Chapter I: Front Matter (1)

A CENTURY OF PARODY AND
IMITATION

A
CENTURY OF PARODY
AND IMITATION

EDITED BY

WALTER JERROLD

AND

R. M. LEONARD

'No author ever spared a brother,
Wits are gamecocks to one another.'
GAY

HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW
NEW YORK, TORONTO, MELBOURNE, BOMBAY

1913

PREFATORY NOTE

The object of this compilation is to provide a corpus of representative parodies and imitations of a century, beginning with _Rejected Addresses_ (1812), which practically marked the birth of modern parody, and are here printed in their entirety. Prose parodies, excepting those in _Rejected Addresses_, have been excluded; the derivation of the word 'parody' may be referred to in justification. Emerson wrote in his 'Fable'

'----all sorts of things and weather
Must be taken in together
To make up a year
And a sphere;

so in this volume will be found all forms of imitations from, in Mr. Owen Seaman's words, 'the lowest, a mere verbal echo, to the highest, where it becomes a department of pure criticism.'

It is quite unnecessary to add to the published mass of writing, wise and foolish, on the art and ethics of parody. Some of the pieces in this book are included chiefly because they have an historical place in the development of parody to its present high standard of execution and good taste.

Isaac D'Israeli asserted that 'unless the prototype is familiar to us a parody is nothing.' As a matter of fact some of the best work is that of which the originals have been forgotten long since; although, of course, when the poets and the poems imitated are familiar the art of the imitator can be better appreciated.

The word 'century' has been interpreted with some licence. The work of living parodists does not fall within the scope of this collection, and it is a real self-denying ordinance which forbids the inclusion of triumphs by Sir Frederick Pollock, Mr. Owen Seaman, Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, Mr. Barry Pain, the Rev. Anthony Deane, and others who, in their undergraduate days, enlivened the periodicals of Oxford and Cambridge, or to-day show their dexterity in the pages of _Punch_. By way of recompense, the volume contains parodies by some, still living in 1812, whose work was published before _Rejected Addresses_. The parodies which follow therefore range from George Ellis, who was born in 1753, to Andrew Lang, who died in 1912. Very sparing use has been made of anonymous work, and in this connexion it may be well to explain that 'Adolphus Smalls of Boniface' is ruled out, because, although published anonymously, it is known to be the joint composition in their Balliol days of Dr. W. W. Merry, the Rector of Lincoln College, Oxford, and Alfred Blomfield, afterwards Bishop of Colchester.

With regard to _Rejected Addresses_, the publication of which may be said to have revived and established the art of parody, the genesis of the work is sufficiently explained in the authors' prefaces and notes. There were parodists before the Brothers Smith, yet their topical little volume has a lasting value, not only because of its inherent excellence, but also because it struck the note which the best later exponents of the art have followed. Published in the autumn of 1812, the book reached its fifteenth edition within two years, and its success led to the publication of a volume of certain of the _Addresses_ that had really been sent to Drury Lane for competition. The one hundred and fifteen such Addresses which were actually submitted are, with one or two exceptions, preserved in the Manuscript Department of the British Museum.

The compilers' best thanks are due to those who have kindly allowed the use of copyright parodies or imitations--namely, to the following: Sir Herbert Stephen (and Messrs. Bowes and Bowes) for parodies by his brother J. K. Stephen; Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton and Messrs. Chatto and Windus for Swinburne's parodies; Mr. W. M. Rossetti and Messrs. Ellis for those by Dante Gabriel Rossetti; Messrs. G. Bell and Sons for the copyright pieces by C. S. Calverley in _Fly-Leaves_; Messrs. Blackwood and Sons for Sir Theodore Martin's 'Lay of the Lovelorn' and H. D. Traill's parodies; Messrs. Bradbury, Agnew and Co. for R. F. Murray's 'Tennysonian Fragment' from _Punch_; Messrs. Burns and Oates for Francis Thompson's imitation of Omar Khayyam; Messrs. Chatto and Windus, and, for the American rights, the Houghton, Mifflin Company, for the parodies by Bret Harte and Bayard Taylor; the Editor of the _Journal of Education_ for 'A Girtonian Funeral' by an unknown author, presumably deceased; Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co. for the parodies by Andrew Lang; Messrs. J. MacLehose and Sons for the additional pieces by R. F. Murray; Messrs. Metcalfe and Co. for A. G. Hilton's parodies; Messrs. Pickering and Chatto for Miss Fanshawe's pieces; and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for the variations by H. C. Bunner on the familiar theme of 'Home, Sweet Home.' The sources of the copyright work are given in the notes at the end of the volume. The footnotes are those of the writers of the parodies.

