VI.
By my piping treble tones, By my loved Gregorian groans, By the priest’s Confessional, By man’s faults transgressional; Ah! that whispered word I catch―― Yes, I’m right for Colney Hatch.
BENJAMIN D――――. _His Little Dinner._ 1876.
――――
MR. GLADSTONE AND THE “DAILY TELEGRAPH.”
(_The hour of midnight strikes._) MR. GLADSTONE (_at his casement._)
This is the hour when churchyards yawn, they say; I wish that I could do the same. All day I’ve worked right hard, yet sleep I cannot woo; Oh! how I wish the weary night were through.
_As he speaks, a form clad in large sheets of newspaper is seen stealing from the neighbouring copse, and sinking on its knees on the gravel before Mr. Gladstone’s window, plaintively sings_:――
People’s William, do not start, Nor reply in accents tart; See thy “Telly” kneel in pain, Vowing thee to serve again; See, and say before I go―― Is it all made up or no?
True it is I turned on thee; Fate for this has punished me. For, despite my subtle art, Joseph M. is not a Bart. Pity, then, thou’lt surely show!―― Is it all made up or no?
Should’st thou come again to pow’r, William, recollect this hour! That thy “Telly” on the stones Knelt and prayed in piteous tones, That thou should’st not be its foe―― Is it all made up or no?
Ere thou seek’st thy night’s repose, Tell me, are we friends or foes? Wilt thou in our interests work, If I drop the wicked Turk? Tell me quickly ere I go, Is it all made up or no?
_Duo._――WILLIE AND HIS TELLY.
_Willie_: Telly, Telly, like a jelly, shiver I at what you’ve said, _Telly_: Gladdie, Gladdie, lowland laddie, pardon here to seek I’ve sped, _Willie_: Telly, Telly, quite _Pall-Mally_, have you been in all you wrote, _Telly_: Willie, Willie, I was silly; on the Turk no more I’ll dote. _Willie_: You I’ll pardon, ere you harden! Go, and don’t your word forget. _Telly_: Joseph Moses, too, supposes he may be Sir Joseph yet, If right gaily, we now daily, puff the Muscovs up, and you? _Willie_: You will see, T., how ’twill be, T.; trust, meantime, in what I do!
_Solo._――TELLY. Fare thee well, and if for ever, Thou can’st say I’ve not been clever; But remember, please, this hour, When thou com’st again to pow’r.
[_Exit_ Telly, _dancing, and_ Mr. Gladstone _retires to rest_.] ――_Truth_. October, 1877
(At one time _The Daily Telegraph_ (London), was very strong in its support of Mr. Gladstone’s policy, but it afterwards completely veered round, and whilst Lord Beaconsfield was in power, he became the God of its idolatry. This change of front was popularly supposed to arise from the fact that the proprietor of the paper was very anxious to obtain a baronetcy.)
――――
MAID OF ATHENS. JOHN BULL _loquitur_.――
Maid of Athens, ere we start, Take my arm――I’ll take your part. Be my partner. All the rest Have paired off as suits them best. Hear me swear, before we go, _Zoe mou sas agapo_.
Bismarck’s bland, but over-kind; Gortschakoff would Argus blind; Coy Andrassy’s coldly cute. No: such partners will not suit. You are small, but safe, I trow. _Zoe mou sas agapo._
Hobson’s Choice? Oh, not at all! I’ve my business at the ball: What it is I need not tell; Attic nous should guess right well. Come! together let us go! _Zoe mou sas agapo._
Maid of Athens! though alone, Think not, dear, that I’ll be “done.” They’ve an eye to Istambol, Fain would leave me in the hole―― Do I mean to let them? No! _Zoe mou sas agapo._
_Punch_, March 23, 1878.
――――
THE MAID OF CLAPHAM.
