painted

With many followers acquainted:

This too doth in my favor speak;

YOUR levee is but twice a week;

From mine I can exclude but one day,

My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance,

Doth your great bard claim less ascendance

Familiar you to admiration

May be approached by all the nation;

While I, like the Mogul in INDO,

Am never seen but at my window.

If with my greatness you're offended,

The fault is easily amended;

For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,

Into whatever PLACE you please.

I'm not ambitious; little matters

Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle,

Just to be doing with a while;

Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop:

Or I can foreign treaties dish up.

If the good genius of the nation

Should call me to negotiation,

Tuscan and French are in my head,

LATIN I write, and GREEK--I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best?

To get the most, and do the least.

What fittest for?--You know, I'm sure;

I'm fittest for--a SINE-CURE.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE GRINDER.

[Footnote: Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here

subjoined:]

ANTI-JACOBIN.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

[Footnote: The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr. Tierney, M.P.

for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the

Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the

Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly

celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of

Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to

the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now,

but with far less reason, assumed.]

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?

Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order--

Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,

So have your breeches!"

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHIOS

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell:

Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;

When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey,

Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;

Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom:

She had no home, the world was all before her.

She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her:

"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer,

"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger

Here I should perish."

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,

Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-

road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and

"'Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?

Did some rich man

tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or

Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?

Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of

compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,

Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,

This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up, for to take me into

Custody; they took me before the justice;

Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish--

Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in

A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first--

Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance--

Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport

of Republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE

'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.*

FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN. 1797

For one long term, or e'er her trial came,

Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells

Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice

She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her

Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,

St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;

Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went

To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?

SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH,

AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind

Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!

Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine

Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog

The little Spartans; such as erst chastised

Our Milton, when at college. For this act

Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come

When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd!

*INSCRIPTION BY SOUTHEY

FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN, THE REGICIDE

WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS.

For thirty years, secluded from mankind,

Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls

Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread

He paced around his prison: not to him

Did Nature's fair varieties exist;

He never saw the sun's delightful beams,

Save when through yon high bars he pour'd a sad

And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?

He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT

In JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind

Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,

And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such

As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal

Our Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhile

From man withheld, even to the latter days

When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd.

SONG

[Footnote: There is a curious circumstance connected with the

composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written

by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its

publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the

"Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it that he took up a pen

and composed the last stanza on the spot.]

SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF "THE ROVER."

FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798.

CANNING.

I.

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I'm rotting in,

I think of those companions true

Who studied with me at the U

--niversity of Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his

eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds--]

II.

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in!--

Alas! Matilda THEN was true!

At least I thought so at the U--

--niversity of Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.]

III.

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languish'd at the U--

--niversity of Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

IV.

This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in,

My years are many--they were few

When first I entered at the U--

--niversity of Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

V.

There first for thee my psssion grew,

Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!

Thou wast the daughter of my tu--

--tor, law professor at the U--

--niversity at Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

VI.

Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,

That kings and priests are plotting in;

Here doom'd to starve on water gru--

--el, never shall I see the U--

--niversity of Gottingen--

--niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the

walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible

contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The

curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly

fallen.]

THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

She held a CUP AND BALL of ivory white,

LESS WHITE the ivory than her snowy hand!

Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,

As now, intent, in INNOCENT delight,

Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,

Now tost it, following still with EAGLE SIGHT,

Now on the pointed end INFIXED its fall.

Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.

Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART;

(Alas! that sport like THAT should be her pride!)

And the KEEN POINT which steadfast still she eyed

Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's DART;

Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn

Who ON THAT DART IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

II.

THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR DELIA.

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.

Far from my Delia now by fate removed,

At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:

HER ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,

My GODDESS-MAID, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR.

FOR LOVE ANNIHILATES THE WORLD TO ME!

And when the weary SOL AROUND HIS BED

CLOSES THE SABLE CURTAINS OF THE NIGHT,

SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight

She shines confest. When EVERY SOUND IS DEAD,

The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to ROLL

The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.

Far, far from her my BODY drags its chain,

But sure with Delia I EXIST A SOUL!

III.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S

PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman

With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,

Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er

From book or needlework her looks arise,

On him CONVERGE THE SUN-BEAMS OF HER EYES,

And he UNBLAMED may gaze upon MY FAIR,

And oft MY FAIR his FAVORED form surveys.

O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;

I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,

Lest the STRONG GLANCE of those DIVINEST charms

WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,

When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.

I would I were that portly gentleman,

With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!

THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

I.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF.

'Tis mine I what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!

Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,

That left the TEMPTING CORNER hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine.

When at the relic of his saint he kneels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with FILCHING FINGERS I drew near,

Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein;

And when the FINISHED DEED removed my fear,

Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind,

It only served a moment's qualm to move;

For thefts like this it could not be designed--

THE EIGTH COMMANDMENT WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me,

She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!

Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!

Lips SWEETER than the MACCAROONS she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw,

That made my love so DELICATELY sneeze,

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane

For thou hast touched the RUBIES of my fair,

And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

II.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains

The straightning curls of gold so BEAMY BRIGHT,

Not spotless merely from the touch remains,

But issues forth MORE PURE, more MILKY WHITE.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads

Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair,

No added perfume on her tresses sheds,

BUT BORROWS SWEETNESS FROM HER SWEETER HAIR.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair

With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!

And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,

Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays

Might CURL THOSE LOVELY LOCKS with conscious pride,

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise,

I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,

The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart;

From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line

Wherewith the urchin ANGLED for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads

That from the silk-worm, SELF-INTERR'D, proceed;

Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads

His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate,

My captive HEART has HANDCUFF'D in a chain,

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,

THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,

In FLOWING LUSTER bathe their bright'ning wings;

And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care,

The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.

III.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA S HAIR, AND HER ANGER.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye Seas! to swallow me, in kindness rise!

Fall on me, mountains! and thou merciful earth,

Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.

Let universal Chaos now return,

Now let the central fires their prison burst,

And EARTH, and HEAVEN, and AIR, and OCEAN burn,

For Delia FROWNS. She FROWNS, and I am curst.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;

Would storm VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight,

And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove,

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;

What is HIS WRATH to that of HER I love?

What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;

Ye SERPENT CURLS, ye POISON TENDRILS, go!

Would I could tear thy memory from my mind,

ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly!

Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,

That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die,

May KNIT THE KNOTS OF TORTURE FOR MY SOUL.

Last night--Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer!

The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay,

And let me from its ample records tear

ONLY THE SINGLE PAGE OF YESTERDAY!

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight,

And I will STOP HIM on his restless way;

Omnipotent in love's resistless might,

I'LL FORCE HIM BACK THE ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair,

My Delia bent DELICIOUSLY to grieve,

I stood a TREACHEROUS LOITERER by her chair,

And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would at that instant o'er my thread

The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had opened then;

And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,

Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,

And while my heart with transport parted big,

She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried,

"You stupid puppy--you have spoiled my wig!"