WALTER JERROLD.
R. M. LEONARD.

ALPHABETICAL LIST
OF AUTHORS, WITH THEIR PARODIES
OR IMITATIONS

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE (1813-1865): PAGE
The Massacre of the Macpherson '_From the Gaelic_' 250
A Midnight Meditation _Lytton_ 252
The Husband's Petition _Aytoun_ 254

BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS ('THOMAS INGOLDSBY') (1788-1845):
Margate _Byron_ 176
'Not a _sous_ had he got' _Wolfe_ 176
The Demolished Farce _Bayly_ 178

'BEDE, CUTHBERT.' _See_ BRADLEY.

BRADLEY, EDWARD ('CUTHBERT BEDE') (1827-1889):
On a Toasted Muffin _Lytton_ 272
In Immemoriam _Tennyson_ 273

BROOKS, CHARLES WILLIAM SHIRLEY (1816-1874):
To my Five New Kittens _Tupper_ 256
For a' that and a' that _Burns_ 256

BROUGH, ROBERT BARNABAS (1828-1860):
I'm a Shrimp! Old Song: '_I'm Afloat_' 289

BUNNER, HENRY CUYLER (1855-1896):
Home, Sweet Home, with Variations _Swinburne_ 365
" " " " _Bret Harte_ 367
" " " " _Austin Dobson_ 368
" " " " _Goldsmith_ 369
" " " " _Pope_ 369
" " " " _Walt Whitman_ 370

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD (1788-1824):
To Mr. Murray _Cowper_ 173
Parenthetical Address by Dr.
Plagiary _Busby_ 174

CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART (1831-1884):
Ode to Tobacco _Longfellow_ 292
Beer _Byron_ 293
Wanderers _Tennyson_ 296
Proverbial Philosophy _Tupper_ 298
The Cock and the Bull _Browning_ 301
Lovers, and a Reflection _J. Ingelow_ 304
The Auld Wife _J. Ingelow_ 306

CANNING, GEORGE (1770-1827) and GEORGE ELLIS (1753-1815):
Song by Rogero _German Tragedy_ 107

CANNING, GEORGE, and JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE (1769-1846):
Inscription _Southey_ 93
The Soldier's Friend _Southey_ 93
The Soldier's Wife _Southey_ (_and Coleridge_) 94
The Friend of Humanity and the
Knife-Grinder _Southey_ 95
_See_ FRERE, CANNING, and ELLIS.

'CARROLL, LEWIS.' _See_ DODGSON.

CARY, PHŒBE (1824-1871):
'The Day is done' _Longfellow_ 270
'That very time I saw' _Shakespeare_ 271
'When lovely Woman' _Goldsmith_ 271

COLERIDGE, HARTLEY (1796-1849):
He lived amidst th' untrodden
ways _Wordsworth_ 218

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834):
Sonnets attempted in the manner of contemporary writers
(_Coleridge_, _Lamb_, and _Charles Lloyd_):
1. 'Pensive at Eve' 142
2. To Simplicity 142
3. On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country 143

COLLINS, MORTIMER (1827-1876):
If _Swinburne_ 286
Salad:
'O cool in the summer is salad' _Swinburne_ 287
'Waitress, with eyes so marvellous
black' _R. Browning_ 287
'King Arthur, growing very tired
indeed' _Tennyson_ 287

CRABBE, GEORGE (1754-1832):
Inebriety _Pope_ 86

DODGSON, CHARLES LUTWIDGE ('LEWIS CARROLL') (1832-1898):
'How doth the little Crocodile' _Watts_ 308
''Tis the voice of the Lobster' _Watts_ 308
'Twinkle, twinkle, little Bat' _Jane Taylor_ 308
'You are old, Father William' _Southey_ 309
Hiawatha's Photographing _Longfellow_ 310
The Three Voices _Tennyson_ 314
Beautiful Soup Uncertain 322

ELLIS, GEORGE (1753-1815):
Elegy written in a College
Library _Gray_ 81
_See_ FRERE, CANNING, and ELLIS.