Maid of Clapham! ere I part, Tell me if thou hast a heart! For, so padded is thy breast, I begin to doubt the rest! Tell me now before I go―― Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
Are those tresses thickly twined, Only hair-pinned on behind! Is thy blush which roses mocks, Bought at three-and-six per box? Tell me, for I ask in woe―― Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
And those lips I seem to taste, Are they pink with cherry-paste? Gladly I’d the notion, scout, But do those white teeth take out? Answer me, it is not so―― Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
Maid of Clapham! come, no larks! For thy shoulders leave white marks―― Tell me! quickly tell to me What is really real in thee? Tell me, or at once I go―― Αῥτ θοῦ αλλ μᾶδε υπὁρνῶ?
_Jon Duan._
――――
MADE OF SOMETHING.
Made of Something! ere we part, Tell me, truly, what thou art! For, it needs must be confessed, There is mystery at best Lurking in thine amber glow―― Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
Tell me, doth the glucose shine In this chalky foam of thine? Is it malt of barley true, Mingled in thy cheery brew? Hops, not drugs, thy tincture? O Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
Howsoe’er it be, I fear, Made of Something, you are queer! For you make my head to ache, And my stomach cause to quake, After twenty Drinks or so―― Λαγερ μου σάς ἀγαπῶ!
_Free Press Flashes_, 1882.
――――
ZOEDONE.
“Zoedone is a tonic, no doubt about it; but being rather sweetish, it must be thoroughly iced; then――put a liqueur glass of brandy into a small tumbler of Zoe, and, if you like shandygaffian sort of drinking, you will find this, what the leading Counsel finds his occasional fifty guineas, a gentle and agreeable Refresher. _Solvitur drink-no-endo. Verb. sap._ We dedicate to Zoedone this Byronic verse”:――
Made of something, ere we part, Tell me, tell me what thou art? If the truth must be confest, With a nip thou goest best. With liqueur, one little “go,” Ζώη-δῶν σάς ἀγαπῶ.
_Punch_, September 18, 1880.
――――
CALF’S HEART.
Maid of all work as a part Of my dinner, cook a heart; Or, since such a dish is best, Give me that, and leave the rest, Take my orders, ere I go; Heart of calf we’ll cook thee so.
Buy, to price you’re not confined―― Such a heart as suits your mind; Buy some suet――and enough Of the herbs required to stuff, Buy some lemon――peel――and, oh! Heart of calf, we’ll fill thee so.
Buy some onions――just a taste―― Buy enough, but not to waste; Buy two eggs of slender shell, Mix, and stir the mixture well; Crumbs of bread among it throw; Heart of calf we’ll roast thee so.
Maid of all work, when ’tis done, Serve it up to me alone: Rich brown gravy round it roll, Marred by no intruding coal; Currant jelly add――and lo! Heart of calf, I’ll eat thee so.
_Punch_, January 1852.
――――
“BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER.”[100]
Madam Rachel, ere we smash, Give, oh, give me back my cash; Or, since that has left my chest, Let me have a little rest. Hear my vow before I go,―― Upon my life, I’ll sue you!
By these powdered tresses fine, Falling from a brow divine; By the beautiful gamboge; By these soft cheeks’ blooming rouge; By these eyes, so like the roe,―― It is――it is no go!
By this lip he longed to taste; By this zone-encircled waist; By “dear William’s” quenched love, Which I never more can move; Give me――solace in my woe―― All the cash, and let me go!
Madam Rachel, I’ll be gone: Think of me sweet, when alone. I will fly to Mr. Knox; Every nerve this system shocks, Can I cease to sue thee? No! Madam Rachel, oh dear, no!
_Judy_, June 24. 1868.
――――
MAID OF ALL-WORK. (To her Mistress.)
Unkind Missis, e’er the day Speed my willing feet away, Let my injured spirit speak, Prick your conscience, tinge your cheek, Hear my words before I go: If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By my weary hours confined To work and dirt and heat combined; By my ever-lengthening day, By my ever-shortening pay: By these grievances you know―― If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
By the joints I ne’er might taste, By the rows about the waste; By your harsh, discordant voice Scolding with expletives choice! By my lot of work, and woe,―― If I’m bad, you’ve made me so.
Cruel Missis! never more Shall midnight find my toil scarce o’er―― Never more! And Missis, yet, My parting words you’ll ne’er forget, As changing slaveys come――and go: _If they’re bad, you’ve made them so_!