[Illustration: WILLIS]

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

[Footnote: "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 mawkish affectations of childish

simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of

his ALICE 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."--Edinburg Review.]

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.--REJECTED ADDRESSES

JAMES SMITH.

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,

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!

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 parlor-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 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!"

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 Bill

Used to be drawn to Pentonville,

Stood in the lumber-room:

I wiped the dust from off the top,

While Molly mopped it with a mop,

And brushed 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 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 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 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.

"You've only got to curtsy, whisper,

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;

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 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.

[Blow a kiss, and exit.]

PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS.

A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.

JAMES SMITH

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?

I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey

To carry to the mart her crockery-ware,

And when that donkey looked me in the face,

His face was sad I and you are sad, my Public.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October

Again assembles us in Drury Lane.

Long wept my eye to see the timber planks

That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,

Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!

Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,

As along Charles-street I prepared to walk.

Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,

I heard a trowel tick against a brick.

I looked me up, and straight a parapet

Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.

Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:

He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall

In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied

That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,

Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,

Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour,

As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's

Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.

They had a plan to render less their labors;

Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder

With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a pole

From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley

Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;

To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks

Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,

And in the empty basket workmen twain

Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people

Who watched the work, express their various thoughts!

While some believed it never would be finished,

Some, on the contrary, believed it would.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane

Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work,

A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth.

One of the morning papers wished that front

Cemented like the front in Brydges-street;

As now it looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid,

A handsome woman with a fish's tail.

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-street,

The Albion (as its name denotes) is white;

Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables

Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;

White is Whitehall. But not St. Bride's in Fleet-street,

The spotless Albion, Morgan, no, nor Saunders,

Nor white Whitehall, is white as Drury's face.

Oh, Mr. Whitbread! fie upon you, sir!

I think you should have built a colonnade;

When tender Beauty, looking for her coach,

Protrudes her gloveless hand, perceives the shower,

And draws the tippet closer round her throat,

Perchance her coach stands half a dozen off,

And, ere she mounts the step, the oozing mud

Soaks through her pale kid slipper. On the morrow,

She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa

Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!"

To build no portico is penny wise:

Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theaters!

What is the Regency in Tottenham-street,

The Royal Amphitheater of Arts,

Astley's, Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,

Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee pushed

Back from the narrow street that christened thee,

I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,

It grieves me much to see live animals

Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,

Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;

Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist

Of former Drury, imitated life

Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard,

Stuffed by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis

As spruce as he who roared in Padmanaba.

[Footnote: "Padmanaba," viz., in a pantomime called Harlequin in

Padmanaba. This elephant, some years afterward, was exhibited over

Exeter 'Change, where it was found necessary to destroy the poor

animal by discharges of musketry. When he made his entrance in the

pantomime above-mentioned, Johnson, the machinist of the rival house,

exclaimed, "I should be very sorry if I could not make a better

elephant than that!"]

Naught born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries "Gee,"

And spares the lash. When I behold a spider

Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife

Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,

Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

[EXIT HASTILY.]

THE THEATER.

[Footnote: "'The Theater,' by the Rev. G. Crabbe, we rather think,

is the best piece in the collection. It is an exquisite and most

masterly imitation, not only of the peculiar style, but of the taste,

temper, and manner of description of that most original author. * * *

It does not aim, of course, at any shadow of his pathos or moral

sublimity, but seems to us to be a singularly faithful copy of his

passages of mere description."--Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF CEABBE.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

JAMES SMITH.

Interior of a Theater described.--Pit gradually fills.-The

Check-taker.--Pit full.--The Orchestra tuned.--One Fiddle rather

dilatory.--Is reproved--and repents.--Evolutions of a Play-bill.--Its

final Settlement on the Spikes.--The Gods taken to task--and why.--

Motley Group of Play-goers.--Holywell-street, St. Pancras.--Emanuel

Jennings binds his Son apprentice--not in London--and why.--Episode of

the Hat.

'Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,

Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,

Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,

Start into light, and make the lighter start;

To see red Phoebus through the gallery-pane

Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane;

While gradual parties fill our widened pit,

And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit.

At first, while vacant seats give choice and ease,

Distant or near, they settle where they please;

But when the multitude contracts the span,

And seats are rare, they settle where they can.

Now the full benches to late comers doom

No room for standing, miscalled STANDING-ROOM.

Hark! the check-taker moody silence breaks,

And bawling "Pit full!" gives the checks he takes;

Yet onward still the gathering numbers cram,

Contending crowders shout the frequent damn,

And all is bustle, squeeze, row, jabbering, and jam.

See to their desks Apollo's sons repair--

Swift rides the rosin o'er the horse's hair!

In unison their various tones to tune,

Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon;

In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,

Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,

Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,

Winds the French horn, and twangs the tingling harp

Till, like great Jove, the leader, fingering in,

Attunes to order the chaotic din.

Now all seems hushed--but, no, one fiddle will

Give half-ashamed, a tiny flourish still.

Foiled in his clash, the leader of the clan

Reproves with frowns the dilatory man:

Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow,

Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!"

And awed Consumption checks his chided cough,

Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love

Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:

Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap,

Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;

But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,

And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;

Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,

It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;

Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes,

And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?

Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs?

He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots,

Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls contain!

Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick Lane;

Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,

Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;

From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,

Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;

The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,

The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;

Boys who long linger at the gallery-door,

With pence twice five--they want but twopence more;

Till some Samaritan the two-pence spares,

And sends them jumping up the gallery-stairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,

But talk their minds--we wish they'd mind their talk

Big-worded bullies, who by quarrels live--

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;

Jews from St. Mary's Ax, for jobs so wary,

That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,

Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;

Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse

With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,

Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;

But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,

Emanuel Jennings polished Stubb's shoes.

Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy

Up as a corn-cutter--a safe employ;

In Holywell Street, St. Pancras, he was bred

(At number twenty-seven, it is said),

Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:

He would have bound him to some shop in town,

But with a premium he could not come down.

Pat was the urchin's name-a red haired youth,

Ponder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe,

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat,

But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat:

Down from the gallery the beaver flew,

And spurned the one to settle in the two.

How shall he act? Pay at the gallery-door

Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?

Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,

And gain his hat again at half-past eight?

Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,

John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line."

"Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,

Where Spitalfields with real India vies.

Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew,

Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,

Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.

George Green below, with palpitating hand

Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band--

Up soars the prize! The youth, with joy unfeigned,

Regained the felt, and felt the prize regained;

While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat

Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE

[Footnote: "From the parody of Sir Walter Scott we know not what to

select--It Is all good. The effect of the fire on the town, and the

description of a fireman in his official apparel, may be quoted as

amusing specimens of the MISAPPLICATION of the style and meter of Mr.

Scott's admirable romances."--Quarterly Review.

"'A Tale of Drury.' by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably

execuated; though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is

described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of

localitics. The catastrophe is described with a spirit not unworthy of

the name so ventureously assumed by the describer"--Edinburg Review.]