FANSHAWE, CATHERINE MARIA (1765-1834):
Ode _Gray_ 87
Fragment _Wordsworth_ 89

FRERE, JOHN HOOKHAM (1769-1846):
A Fable _Dryden_ 92
The Course of Time _Pollok_ 92

FRERE, JOHN HOOKHAM, GEORGE CANNING, and GEORGE ELLIS:
The Loves of the Triangles _E. Darwin_ 97
_See_ CANNING and FRERE.

GILFILLAN, ROBERT (1798-1850):
Blue Bonnets over the Border _Scott_ 228

HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902):
A Geological Madrigal _Shenstone_ 342
Mrs. Judge Jenkins _Whittier_ 343
The Willows _Poe_ 344

HILTON, ARTHUR CLEMENT (1851-1877):
The Vulture and the Husbandman '_Lewis Carroll_' 358
The Heathen Pass-ee _Bret Harte_ 360
Octopus _Swinburne_ 363

HOGG, JAMES (1770-1835):
Walsingham's song from 'Wat o'
the Cleuch' _Scott_ 109
The Flying Tailor _Wordsworth_ 110
The Cherub _Coleridge_ 118
Isabelle _Coleridge_ 120
The Curse of the Laureate _Southey_ 123
The Gude Greye Katt _Hogg_ 129

HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845):
The Irish Schoolmaster _Spenser_ 229
Huggins and Duggins _Pope_ 237
Sea Song _Dibdin_ 239
'We met--'twas in a Crowd' _T. H. Bayly_ 240
Those Evening Bells _Moore_ 241
The Water Peri's Song _Moore_ 241

HOOD, THOMAS--the Younger (1835-1874):
Ravings by E., a Poe-t _Poe_ 323
In Memoriam Technicam _Tennyson_ 324
The Wedding '_Owen Meredith_' 324
Poets and Linnets _R. Browning_ 325

'INGOLDSBY, THOMAS.' See BARHAM.

KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821):
Stanzas on Charles Armitage Brown _Spenser_ 216
On Oxford _Wordsworth_ 217

'KERR, ORPHEUS C.' See NEWELL.

LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834):
Epicedium _Drayton_ 151
Hypochondriacus _Burton_ 153
Nonsense Verses _Lamb_ 154

LANG, ANDREW (1844-1912):
'Oh, no, we never mention her' _Rossetti_ 353
Ballade of Cricket _Swinburne_ 354
Brahma _Emerson_ 355
The Palace of Bric-à-Brac _Swinburne_ 355
'Gaily the Troubadour' _W. Morris_ 356

LEIGH, HENRY SAMBROOKE (1837-1883):
Only Seven _Wordsworth_ 329
Chateaux d'Espagne _Poe_ 330

LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK (1821-1895):
Unfortunate Miss Bailey _Tennyson_ 268

MAGINN, WILLIAM (1793-1842):
The Rime of the Auncient
Waggonere _Coleridge_ 208
To a Bottle of Old Port _Moore_ 213
The Last Lamp of the Alley _Moore_ 214
The Galiongee _Byron_ 214

MARTIN, SIR THEODORE (1816-1909):
The Lay of the Lovelorn _Tennyson_ 258

MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852):
The Numbering of the Clergy _Sir C. H. Williams_ 155

MURRAY, ROBERT FULLER (1863-1894):
The Poet's Hat _Tennyson_ 382
A Tennysonian Fragment _Tennyson_ 383
Andrew M'Crie _Poe_ 384

NEWELL, ROBERT HENRY ('ORPHEUS C. KERR') (1836-1901):
Rejected National Anthem _W. C. Bryant_ 333
" " " _Emerson_ 333
" " " _Willis_ 333
" " " _Longfellow_ 334
" " " _Whittier_ 334
" " " _O. W. Holmes_ 334
" " " _Stoddard_ 335
" " " _Aldrich_ 335

PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE (1785-1866):
A Border Ballad _Scott_ 156
The Wise Men of Gotham _Coleridge_ 157
Fly-by-Night _Southey_ 160
Ye Kite-Flyers of Scotland _Campbell_ 162
Love and the Flimsies _Moore_ 163
Song by Mr. Cypress _Byron_ 164

REYNOLDS, JOHN HAMILTON (1796-1852):
Peter Bell: a Lyrical Ballad _Wordsworth_ 219

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL (1828-1882):
MacCracken _Tennyson_ 290
The Brothers _Tennyson_ 290

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822):
Peter Bell the Third _Wordsworth_ 179

SKEAT, WALTER WILLIAM (1831-1912):
A Clerk ther was of Cauntebrigge
also _Chaucer_ 327

SMITH, HORATIO (1779-1849):
Loyal Effusion _Fitzgerald_ 1
An Address without a Phœnix _See Note_ 7
The Living Lustres _Moore_ 19
Drury's Dirge '_Laura Matilda_' 29
A Tale of Drury Lane _Scott_ 32
Johnson's Ghost _Johnson_ 38
The Beautiful Incendiary _W. R. Spencer_ 42
Fire and Ale _Lewis_ 46
Architectural Atoms _Busby_ 54
Punch's Apotheosis _Hook_ 76

SMITH, JAMES (1775-1839):
The Baby's Debut _Wordsworth_ 4
Hampshire Farmer's Address _Cobbett_ 15
The Rebuilding _Southey_ 21
Playhouse Musings _Coleridge_ 49
Drury Lane Hustings '_A Pic-Nic Poet_' 52
Theatrical Alarm-Bell Editor of the _Morning
Post_ 61
The Theatre _Crabbe_ 64
Macbeth _Shakespeare-Poole_ 70
The Stranger _Kotzebue-Thompson_ 72
George Barnwell _Lillo_ 73

SMITH, JAMES and HORATIO:
Cui Bono _Byron_ 9

SOUTHEY, ROBERT (1774-1843):
Amatory Poems of Abel Shufflebottom:
1. Delia at Play 144
2. To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait 144
3. He proves the Existence of a Soul 145
4. 'I would I were that portly Gentleman' 145
Love Elegies:
1. Delia's Pocket-Handkerchief 146
2. Delia Singing 147
3. Delia's Hair 148
4. The Theft of a Lock 149
(All imitations of the Della Cruscans.)

STEPHEN, JAMES KENNETH (1859-1892):
Ode on a Retrospect of Eton
College _Gray_ 374
A Sonnet _Wordsworth_ 376
Sincere Flattery of R. B. _Browning_ 376
Sincere Flattery of W. W.
(Americanus) _Whitman_ 377
To A. T. M. _F. W. H. Myers_ 378

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837-1909):
The Poet and the Woodlouse _E. B. Browning_ 336
The Person of the House: The Kid _Patmore_ 338
Nephelidia _Swinburne_ 340

TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878):
Ode on a Jar of Pickles _Keats_ 274
Gwendoline _E. B. Browning_ 275
Angelo orders his Dinner _R. Browning_ 276
The Shrimp-Gatherers _Jean Ingelow_ 277
Cimabuella _D. G. Rossetti_ 278
From 'The Taming of Themistocles' _W. Morris_ 280
All or Nothing _Emerson_ 281
The Ballad of Hiram Hover _Whittier_ 282
The Sewing-Machine _Longfellow_ 284

TAYLOR, TOM (1817-1880):
The Laureate's Bust at Trinity _Tennyson_ 266

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811-1863):
Cabbages _L. E. L._ 242
Larry O'Toole _Lever_ 242
The Willow Tree _Thackeray_ 243
Dear Jack _Fawkes_ 245
The Almack's Adieu '_Wapping Old Stairs_' 247
The Knightly Guerdon '_Wapping Old Stairs_' 248
The Ghazul:
The Rocks _Oriental Love Song_ 245
The Merry Bard _Oriental Love Song_ 246
The Caique _Oriental Love Song_ 246