From _Grins and Groans, Social and Political_.
――――
MAID OF GANGES. By a Heart-broken Hindoo.
Maid of Ganges! thou that art Maharanee of my heart, Thou that fairest art in all Rajpootana or Nepaul: It were happiness to be Syce or Ayah unto thee;―― Then one glance of pity fling To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Had I mines of gems and gold, All Golconda’s wealth untold; Myriads of precious stones, Begum’s crowns and Nizam’s thrones; Lakhs of annas, pies, rupees,―― These I’d bring and more than these. I have them not: and so I bring Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges! thou shalt feast On all the dainties of the east; Curry will I bring to thee, Chutnee, rice, and cadgeree, All that can delight the sense―― Thy lover will not spare expense. He will buy thee anything, Will Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges? thou shalt wear A Tuggaree twined in thy hair. And about thy head shall play A sportive punkah all the day; While the bulbul’s song by night Shall fill thee with supreme delight, And to the tomtom’s plaintive string Shall Koot Nerbudda Chundra sing.
Maid of Ganges! dost thou love To watch the smoke-rings curl above? Dost thou smoke? Then so do I, So lay thy proud demeanour by And sit beneath yon banyan tree And share a narghili with me, Or hubble-bubble murmuring With Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
Maid of Ganges! thou dost lave Thy houri form in Jumna’s wave; Thou dost waste thy sunny smiles On the sacred crocodiles, As beneath thine eyes they bask They have what I vainly ask. Then one glance of kindness fling To Koot Nerbudda Chundra Singh.
_The Etonian_, February 15, 1884.
――――
TO A SLAVEY.
Maid-of-all-work we must part, You are not a pleasing tart, Smashing things with such a zest, You must surely need a rest. Anyway, one thing I know: Holy Moses! out you go!
[_Takes her by the birdcage and the chignon and hands her out like a sack of coals._]
_The Topical Times_, March, 1886.
――――
The following verses were said to have been copied from an intercepted post card:――
Joe, my Joseph, ere we part, Ere you break an old man’s heart, You that hold the Rads in check, Ere the Cabinet you wreck, Pause, nor let Trevelyan go: Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
Leave, oh leave us not alone; Hartington and James are gone; Forster, Goschen, stand aside; Bright (they say) to you’s allied; But the world I fain would show, Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
Even those I reckon true: Harcourt, heavy――Morley new―― Childers, blundering――Granville, old―― Some afraid, some rashly bold; Wanting all, too much to know: Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
If with us you’ll only stay, In aught else we’ll all give way; Each shall have (if you’ll show how) His three acres and a cow; “Ransom” shall be all the “go:” Ιώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ
_St. James’s Gazette_, March 22, 1886.
(Mr. Joseph Chamberlain had just resigned his seat in the Cabinet.)
――――
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD
I would I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Or roaming through the dusky wild, Or bounding o’er the dark blue wave; The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride Accords not with the freeborn soul, Which loves the mountain’s craggy side, And seeks the rocks where billows roll
Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound! I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean’s wildest roar; I ask but this――again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before.
* * * * *
I loved――but those I loved are gone; Had friends――my early friends are fled; How cheerless feels the heart alone When all its former hopes are dead! Though gay companions o’er the bowl Dispel awhile the sense of ill; Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, The heart――the heart――is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boist’rous joy is but a name. * * * * *
LORD BYRON.
――――
THE OLD FOGEY’S LAMENT.
I would I were a careless child, Still knowing not how to behave, With dirty face and hair all wild And not a bit of need to shave. The cumbrous ways of manhood’s day Accord not with my boyish soul; Again in dreams I “rounders” play, The top I spin, the ball I roll.
Fortune, take back my house and lands, For nuisances I them have found; I want a tipcat in my hands, I want to make the football bound. Give me again the “rock” I loved (Ah, it was sold in penny sticks!) Which, in my trousers’ pocket shoved, With fluff and marbles used to mix.
I loved――but what I loved is gone. Where are those soldiers made of lead They could not leave my kite alone, It now has altogether fled. Let those who will seek Fortune’s track, And to Ambition’s projects cling! I only want my jew’s-harp back, My hoop, my silkworms, and my string.