[A BURLESQUE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT'S METRICAL ROMANCES.

REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

HORACE SMITH.

[To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, In a suit of the Black Prince's Armor,

borrowed from the Tower.]

Survey this shield, all bossy bright--

These cuisses twin behold!

Look on my form in armor dight

Of steel inlaid with gold;

My knees are stiff in iron buckles,

Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.

These once belonged to sable prince,

Who never did in battle wince;

With valor tart as pungent quince,

He slew the vaunting Gaul.

Rest there awhile, my bearded lance,

While from green curtain I advance

To yon foot-lights, no trivial dance,

And tell the town what sad mischance

Did Drury Lane befall.

THE NIGHT.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees

Flittered the silent midnight breeze,

Curling the foliage as it past,

Which from the moon-tipped plumage cast

A spangled light, like dancing spray,

Then reassumed its still array;

When as night's lamp unclouded hung,

And down its full effulgence flung,

It shed such soft and balmy power

That cot and castle, hall and bower,

And spire and dome, and turret height,

Appear'd to slumber in the light.

From Henry's chapel, Rufus' Hall,

To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul,

From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town,

To Redriff Shadwell, Horsleydown,

No voice was heard, no eye unclosed,

But all in deepest sleep reposed.

They might have thought, who gazed around

Amid a silence so profound,

It made the senses thrill,

That't was no place inhabited,

But some vast city of the dead

All was so hushed and still.

THE BURNING.

As chaos, which, by heavenly doom,

Had slept in everlasting gloom,

Started with terror and surprise

When light first flashed upon her eyes

So London's sons in night-cap woke,

In bed-gown woke her dames;

For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke,

And twice ten hundred voices spoke

"The playhouse is in flames!"

And, lo! where Catharine street extends,

A fiery tail its luster lends

To every window-pane;

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,

And Covent Garden kennels sport,

A bright ensanguined drain;

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,

Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height

Where patent shot they sell;

The Tennis-Court, so fair and tall,

Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,

The ticket-porters' house of call.

Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,

Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,

And Richardson's Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide,

Across red Thames's gleaming tide,

To distant fields the blaze was borne,

And daisy white and hoary thorn

In borrowed luster seemed to sham

The rose of red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around

Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,

As from a lofty altar rise,

It seemed that nations did conspire

To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!

The summoned firemen woke at call,

And hied them to their stations all:

Starting from short and broken snooze,

Each sought his pond'rous hobnailed shoes,

But first his worsted hosen plied,

Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced;

Then jacket thick, of red or blue,

Whose massy shoulder gave to view

The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thundered through the street,

Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,

And torches glared, and clattering feet

Along the pavement paced.

And one, the leader of the band,

From Charing Cross along the Strand,

Like stag by beagles hunted hard,

Ran till he stopped at Vin'gar Yard.

The burning badge his shoulder bore,

The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,

The cane he had, his men to bang,

Showed foreman of the British gang--

His name was Higginbottom. Now

'Tis meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view:

The Hand-in-Hand the race begun.

Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,

The Exchange, where old insurers run,

The Eagle, where the new;

With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,

Robins from Hockley in the Hole,

Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,

Crump from St. Giles's Pound:

Whitford and Mitford joined the train,

Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane,

And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain

Before the plug was found.

Hobson and Jobson did not sleep,

But ah! no trophy could they reap

For both were in the Donjon Keep

Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,

For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed,

Without, within, in hideous show,

Devouring flames resistless glow,

And blazing rafters downward go,

And never halloo "Heads below!"

Nor notice give at all.

The firemen terrified are slow

To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof would fall.

Back, Robins, back; Crump, stand aloof!

Whitford, keep near the walls!

Huggins, regard your own behoof,

For lo! the blazing rocking roof

Down, down, in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,

And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,

Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Concealed them from th' astonished crowd.

At length the mist awhile was cleared,

When, lo! amid the wreck upreared,

Gradually a moving head appeared,

And Eagle firemen knew

'T was Joseph Muggins, name revered,

The foreman of their crew.

Loud shouted all in signs of woe,

"A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"

And poured the hissing tide:

Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,

And strove and struggled all in vain,

For, rallying but to fall again,

He tottered, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,

To succor one they loved so well?

Yes, Higginbottom did aspire

(His fireman's soul was all on fire),

His brother chief to save;

But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,

Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke

before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench

Destroying sight o'erwhelmed him quite,

He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,

His whizzing water-pipe he waved;

"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,

You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,

Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman, and afraid of bumps!--

What are they fear'd on? fools: 'od rot 'em!"

Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,

And toil rebuilds what fires consume!

Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,

"Joy to the managing committee!"

Eat we and drink we, join to rum

Roast beef and pudding of the plum;

Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come,

With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,

For this is Drury's gay day:

Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,

And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,

Crisp parliament with lollypops,

And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toiled the busy train,

From morn to eve, till Drury Lane

Leaped like a roebuck from the plain?

Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod;

To realize bold Wyatt's plan

Rushed may a howling Irishman;

Loud clattered many a porter-can,

And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate

Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;

She "wings the midway air," elate,

As magpie, crow, or chough;

White paint her modish visage smears,

Yellow and pointed are her ears.

No pendant portico appears

Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears

Have cut the bauble off.

Yes, she exalts her stately head;

And, but that solid bulk outspread,

Opposed you on your onward tread,

And posts and pillars warranted

That all was true that Wyatt said,

You might have deemed her walls so thick,

Were not composed of stone or brick,

But all a phantom, all a trick,

Of brain disturbed and fancy-sick,

So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

DRURY'S DIRGE.

[BY LAUBA MATILDA.--REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

HORACE SMITH.

"You praise our sires: but though they wrote with force,

Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse:

We want their STRENGTH, agreed; but we atone

For that and more, by SWEETNESS all our own"--GIFFORD.

Balmy zephyrs, lightly flitting,

Shade me with your azure wing;

On Parnassus' summit sitting,

Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

Softly slept the dome of Drury

O'er the empyreal crest,

When Alecto's sister-fury

Softly slumbering sunk to rest.

Lo! from Lemnos, limping lamely,

Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,

Oytherea yielding tamely

To the Cyclops dark and dire.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,

Dulcet joys and sports of youth,

Soon must yield to haughty sadness,

Mercy holds the vail to Truth.

See Erostratus the second

Fires again Diana's fane;

By the Fates from Orcus beckoned,

Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion

Hand in hand reluctant dance:

While the god fulfills his mission,

Chivarly, resign thy lance.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,

Fleecy clouds disheveled lie,

And the firemen, mute with wonder,

On the son of Saturn cry.

See the bird of Ammon sailing,

Perches on the engine's peak,

And, the Eagle firemen hailing,

Soothes them with its bickering beak.