THOMPSON, FRANCIS (1859-1907):
Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has
taken flight _FitzGerald_ 379

TRAILL, HENRY DUFF (1842-1900):
Vers de Société _Locker-Lampson_ 347
The Puss and the Boots _R. Browning_ 348
After Dilettante Concetti _Rossetti_ 350

TWISS, HORACE (1787-1849):
The Patriot's Progress _Shakespeare_ 166
Our Parodies are Ended _Shakespeare_ 167
Fashion _Milton_ 167
Verses _Cowper_ 171

UNKNOWN:
The Town Life _Rogers_ 386
Fish have their times to bite _Hemans_ 387
Another Ode to the North-East
Wind _Kingsley_ 388
A Girtonian Funeral _Browning_ 390

REJECTED ADDRESSES[1]

OR

THE NEW THEATRUM POETARUM

Fired that the House reject him! ----s death!
I'll print it, and shame the fools.
POPE.

HORACE AND JAMES SMITH

LOYAL EFFUSION.

BY W. T. F.[2]

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

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

THE BABY'S DEBUT.

BY W. W.[5]

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

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

My brother Jack was nine in May,[6]
And I was eight on New-year's-day;
So in Kate Wilson's 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 parlour-door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,
And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am 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 mopp'd it with a mop,
And brush'd it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
(I always talk to Sam:)
So what does he, but takes, and 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, whisp-
er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp,
And then you're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a-night;[7]
Then why not Nancy Lake?'

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

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

'The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any
of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but
has succeeded perfectly in the imitation of his maukish
affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering.
We hope it will make him ashamed of 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.'--_Edinburgh Review._

AN ADDRESS WITHOUT
A PHŒNIX.

BY S. T. P.[8]

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

What stately vision mocks my waking sense?
Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence!
Ha! is it real?--can my doubts be vain?
It is, it is, and Drury lives again!
Around each grateful veteran attends,
Eager to rush and gratulate his friends,
Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight,
Endear the past, and make the future bright:
Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile
Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

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

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

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

CUI BONO?

BY LORD B.[9]

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

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

XII.

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

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

TO THE

SECRETARY OF THE MANAGING COMMITTEE
OF DRURY-LANE PLAYHOUSE.

SIR,

To the gewgaw fetters of _rhyme_ (invented by the monks to enslave the people) I have a rooted objection. I have therefore written an address for your theatre in plain, homespun, yeoman's _prose_; in the doing whereof hope I am swayed by nothing but an _independent_ wish to open the eyes of this gulled people, to prevent a repetition of the dramatic _bamboozling_ they have hitherto laboured under. If you like what I have done, and mean to make use of it, I don't want any such _aristocratic_ reward as a piece of plate with two griffins sprawling upon it, or a _dog_ and a _jackass_ fighting for a ha'p'worth of _gilt gingerbread_, or any such Bartholomew-fair nonsense. All I ask is, that the door-keepers of your playhouse may take all the _sets of my Register_ now on hand, and _force_ every body who enters your doors to buy one, giving afterwards a debtor and creditor account of what they have received, _post-paid_, and in due course remitting me the money and unsold Registers, _carriage-paid_.

I am, &c.
W. C.[13]

IN THE CHARACTER OF

A HAMPSHIRE FARMER.

----Rabidâ qui concitus irâ
Implevit pariter ternis latratibus auras,
Et sparsit virides spumis albentibus agros.
OVID.

MOST THINKING PEOPLE,

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

THE LIVING LUSTRES.

BY T. M.[19]

Jam te juvaverit
Viros relinquere,
Doctæque conjugis
Sinu quiescere.
SIR T. MORE.

I.

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

II.

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

VII.

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

VIII.

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

IX.

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

X.

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

XI.

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

XII.

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

XIII.

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

THE REBUILDING.

BY R. S.[22]

----Per audaces nova dithyrambos
Verba devolvit, numerisque fertur
Lege solutis.
HORAT.