How dull to hear the voice of those Whom rank or chance, or wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the present hour. Give me again my faithful “chums,” Who ate my cake and jam at school; Who let me copy off their sums, Then thrashed me ’cause I was a fool.
Oh, would my boyhood could return, With all its appetite and joys! Now doughy cake I’m bound to spurn, And raspberry jam, by potfulls, cloys. Life is a weariness, in fact; And could I rid me of its pain, With Fate I’d make a willing pact, And gladly be a boy again.
_Funny Folks._
――――:o:――――
NAPOLEON’S FAREWELL. _From the French._
Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose and o’ershadowed the earth with her name―― She abandons me now――but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame. I have warr’d with a world which vanquished me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, The last single Captive to millions in war.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth―― But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decay’d in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won―― Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted Had still soar’d with eyes fixed on victory’s sun.
Farewell to thee France!――but when Liberty rallies Once more in thy regions, remember me then―― The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; Though wither’d, thy tear will unfold it again―― Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice―― There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, _Then_ turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
LORD BYRON.
――――
THE BOHEMIAN’S FAREWELL.
Farewell to the Strand, and my uppermost story, Which bore on the door in rude letters my name; Whose shelter I’ve courted with countenance gory, When street rows had soiled both my linen and fame! I’ve warred with the landlord, who conquered me only When liquor and love had allured me too far, And the lodger made love to his fair daughter lonely, While she giggled softly, and murmured “Ask ma!”
Farewell to the Strand! While the money had crown’d me, Of coin for sprees I ne’er yet felt the dearth; But Poverty says, I must leave as I found thee, Decayed in my garments, and sunk in my worth! Oh! for the numberless sov’reigns I’ve wasted In strife with the p’lice ere my orgies were done! Oh! for the numberless liquors I’ve tasted, With blackened eyes fixed upon multiplied sun.
Farewell to thee, Strand! But when Bankruptcy rallies, And calls me once more to thy regions, why then, As the old well-known footstep recrosses thine alleys, Welcome me back to Bohemia again! E’en yet I may baffle the duns that surround me, E’en yet may thy street be aroused by my voice; And when for a spree you have gathered around me, _Then_ turn, and call on the chief of your choice!
JOHN J. BOSWORTH. _Worthy a Crown?_ 1876.
――――:o:――――
THE SPELL IS BROKEN.
The spell is broken when we own The girl who made us feel love’s fever; We madly smile, and wish we’d known Her temper, ere too late to leave her.
Each curtain lecture brings the thought Of all the woes of wedding’s charter; And he who had an angel sought But lives to find he’s caught a tartar.
_Judy_, December 29, 1880,
――――:o:――――
THE WAR SONG OF THE RADICAL PHILHELLENE. (_After Lord Byron’s translation of a famous Greek War Song._)
Sons of the Greeks, our eyes Are on your little State; We view with pained surprise The move you meditate.
_Chorus._ Sons of the Greeks! to go In arms against the foe Would be just now, you know, Inopportune indeed.
Your glorious uprising, Are you aware, my friends? Is gravely jeopardizing Your patrons private ends.
With Philhellenic fervour He burns, and so do I, As any close observer May, if he can, descry.
Gladly would he, I take it, Extend support to you, If he could only make it Convenient so to do.
But asking him to father Your game, with _his_ to play, Sons of the Greeks, is rather A strongish order, eh?
_Chorus._ Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Yet, O ye patriots banded! Sons of the Greeks, I own There _has_ been, to be candid, A certain change of tone.
I’ve not forgot full surely, Nor shall I all my life, How somewhat prematurely I woke the Spartan fife.
I made a bold diversion, Leonidas-like; but _he_―― He went in for coercion, And left me up a tree.
And so amid back numbers, From which I do not quote, Now, hushed for ever, slumbers That hasty battle-note.
_Chorus._ Sons of the Greeks, etc.
Well, to correct my blunder, The least that I can do Is just to preach knock-under Perpetually to you.