Juno saw, and mad with malice,

Lost the prize that Paris gave;

Jealousy's ensanguined chalice,

Mantling pours the orient wave.

Pan beheld Patrocles dying,

Nox to Niobe was turned;

From Busiris Bacchus flying,

Saw his Semele inurned.

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,

Leveled with the shuddering stones

Mars, with tresses black and gory,

Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

Hark! what soft Aeolian numbers

Gem the blushes of the morn!

Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,

Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic

Dimly glance from pole to pole;

Raptures sweet, and dreams ecstatic

Fire my everlasting soul.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?

Billowy ecstasy of woe,

Bear me straight, meandering ocean,

Where the stagnant torrents flow.

Blood in every vein is gushing,

Vixen vengeance lulls my heart,

See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!

Never, never, let us part!

WHAT IS LIFE

BY "ONE OF THE FANCY."

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

And do you ask me, "What is LIFE?"

And do you ask me, "What is pleasure?"

My muse and I are not at strife,

So listen, lady, to my measure:--

Listen amid thy graceful leisure,

To what is LIFE, and what IS pleasure.

'Tis LIFE to see the first dawn stain

With sallow light the window-pane:

To dress--to wear a rough drab coat,

With large pearl buttons all afloat

Upon the waves of plush: to tie

A kerchief of the King-cup dye

(White spotted with a small bird's-eye)

Around the neck, and from the nape

Let fall an easy fan-like cape:

To quit the house at morning's prime,

At six or so--about the time

When watchmen, conscious of the day

Puff out their lantern's rush-light ray;

Just when the silent streets are strewn

With level shadows, and the moon

Takes the day's wink and walks aside

To nurse a nap till eventide.

'Tis LIFE to reach the livery stable,

Secure the RIBBONS and the DAY-BILL,

And mount a gig that had a spring

Some summer's back: and then take wing

Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue)

A jade whose "withers are unwrung;"

Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,

And from a HALF-PAY life of corn,

Showing as many POINTS each way

As Martial's Epigrammata,

Yet who, when set a-going, goes

Like one undestined to repose.

'Tis LIFE to revel down the road,

And QUEER each o'erfraught chaise's load,

To rave and rattle at the GATE,

And shower upon the gatherer's pate

Damns by the dozens, and such speeches

As well betokens one's SLANG riches:

To take of Deady's bright STARK NAKED

A glass or so--'tis LIFE to take it!

To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;

Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;

Join the FLASH crowd (the horse being led

Into the yard, and clean'd and fed);

Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis

(The last a fighting rara avis),

And, half in secret, scheme a plan

For trying the hardy GAS-LIGHT-MAN.

'Tis LIFE to cross the laden ferry,

With boon companions, wild and merry,

And see the ring upon the Hurst

With carts encircled--hear the burst

At distance of the eager crowd.

Oh, it is LIFE! to see a proud

And dauntless man step, full of hopes,

Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,

Throw in his hat, and with a spring,

Get gallantly within the ring;

Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,

Taking all cheerings with a smile:

To see him skip--his well-trained form,

White, glowing, muscular, and warm,

All beautiful in conscious power,

Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;

His glossy and transparent frame,

In radiant plight to strive for fame!

To look upon the clean shap'd limb

In silk and flannel clothed trim;

While round the waist the 'kerchief tied,

Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.

'Tis more than LIFE, to watch him hold

His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,

Over his second's, and to clasp

His rival's in a quiet grasp;

To watch the noble attitude

He takes--the crowd in breathless mood:

And then to see, with adamant start,

The muscles set, and the great heart

Hurl a courageous splendid light

Into the eye-and then-the FIGHT!

FRAGMENTS.

[BY A FREE-LOVER.]

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE, 1823

They were not married by a muttering priest,

With superstitious rites, and senseless words,

Out-snuffled from an old worm-eaten book,

In a dark corner (railed off like a sheep-pen)

Of an old house, that fools do call a CHURCH!

THEIR altar was the flowery lap of earth--

The starry empyrean their vast temple--

Their book each other's eyes--and Love himself

Parson, and Clerk, and Father to the bride!--

Holy espousals! whereat wept with joy

The spirit of the universe.--In sooth

There was a sort of drizzling rain that day,

For I remember (having left at home

My parapluie, a name than UMBRELLA,

Far more expressive) that I stood for shelter

Under an entry not twelve paces off

(It might be ten) from Sheriff Waithman's shop

For half an hour or more, and there I mused

(Mine eyes upon the running kennel fixed,

That hurried as a het'rogenous mass

To the common sewer, it's dark reservoir),

I mused upon the running stream of LIFE!

But that's not much to the purpose--I was telling

Of these most pure espousals.--Innocent pair!

Ye were not shackled by the vulgar chains

About the yielding mind of credulous youth,

Wound by the nurse and priest--YOUR energies,

Your unsophisticated impulses,

Taught ye to soar above their "settled rules

Of Vice and Virtue." Fairest creature! He

Whom the world called thy husband, was in truth

Unworthy of thee.-A dull plodding wretch!

With whose ignoble nature thy free spirit

Held no communion.--'T was well done, fair creature!

T' assert the independence of a mind

Created-generated I would say--

Free as "that chartered libertine, the air."

Joy to thy chosen partner! blest exchange!

Work of mysterious sympathy I that drew

Your kindred souls by * * * *

* * * * * *

There fled the noblest spirit--The most pure,

Most sublimated essence that ere dwelt

In earthly tabernacle. Gone thou art,

Exhaled, dissolved, diffused, commingled now

Into and with the all-absorbing frame

Of Nature, the great mother. Ev'n in life,

While still, pent-up in flesh, and skin, and bones,

My thoughts and feelings like electric flame

Shot through the solid mass, toward the source,

And blended with the general elements,

When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung

Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds

(Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays--

Dull joys of prejudice and superstition

And vulgar decencies begirt thee round;

And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds

Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail

Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.--

But reason came-and firm philosophy,

And mild philanthropy, and pointed out

The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame,

To curb within a little paltry pale

The love that over all created things

Should be diffusive as the atmosphere.

Then did thy boundless tenderness expand

Over all space--all animated things

And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart,

A ready tear for all.--The dying whale,

Stranded and gasping--ripped up for his blubber

By Man the Tyrant.--The small sucking pig

Slain for his riot.--The down-trampled flower

Crushed by his cruel foot.--ALL, EACH, and ALL

Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then--

(SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE)

Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing

That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim,

As her just right, support and love from THEE--

Then didst thou * * * *

* * * * * * *

THE CONFESSION.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE

There's somewhat on my breast father,

There's somewhat on my breast!

The live-long day I sigh, father,

At night I can not rest;

I can not take my rest, father,

Though I would fain do so,

A weary weight oppresseth me--

The weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father

Nor lack of worldly gear;

My lands are broad and fair to see,

My friends are kind and dear;

My kin are leal and true, father,

They mourn to see my grief,

But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand

Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father,

'Tis not that she's unkind;

Though busy flatterers swarm around,

I know her constant mind.

