POKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.
HOLD, Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense!
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns and reason scorns thy mirth.
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou filled the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallowed crew?
May rosined lightning blast me if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off, off, vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The maddening monarch revels in my veins.
Oh for a Richard's voice to catch the theme!
"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds !—soft; 'twas but
a dream."
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating:
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavilled at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks;
They never have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head; yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns !-I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonished, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
"Hoicks! hark forward!" came thundering from behind.
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind;
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself,-like me.
[Taking a jump through the stage-door.
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum:
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ;
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain,
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason-boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em :
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?"
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go,
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob;
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Pater-Noster Row ;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds :
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confessed, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators :
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act :
Thus at the court both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.
ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,
Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION TO DINNER AT DR. BAKER'S.
"This is a poem! This is a copy of verses!"
YOUR mandate I got,
You may all go to pot;
Had your senses been right,
You'd have sent before night;
As I hope to be saved,
I put off being shaved;
For I could not make bold,
While the matter was cold,
To meddle in suds,
Or to put on my duds;
So tell Horneck and Nesbitt
And Baker and his bit,
And Kauffman beside,
And the Jessamy bride;
With the rest of the crew,
The Reynoldses two,
Little Comedy's face
And the Captain in lace.
(By the bye, you may tell him, I have something to sell him; Of use I insist,
When he comes to enlist.
Your worships must know
That a few days ago,
An order went out,
For the foot guards so stout
To wear tails in high taste,
Twelve inches at least:
"Now I've got him a scale
To measure each tail,
To lengthen a short tail,
And a long one to curtail.)——
Yet how can I when vext
Thus stray from my text?
Tell each other to rue
Your Devonshire crew,
For sending so late
To one of my state.
But 'tis Reynolds's way
From wisdom to stray,
And Angelica's whim
To be frolic like him.
But, alas! your good worships, how could they be wiser,
When both have been spoiled in to-day's Advertiser ?
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE
PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.
THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.
Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour
Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frowned.
As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest
While winds and waves their wishes cross,
Where all the humble, all the great, Promiscuously recline;
Where, wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine!
And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest, They stood, while hope and comfort fail, May saints with songs receive thee to their
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall! Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most
As a safe inn, where weary travellers, When they have journeyed through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever. Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity;
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmasked, shows me a
friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;
For as the line of life conducts me on
To Death's great court, the prospect
seems more fair.
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drained the cup Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. In that secure, serene retreat,
May peace, that claimed while here thy
May blissful, endless peace, be thine above!
SONG.-By a WOMAN.
Lovely, lasting Peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely, lasting Peace appear:
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;
Celestial-like her bounty fell,
Where modest want and patient sorrow
dwell;
Want passed for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.
And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks
thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,
A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall
To blend their virtues while they think of thee.
Let us, let all the world agree, To profit by resembling thee.
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