Page images



Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation — thus “

"WHEN energising objects men pursue,"

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. "A modest monologue you here survey,"

Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day," As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," Knew you the rumpus which the author raised; "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew these lines you the badness of the best. "Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words borrow'd from


[ocr errors]

"Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues! "And sleeping pangs awake—and — but away” (Confound me if I know what next to say). "Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G-recites what Doctor Busby sings!"If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic" spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of “tar.”

(1) [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee, (see antè, Vol. IX., p. 29.) was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody.]

"This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane.

"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

"In arts and sciences our isle hath shone" (This deep discovery is mine alone). "Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" My verse-or I'm a fool—and Fame's a liar, “Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much more.

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain

Disgraces, too!" inseparable train!"

"Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid"

(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, Now to produce in a " divine sestetto"!! "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the " upper" boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" (For this last line George had a holiday).

"Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"

So says the manager,

and so says


"But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Is this the poem which the public lost?

“True-true-that lowers at once our mounting pride;"

But lo!-the papers print what you deride.

" 'Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize," 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertize! "A double blessing your rewards impart"I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. "Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

October, 1812.


WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought," (2)

This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense

Supplied, and amply too by innocence;

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!

When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

(1) [In Warwickshire.]

(2) [See Cymon and Iphigenia.]

MARTIAL, Lib. I. Epig. I.

Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris,
Tota notus in orbe Martialis, &c.

He unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,

Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it-
Post-obits rarely reach a poet,


To the tune of "Why, how now, saucy jade?"

[blocks in formation]

Why, how now, Parson Bowles?

Sure the priest is maudlin!

(To the public) How can you, d-n your souls, Listen to his twaddling?


OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so didst thou:
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!

So Castlereagh has cut his throat! - The worst Of this is, — that his own was not the first.

So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who? The man who cut his country's long ago.


POSTERITY will ne'er survey

A nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
Stop, traveller


[This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.]


March 8-9. 1823.

THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Him who bade England bow to Normandy,
And left the name of conqueror more than king
To his unconquerable dynasty.

Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,

He ear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey fast, And Britain's bravest victor was the last.

« PreviousContinue »