'Tis not her coldness, father,

That chills my laboring breast--

Its that confounded cucumber

I've ate, and can't digest.

THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY.

THOMAS MOORE.

With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back,

In awful prescience of the impending THWACK,

Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood--and

with prelusive SPAR,

And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war!

The One, in bloom of youth--a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE--

The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made,

Express, by Nature for the hammering trade;

But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much,

And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch.

Yet, sprightly TO THE SCRATCH both BUFFERS came,

While RIBBERS rung from each resounding frame,

And divers DIGS, and many a ponderous PELT,

Were on their broad BREAD-BASKETS heard and felt

With roving aim, but aim that rarely miss'd,

Round LUGS and OGLES [Footnote: Ears and Eyes.] flew the frequent fist;

While showers of FACERS told so deadly well,

That the crush'd jaw-bones crackled as they fell!

But firmly stood ENTELLUS--and still bright,

Though bent by age, with all THE FANCY'S light,

STOPP'D with a skill, and RALLIED with a fire

The Immortal FANCY could alone inspire!

While DARES, SHIFTING round, with looks of thought,

An opening to the COVE'S huge carcase sought

(Like General PRESTON, in that awful hour,

When on ONE leg he hopp'd to--take the Tower!)

And here, and there, explored with active FIN [Footnote: Arm.]

And skillful FEINT, some guardless pass to win,

And prove a BORING guest when once LET IN.

And now ENTELLUS, with an eye that plann'd

PUNISHING deeds, high raised his heavy hand,

But, ere the SLEDGE came down, young DARES spied

His shadow o'er his brow, and slipp'd aside--

So nimbly slipp'd, that the vain NOBBER pass'd

Through empty air; and He, so high, so vast,

Who dealt the stroke, came thundering to the ground

Not B--CK--GH--M himself, with bulkier sound,

Uprooted from the field of Whiggish glories,

Fell SOUSE, of late, among the astonish'd Tories!

Instant the RING was broke, and shouts and yells

From Trojan FLASHMEN and Sicilian SWELLS

Fill'd the wide heaven--while, touch'd with grief to see

His PAL, [Footnote: Friend] well-known through many a LARK and SPREE,

[Footnote: Party of pleasure and frolic]

Thus RUMLY FLOOR'D, the kind ACESTES ran,

And pitying raised from earth the GAME old man,

Uncow'd, undamaged to the SPORT he came,

His limbs all muscle, and his soul all flame.

The memory of his MILLING glories past,

The shame that aught but death should see him GRASS'D,

All fired the veteran's PLUCK--with fury flush'd,

Full on his light-limb'd CUSTOMER he rush'd--

And HAMMERING right and left, with ponderous swing,

RUFFIAN'D the reeling youngster round the RING--

Nor rest, nor pause, nor breathing-time was given,

But, rapid as the rattling hail from heaven

Beats on the house-top, showers of RANDALL'S SHOT

[Footnote: A favorite blow of THE NONPARIEL'S, so called.]

Around the Trojan's LUGS flew peppering hot!

Till now AENEAS, fill'd with anxious dread,

Rush'd in between them, and, with words well-bred

Preserved alike the peace and DARES' head,

BOTH which the veteran much inclined to BREAK--

Then kindly thus the PUNISH'D youth bespake:

Poor JOHNNY RAW! what madness could impel

So RUM a FLAT to face so PRIME a SWELL?

Sees't thou not, boy, THE FANCY, heavenly Maid,

Herself descends to this great HAMMERER'S aid,

And, singling HIM from all her FLASH adorers,

Shines in his HITS, and thunders in his FLOORERS?

Then, yield thee, youth--nor such a SPOONEY be,

To think mere man can MILL a Deity!"

Thus spoke the Chief--and now, the SCRIMAGE o'er,

His faithful PALS the DONE-UP DARES bore

Back to his home, with tottering GAMS, sunk heart,

And MUNS and NODDLE PINK'D in every part.

While from his GOB the guggling CLARET gush'd,

And lots of GRINDERS, from their sockets crush'd,

Forth with the crimson tide in rattling fragments rush'd!

NOT A SOUS HAD HE GOT.

[PARODY ON WOLFE'S "BUKIAL or SIB JOHN MOORE."]

R. HARRIS BARHAM

Not a SOUS had he got--not a guinea or note,

And he looked confoundedly flurried,

As he bolted away without paying his shot,

And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night,

When home from the Club returning;

We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light

Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews,

Reclined in the gutter we found him;

And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze,

With his MARSHALL cloak around him.

"The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said,

And we managed a shutter to borrow;

We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head

Whould "consumedly ache" on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed,

And we told his wife and his daughter

To give him, next morning, a couple of red

Herrings, with soda-water.--

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone,

And his Lady began to upbraid him;

But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on

'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done

When, beneath the window calling,

We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun

Of a watchman "One o'clock!" bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down

From his room in the uppermost story;

A rushlight was placed on the cold hearth-stone,

And we left him alone in his glory!!

RAISING THE DEVIL.

A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"And hast thou nerve enough?" he said,

That gray Old Man, above whose head

Unnumbered years have roll'd--

"And hast thou nerve to view," he cried,

"The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied!--

-- Art thou indeed so bold?

"Say, canst Thou, with unshrinking gaze,

Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze

Of that unearthly eye,

That blasts where'er it lights--the breath

That, like the Simoom, scatters death

On all that yet CAN die!

--"Darest thou confront that fearful form,

That rides the whirlwind, and the storm,

In wild unholy revel!--

The terrors of that blasted brow,

Archangel's once--though ruin'd now--

--Ay--dar'st thou face THE DEVIL?"--

"I dare!" the desperate Youth replied,

And placed him by that Old Man's side,

In fierce and frantic glee,

Unblenched his cheek, and firm his limb

--"No paltry juggling Fiend, but HIM!

--THE DEVIL I-I fain would see!--

"In all his Gorgon terrors clad,

His worst, his fellest shape!" the Lad

Rejoined in reckless tone.--

--"Have then thy wish!" Agrippa said,

And sigh'd and shook his hoary head,

With many a bitter groan.

He drew the mystic circle's bound,

With skull and cross-bones fenc'd around;

He traced full many a sigil there;

He mutter'd many a backward pray'r,

That sounded like a curse--

"He comes !"--he cried with wild grimace,

"The fellest of Apollyon's race!"

--Then in his startled pupil's face

He dash'd-an EMPTY PURSE!!

THE LONDON UNIVERSITY;

[Footnote: see footnote to SONG by Canning.]

OR, STINKOMALEE TRIUMPHANS.

AN ODE TO BE PERFORMED ON THE OPENING OF THE NEW COLLEGE.

