throng, A general bustle spread throughout the | And then against them, bitterer than ever; Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation; He had sung against all battles, and again Pye come again? No more—no more of that!" | In their high praise and glory; he had call'd Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd: The tumult grew, an universal cough As at a farce; till grown quite desperate, - He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, And more of both than any body knows. He had written Wesley's life:-here, turn- Satan bow'd, and was silent. "Well, if you, Mine is a pen of all work; not so new But talking about trumpets, here's my Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall! He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no Those grand heroics acted as a spell: The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell; The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, And I leave every man to his opinions); Michael took refuge in his trump-but lo! His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, And at the fifth line knock'd the Poet down; Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, Into his lake, for there he did not drown, A different web being by the Destinies Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er He first sunk to the bottom-like his works, But soon rose to the surface-like himself; For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks, By their own rottenness, light as an elf, Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks, It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision," As Wellborn says "the devil turn'd precisian." As for the rest, to come to the conclusion Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion, And show'd me what I in my turn have shown: All I saw further in the last confusion. Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm. Reform shall happen either here or there. I left him practising the hundredth psalm MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE. Honest-honest Iago! If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. SHAKSPEARE. BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; Next--for some gracious service unexprest, And from its wages only to be guess'd— Raised from the toilet to the table, where Her wondering betters wait behind her chair: With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd, Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, The genial confidante, and general spy; Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess, An only infant's earliest governess! She taught the child to read, and taught 80 well That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. An adept next in penmanship she grows, As many a nameless slander deftly shows: What she had made the pupil of her art, None know—but that high soul secured the Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind, Deceit infect not, near contagion soil. She deems that all could be like her below: At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, Have given her power too deeply to instil The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast The angry essence of her deadly will; spread! If like a snake she steal within your walls, Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; If like a viper to the heart she wind, To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints, With all the kind mendacity of hints, While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles, A thread of candour with a web of wiles; A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming; A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal, There is no trait which might not be Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made This monster when their mistress left off This female dog-star of her little sky, Then, when thou fain wouldst weary heaven with prayer, Look on thine earthly victims-and despair! Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away, Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous But for the love I bore, and still must bear, SPOKEN ADDRESS, March 30, 1816. АТ ТПВ OPENING OF DRURY LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from Saw the long column of revolving flames Oh! wretch without a tear-without a The skies, with lightnings awful as their thought, own, Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall The time shall come, nor long remote, Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her when thou fall; Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. May the strong curse of crush'd affections light Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! Say– shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Know the same favour which the former Yes it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; On the same spot still consccrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell— Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head! Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Pause ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them! Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise, And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours! This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please - long, long may you preside! ODE. OH Venice! Venice! when thy marble-walls And yet they only murmur in their sleep. Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears; Of gondolas and to the busy hum Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors, And Mirth is madness,and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, When Faintness, the last mortal birth ofPain, Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; |