[_Spoken by a Glendoveer._]

I am a blessed Glendoveer:[23]
'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.[24]
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored!
Midnight, yet not a nose
From Indra drew the essence of repose!
See with what crimson fury,
By Indra fann'd, the god of fire ascends the walls of
Drury!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DRURY'S DIRGE.

BY LAURA MATILDA.[31]

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.

I.

Balmy Zephyrs, lightly flitting,
Shade me with your azure wing;
On Parnassus' summit sitting,
Aid me, Clio, while I sing.

II.

Softly slept the dome of Drury
O'er the empyreal crest,
When Alecto's sister-fury
Softly slumb'ring sunk to rest.

III.

Lo! from Lemnos limping lamely,
Lags the lowly Lord of Fire,
Cytherea yielding tamely
To the Cyclops dark and dire.

IV.

Clouds of amber, dreams of gladness,
Dulcet joys and sports of youth,
Soon must yield to haughty sadness;
Mercy holds the veil to Truth.

V.

See Erostratus the second
Fires again Diana's fane;
By the fates from Orcus beckon'd,
Clouds envelop Drury Lane.

VI.

Lurid smoke and frank suspicion
Hand in hand reluctant dance:
While the God fulfils his mission,
Chivalry, resign thy lance.

VII.

Hark! the engines blandly thunder,
Fleecy clouds dishevell'd lie,
And the firemen, mute with wonder,
On the son of Saturn cry.

VIII.

See the bird of Ammon sailing,
Perches on the engine's peak,
And, the Eagle firemen hailing,
Soothes them with its bickering beak.

IX.

Juno saw, and mad with malice,
Lost the prize that Paris gave:
Jealousy's ensanguined chalice,
Mantling pours the orient wave.

X.

Pan beheld Patroclus dying,
Nox to Niobe was turn'd;
From Busiris Bacchus flying
Saw his Semele inurn'd.

XI.

Thus fell Drury's lofty glory,
Levell'd with the shuddering stones;
Mars, with tresses black and gory,
Drinks the dew of pearly groans.

XII.

Hark! what soft Eolian numbers
Gem the blushes of the morn!
Break, Amphion, break your slumbers,
Nature's ringlets deck the thorn.

XIII.

Ha! I hear the strain erratic
Dimly glance from pole to pole;
Raptures sweet and dreams ecstatic
Fire my everlasting soul.

XIV.

Where is Cupid's crimson motion?
Billowy ecstasy of woe,
Bear me straight, meandering ocean,
Where the stagnant torrents flow.

XV.

Blood in every vein is gushing,
Vixen vengeance lulls my heart;
See, the Gorgon gang is rushing!
Never, never let us part!

'"Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matilda, is not of the first
quality. The verses, to be sure, are very smooth, and very
nonsensical--as was intended; but they are not so good as
Swift's celebrated Song by a Person of Quality; and are so
exactly in the same measure, and on the same plan, that it
is impossible to avoid making the comparison.'--_Edinburgh
Review._

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

BY W. S.[32]

Thus he went on, stringing one extravagance upon another, in
the style his books of chivalry had taught him, and imitating,
as near as he could, their very phrase.[33]--DON QUIXOTE.

[_To be spoken by Mr. Kemble, in a suit of the Black Prince's Armour,
borrowed from the Tower._]

Survey this shield, all bossy bright--
These cuisses twain behold!
Look on my form in armour dight
Of steel inlaid with gold;
My knees are stiff in iron buckles,
Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles.
These once belong'd to sable prince,
Who never did in battle wince;
With valour 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,[34]
And tell the town what sad mischance
Did Drury Lane befall.

The Night.

On fair Augusta's towers and trees
Flitted the silent midnight breeze,
Curling the foliage as it past,
Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast
A spangled light, like dancing spray,
Then re-assumed 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,
Appeared 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 'twas no place inhabited,
But some vast city of the dead--
All was so hush'd and still.

The Burning.

As Chaos, which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise
When light first flash'd upon her eyes--
So London's sons in nightcap woke,
In bedgown 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 Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre 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,[35]
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 borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham
The rose or 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 seem'd that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire
Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd 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 thunder'd 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 stopp'd 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,
Show'd 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 Phœnix and the Sun,
Th' 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 join'd 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!