R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Whene'er with pitying eye I view

Each operative sot in town,

I smile to think how wondrous few

Get drunk who study at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

What precious fools "The People" grew,

Their alma mater not in town;

The "useful classes" hardly knew

Four was composed of two and two,

Until they learned it at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

But now they're taught by JOSEPH HU-

ME, by far the cleverest Scot in town,

Their ITEMS and their TOTTLES too;

Each may dissect his sister Sue,

From his instructions at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

Then L----E comes, like him how few

Can caper and can trot in town,

In PIROUETTE or PAS DE DEUX--

He beats the famed MONSIEUR GIROUX,

And teaches dancing at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

And GILCHRIST, see, that great Geentoo-

Professor, has a lot in town

Of Cockney boys who fag Hindoo,

And LARN JEM-NASTICS at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

SAM R--- corpse of vampire hue,

Comes from its grave to rot in town;

For Bays the dead bard's crowned with Yew,

And chants, the Pleasures of the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

FRANK JEFFREY, of the Scotch Review,--

Whom MOORE had nearly shot in town,--

Now, with his pamphlet stitched in blue

And yellow, d--ns the other two,

But lauds the ever-glorious U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

Great BIRBECK, king of chips and glue,

Who paper oft does blot in town,

From the Mechanics' Institu-

tion, comes to prate of wedge and screw,

Lever and axle at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

LORD WAITHAM, who long since withdrew

From Mansion House to cot in town;

Adorn'd with chair of ormolu,

All darkly grand, like Prince Lee Boo,

Lectures on FREE TRADE at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

Fat F----, with his coat of blue,

Who speeches makes so hot in town,

In rhetoric, spells his lectures through,

And sounds the V for W,

The VAY THEY SPEAKS it at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

Then H----E comes, who late at New-

gate Market, sweetest spot in town!

Instead of one clerk popp'd in two,

To make a place for his ne-phew,

Seeking another at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

There's Captain ROSS, a traveler true,

Has just presented, what in town-

's an article of great VIRTU

(The telescope he once peep'd through,

And 'spied an Esquimaux canoe

On Croker Mountains), to the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

Since MICHAEL gives no roast nor stew,

Where Whigs might eat and plot in town,

And swill his port, and mischief brew--

Poor CREEVY sips his water gru-

el as the beadle of the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town,

There's JERRY BENTHAM and his crew,

Names ne'er to be forgot in town,

In swarms like Banquo's long is-sue--

Turk, Papist, Infidel and Jew,

Come trooping on to join the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

To crown the whole with triple queue--

Another such there's not in town,

Twitching his restless nose askew,

Behold tremendous HARRY BROUGH-

AM! Law Professor at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

GRAND CHORUS:

Huzza! huzza! for HARRY BROUGH-

AM! Law Professor at the U-

niversity we've Got in town--

niversity we've Got in town.

DOMESTIC POEMS.

THOMAS HOOD.

I.

GOOD-NIGHT.

The sun was slumbering in the west, my daily labors past;

On Anna's soft and gentle breast my head reclined at last;

The darkness closed around, so dear to fond congenial souls,

And thus she murmured in my ear, "My love, we're out of coals.

"That Mister Bond has called again, insisting on his rent;

And all the Todds are coming up to see us, out of Kent;

I quite forgot to tell you John has had a tipsy fall;--

I'm sure there's something going on with that vile Mary Hall!

"Miss Bell has bought the sweetest milk, and I have bought the rest--

Of course, if we go out of town, Southend will be the best.

I really think the Jones's house would be the thing for us;

I think I told you Mrs. Pope had parted with her NUS--

"Cook, by the way, came up to-day, to bid me suit myself--

And, what'd ye think? the rats have gnawed the victuals on the shelf.

And, Lord! there's such a letter come, inviting you to fight!

Of course you, don't intend to go--God bless you, dear, goodnight!"

II.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

Thou happy, happy elf!

(But stop--first let me kiss away that tear)--

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)

Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin--

(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air--

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)

Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)

Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,

Thou idol of thy parents--(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub--but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,

In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey

From every blossom in the world that blows,

Singing in youth's elysium ever sunny,

(Another tumb!--that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)

With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint--

(Where did he learn that squint?)

Thou young domestic dove!

(He'll have that jug off, with another shove!)

Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)

Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life--

(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,

Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball--bestride the stick--

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,

Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,

With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose!

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)

Balmy and breathing music like the South,

(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)Fresh as the morn, and

brilliant as its star--

(I wish that window had an iron bar!)

Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove--

(I'll tell you what, my love,

I can not write, unless he's sent above!)

III.

A SERENADE.

"LULLABY, O, lullaby!"

Thus I heard a father cry,

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

The brat will never shut an eye;

Hither come, some power divine!

Close his lids, or open mine!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

What the devil makes him cry?

Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Still he stares--I wonder why,

Why are not the sons of earth

Blind, like puppies, from their birth?"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!"

Thus I heard the father cry;

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Mary, you must come and try!--

Hush, O, hush, for mercy's sake--

The more I sing, the more you wake!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Fie, you little creature, fie!

Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Is no poppy-syrup nigh?

Give him some, or give him all,

I am nodding to his fall!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Two such nights and I shall die!

Lullaby, O, lullaby!

He'll be bruised, and so shall I--

How can I from bed-posts keep,

When I'm walking in my sleep!"

"Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Sleep his very looks deny--

Lullaby, O, lullaby!

Nature soon will stupefy--

My nerves relax--my eyes grow dim--

Who's that fallen--me or him?"

ODE TO PERRY,

THE INVENTOR OF THE STEEL PEN.

THOMAS HOOD

"In this good work, Penn appears the greatest, usefullest of God's

instruments. Firm and unbending when the exigency requires it--soft

and yielding when rigid inflexibility is not a desideratum--fluent and

flowing, at need, for eloquent rapidity--slow and retentive in cases

of deliberation--never spluttering or by amplification going wide of

the mark--never splitting, if it can be helped, with any one, but

ready to wear itself out rather in their service--all things as it

were with all men--ready to embrace the hand of Jew, Christian, or

Mohammedan--heavy with the German, light with the Italian, oblique

with the English, upright with the Roman, backward in coming forward

with the Hebrew--in short, for flexibility, amiability, constitutional

durability, general ability, and universal utility, It would be hard

to find a parallel to the great Penn." --Perry's CHARACTERISATION OF A

SETTLER.

O! Patent Pen-inventing Perrian Perry!

Friend of the goose and gander,

That now unplucked of their quill-feathers wander,

Cackling, and gabbling, dabbling, making merry,

About the happy fen,

Untroubled for one penny-worth of pen,

For which they chant thy praise all Britain through,

From Goose-Green unto Gander-Cleugh!--

Friend to all Author-kind--

Whether of Poet or of Proser--

Thou art composer unto the composer

Of pens--yea, patent vehicles for Mind

To carry it on jaunts, or more extensive

PERRYgrinations through the realms of thought;

Each plying from the Comic to the Pensive,

An Omnibus of intellectual sort;

Modern improvements in their course we feel,

And while to iron railroads heavy wares,

Dry goods and human bodies, pay their fares,

Mind flies on steel

To Penrith, Penrhyn, even to Penzance;

Nay, penetrates, perchance,

To Pennsylvania, or, without rash vaunts,

To where the Penguin haunts!

In times bygone, when each man cut his quill,

With little Perryan skill,

What horrid, awkward, bungling tools of trade

Appeared the writing implements home-made!

What Pens were sliced, hewed, hacked, and haggled out,

Slit or unslit, with many a various snout,

Aquiline, Roman, crooked, square, and snubby.

Stumpy and stubby;

Some capable of ladye-billets neat,

Some only fit for ledger-keeping clerk,

And some to grub down Peter Stubbs his mark,

Or smudge through some illegible receipt;

Others in florid caligraphic plans,

Equal to ships, and wiggy heads, and swans!

To try in any common inkstands, then,

With all their miscellaneous stocks,

To find a decent pen,

Was like a dip into a lucky box:

You drew--and got one very curly,

And split like endive in some hurly-burly;

The next unslit, and square at end, a spade,

The third, incipient pop-gun, not yet made;

The fourth a broom; the fifth of no avail,

Turned upward, like a rabbit's tail;

And last, not least, by way of a relief,

A stump that Master Richard, James or John,

Had tried his candle-cookery upon,

Making "roast-beef!"

Not so thy Perryan Pens!

True to their M's and N's,

They do not with a whizzing zig-zag split,

Straddle, turn up their noses, sulk, and spit,

Or drop large dots,

Hugh full-stop blots,

Where even semicolons were unfit.

They will not frizzle up, or, broom-like, drudge

In sable sludge--

Nay, bought at proper "Patent Perryan" shops,

They write good grammar, sense, and mind their stops

Compose both prose and verse, the sad and merry--

For when the editor, whose pains compile

The grown-up Annual, or the Juvenile,

Vaunteth his articles, not women's, men's,

But lays "by the most celebrated Pens,"

What means he but thy Patent Pens, my Perry?

Pleasant they are to feel!

So firm! so flexible! composed of steel

So finely tempered--fit for tenderest Miss

To give her passion breath,

Or kings to sign the warrant stern of death--

But their supremest merit still is this,

Write with them all your days,

Tragedy, Comedy, all kinds of plays--

(No dramatist should ever be without 'em)--

And, just conceive the bliss--

There is so little of the goose about 'em,

One's safe from any hiss!

Ah! who can paint that first great awful night,

Big with a blessing or a blight,

When the poor dramatist, all fume and fret,

Fuss, fidget, fancy, fever, funking, fright,

Ferment, fault-fearing, faintness--more f's yet:

Flushed, frigid, flurried, flinching, fitful, flat,

Add famished, fuddled, and fatigued, to that,

Funeral, fate-foreboding--sits in doubt,

Or rather doubt with hope, a wretched marriage

To see his play upon the stage come out;

No stage to him! it is Thalia's carriage,

And he is sitting on the spikes behind it,

Striving to look as if he didn't mind it!

Witness how Beazley vents upon his hat

His nervousness, meanwhile his fate is dealt

He kneads, molds, pummels it, and sits it flat,

Squeezes and twists it up, until the felt,

That went a beaver in, comes out a rat!

Miss Mitford had mis-givings, and in fright,

Upon Rienzi's night,

Gnawed up one long kid glove, and all her bag,

Quite to a rag.

Knowles has confessed he trembled as for life,

Afraid of his own "Wife;"

Poole told me that he felt a monstrous pail

Of water backing him, all down his spine--

"The ice-brook's temper"--pleasant to the chine!

For fear that Simpson and his Co. should fail.

Did Lord Glengall not frame a mental prayer,

Wishing devoutly he was Lord knows where?

Nay, did not Jerrold, in enormous drouth,

While doubtful of Nell Gwynne's eventful luck,

Squeeze out and suck

More oranges with his one fevered mouth

Than Nelly had to hawk from north to south?

Yea, Buckstone, changing color like a mullet,

Refused, on an occasion, once, twice, thrice,

From his best friend, an ice,

Lest it should hiss in his own red-hot gullet.

Doth punning Peake not sit upon the points

Of his own jokes, and shake in all his joints,

During their trial?

'Tis past denial.

And does not Pocock, feeling, like a peacock,

All eyes upon him, turn to very meacock?

And does not Planche, tremulous and blank,

Meanwhile his personages tread the boards,

Seem goaded by sharp swords,

And called upon himself to "walk the plank?"

As for the Dances, Charles and George to boot,

What have they more

Of ease and rest, for sole of either foot,

Than bear that capers on a hotted floor!

Thus pending--does not Matthews, at sad shift

For voice, croak like a frog in waters fenny?--

Serle seem upon the surly seas adrift?--

And Kenny think he's going to Kilkenny?--

Haynes Bayly feel Old ditto, with the note

Of Cotton in his ear, a mortal grapple

About his arms, and Adam's apple

Big as a fine Dutch codling in his throat?

Did Rodwell, on his chimney-piece, desire

Or not to take a jump into the fire?

Did Wade feel as composed as music can?

And was not Bernard his own Nervous Man?

Lastly, don't Farley, a bewildered elf,

Quake at the Pantomime he loves to cater,

And ere its changes ring transform himself?

A frightful mug of human delf?

A spirit-bottle--empty of "the cratur"?

A leaden-platter ready for the shelf?

A thunderstruck dumb-waiter?

To clench the fact,

Myself, once guilty of one small rash act,

Committed at the Surrey,

Quite in a hurry,

Felt all this flurry,

Corporal worry,

And spiritual scurry,

Dram-devil--attic curry!

All going well,

From prompter's bell,

Until befell

A hissing at some dull imperfect dunce--

There's no denying

I felt in all four elements at once!

My head was swimming, while my arms were flying!

My legs for running--all the rest was frying!

Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use,

Thy pens so innocent of goose!

For this shall dramatists, when they make merry,

Discarding port and sherry,

Drink--"Perry!"

Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose

To distant lands,

Perry, admitted on all hands,

Text, running, German, Roman,

For Patent Perryans approached by no man!

And when, ah me! far distant be the hour!

Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower,

Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many!

And Penury itself shall club its penny

To raise thy monument in lofty place,

Higher than York's or any son of War;

While time all meaner effigies shall bury,

On due pentagonal base

Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry,

Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr!

A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY.

CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent,

A famed tragedian--one of tuneful tongue--

Appeared for that night only--'t was Charles Young.

As Rolla he. And as that Innocent,

The Child of hapless Cora, on there went

A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung

A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among--

So light she seem'd, and so intelligent!

That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap:

Snatching the creature by her tiny gown,

He plants her on his shoulder,--All, all clap!

While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown,

She lisps in Rolla's ear,--"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP,

OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!"

SIDDONS AND HER MAID.

W. S. LANDOR

SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast;

The herb of China is its crown at last.

Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear?

MAID. Yes, missus, yes.

SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here,

With penetrated, penetrating eyes.

MAID. Mine? missus! are they?

SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise,

Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake.

MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake!

SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led

Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?

MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I,

Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity.

SIDDENS. Fond maiden!

MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam!

If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.

SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain

That Shakspeare's language germinates again.

THE SECRET SORROW.

PUNCH

Oh! let me from the festive board

To thee, my mother, flee;

And be my secret sorrow shared

By thee--by only thee!

In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,

The rich repast, in vain;

Let others seek enjoyment there,

To me 'tis only pain.

There WAS a word of kind advice--

A whisper soft and low,

But oh! that ONE resistless smile!

Alas! why was it so?

No blame, no blame, my mother dear.

Do I impute to YOU,

But since I ate that currant tart

I don't know what to do!

SONG FOR PUNCH DRINKERS.

AFTER SCHILLER.

PUNCH.

Four be the elements,

Here we assemble 'em,

Each of man's world

And existence an emblem.

Press from the lemon

The slow flowing juices--

Bitter is life

In its lessons and uses.

Bruise the fair sugar lumps--

Nature intended

Her sweet and severe

To be everywhere blended.

Pour the still water--

Unwarning by sound,

Eternity's ocean

Is hemming us round.

Mingle the spirit,

The life of the bowl--

Man is an earth-clod

Unwarmed by a soul!

Drink of the stream

Ere its potency goes!--

No bath is refreshing

Except while it glows!

THE SONG OF THE HUMBUGGED HUSBAND.

PUNCH.

She's not what fancy painted her--

I'm sadly taken in:

If some one else had won her, I

Should not have cared a pin.

I thought that she was mild and good

As maiden e'er could be;

I wonder how she ever could

Have so much humbugg'd me.

They cluster round and shake my hand--

They tell me I am blest:

My case they do not understand--

I think that I know best.

They say she's fairest of the fair--

They drive me mad and madder.

What do they mean by it? I swear

I only wish they had her.

'Tis true that she has lovely locks,

That on her shoulders fall;

What would they say to see the box

In which she keeps them all?

Her taper fingers, it is true,

'Twere difficult to match:

What would they say if they but knew

How terribly they scratch?

TEMPERANCE SONG.

PUNCH.

AIR--FRIEND OF MY SOUL.

Friend of my soul, this water sip,

Its strength you need not fear;

Tis not so luscious as egg-flip,

Nor half so strong as beer.

Like Jenkins when he writes,

It can not touch the mind;

Unlike what he indites,

No nausea leaves behind.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER

WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.

PUNCH.

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,

As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;

And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,

And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,

Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,

And I look to the moment of parting with dread,

For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!

Thou know'st all its secrets--each joy and each grief;

And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart

To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,

As thy days are declining I love thee the more,

For I feel that thy loss I can never replace--

That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,

I can not--I will not--forget what thou wert!

While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,

In fancy will wash thee once more--MY LAST SHIRT.

GRUB-STREET.

MADNESS.

PUNCH.

There is a madness of the heart, not head--

That in some bosoms wages endless war;

There is a throe when other pangs are dead,

That shakes the system to its utmost core.

There is a tear more scalding than the brine

That streams from out the fountain of the eye,

And like the lava leaves a scorched line,

As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate,

Or jealousy more cruel than the grave,

With all the attendants that upon it wait

And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief,

Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner,

The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef,

And spilt the tart--in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"

THE BANDIT'S FATE.

PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met,

His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet,

His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,

Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone--

I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,

In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore

His salary, he told me, was lower than before;

And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain,

To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid.

I saw it but a moment--and I wish I saw it now--

As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there;

His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair

He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,

He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer.

I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,

In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE.

BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS.

PUNCH.

Stiff are the warrior's muscles,

Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;

No more in hostile tussles

Will he excite his bile.

Dry is the epidermis,

A vein no longer bleeds--

And the communis vermis

Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax,

That throbbed with joy or pain;

Not e'en a dose of borax

Could make it throb again.

Dried up the warrior's throat is,

All shatter'd too, his head:

Still is the epiglottis--

The warrior is dead.

THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS.

PUNCH.

Though largely developed's my organ of order,

And though I possess my destructiveness small,

On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border,

If thus you are deaf to my vehement call

For thee veneration is daily extending,

On a head that for want of it once was quite flat;

If thus with my passion I find you contending,

My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest;

For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved,

I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest;

But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead

I'll send unto thee;--then upon thee I'll call.

Rejection--alas! to the lover how horrid--

When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE.

PUNCH.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me--

Our mutual flame is like th' affinity

That doth exist between two simple bodies:

I am Potassium to thine Oxygen.

'Tis little that the holy marriage vow

Shall shortly make us one. That unity

Is, after all, but metaphysical

O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid,

A living acid; thou an alkali

Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together,

We both might coalesce into one salt,

One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou

Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen;

We would unite to form olefiant gas,

Or common coal, or naphtha--would to heaven

That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!

And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.

I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid,

So that thou might be Soda. In that case

We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia

Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom.

Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis,

Our happy union should that compound form,

Nitrate of Potash--otherwise Saltpeter.

And thus our several natures sweetly blent,

We'd live and love together, until death

Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID,

Leaving our souls to all eternity

Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs

And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we

Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?

We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh,

When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM.

PUNCH.

O, lady wake!--the azure moon

Is rippling in the verdant skies,

The owl is warbling his soft tune,

Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.

The joys of future years are past,

To-morrow's hopes have fled away;

Still let us love, and e'en at last,

We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night

Drives off the ebon morn afar,

While through the murmur of the light

The huntsman winds his mad guitar.

Then, lady, wake! my brigantine

Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;

Till the creation I am thine,

To some rich desert fly with me.

STANZAS TO AN EGG.

[BY A SPOON.]

PUNCH.

Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection,

Kidnapped in thy downy nest,

Soon for my breakfast--sad reflection!--

Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother?

Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!

Though she may lay, perchance, another,

Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee

Never more shall parent brood.

Know, dainty darling! that I love thee

Dearly as thy mother could.

A FRAGMENT.

PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,--his cheek was pale and cold as clay;

Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay;

He mused awhile--but not in doubt--no trace of doubt was there;

It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.

Once more he look'd upon the scroll--once more its words he read--

Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.

I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel,

And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!

A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,--

I could not stir--I could not cry--I felt benumb'd and dead;

Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;

I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

* * * * * * *

Again I looked,--a fearful change across his face had pass'd--

He seem'd to rave,--on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast;

He raised on high the glittering blade--then first I found a tongue--

"Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung;

He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave;

And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!