And, after all, there’s reason In a filibustering raid, For which ’tis _not_ the season, To seek our Gladstone’s aid.
He’s not at leisure, is he? To cut up other Powers, Just now when he’s so busy Carving this realm of ours.
Though loath then, I assure you, To stay the lifted cup, I solemnly adjure you, Sons of the Greeks, dry up!
_Chorus._ Sons of the Greeks, etc.
_The Saturday Review_, April. 1886.
――――:o:――――
ENIGMA
’Twas whispered in heaven, ’twas muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. ’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder, ’Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. Without the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. ’Twill not soften the heart, and tho’ deaf to the ear, ’Twill make it acutely and instantly hear, But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower―― Oh! breathe on it softly――it dies in an hour.
LORD BYRON.
――――
A Parody on the above, by Henry Mayhew.
I dwells in the Herth, and I breathes in the Hair; If you searches the Hocean, you’ll find that I’m there. The first of all Hangels, in Holympus am Hi, Yet I’m banished from ’Eaven, expelled from on ’Igh. But though on this Horb I’m destined to grovel, I’m ne’er seen in an ’Ouse, in an ’Ut, nor an ’Ovel; Not an ’Oss nor an ’Unter e’er bears me, alas! But often I’m found on the top of a Hass. I resides in a Hattic, and loves not to roam, And yet I’m invariably absent from ’Ome. Tho’ ’ushed in the ’Urricane, of the Hatmosphere part, I enters no ’Ed, I creeps into no ’Art; Only look, and you’ll see in the Heye I appear, Only ’ark, and you’ll ’ear me just breathe in the Hear. Though in sex not an ’E, I am (strange paradox) Not a bit of an ’Effer, but partly a Hox. Of Heternity Hi’m the beginning! and mark, Tho I goes not with Noar, I’m the first in the Hark. I’m never in ’Ealth――have with Fysic no power; I dies in a Month, but comes back in a Hour!
――――
THE LETTER H’S PETITION.
Whereas, I have by you been driven From house, from home, from hope, from heaven, And placed by your most learned society In exile, anguish, and anxiety, And used, without one just pretence, With arrogance and insolence; I here demand full restitution, And beg you’ll mend your elocution.
ANSWER.
Whereas we’ve rescued you, Ingrate, From handcuff, horror, and from hate, From hell, from horse-pond, and from halter, And consecrated you in altar; And placed you where you ne’er should be, In honour, and in honesty;―――― We deem your prayer a rude intrusion, And will not mend our elocution.
――――
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE LETTER W TO THE INHABITANTS OF LONDON.
Whereas by you I have been hurled From the first station in the _w_orld, Condemned in _v_ice to find a place, And with the _v_ulgar show my face; I humbly ask to be restored, In all that’s proper, to a _w_ord. But what I most complain of now, Is that the _w_omen cut me so; When any girl becomes a _w_ife, I’m turned away for all her life―― And even in her _w_idowhood I mayn’t return to her abode. Therefore with reason I complain, Oh! let me not be heard in _v_ain; And born within the sound of Bo_w_, I trust I’m not your care below:
ANSWER.
Your prayer is graciously received, But you can never be believed; With _v_’s you often spell your name―― Then is it just your dupes to blame? As long as you act parts so _double_, We cannot deem you worth our trouble; But rest assured that nought will hurt you, So long as you remain in _v_irtue.
[Illustration]
DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers:――
“_Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre_.
“The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury-office, in Drury-Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate.”
Many addresses were sent in, but the Committee rejected them all, much to the annoyance of the competitors, who, having expended their time and paper, by the implied engagement on the part of the committee that the best bidder should have the contract, had a right to protest against the injustice of this wholesale rejection. The committee made an absurd engagement; but surely they were bound to keep to it.
In the dilemma to which that learned body was reduced by the rejection of all the biddings, they put themselves under the care of Lord Byron, who produced the following:――
ADDRESS.
_Spoken at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, Saturday, October_ 10_th_, 1812.
In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bow’d to the dust, the Drama’s tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespere cease to reign.
Ye who beheld (oh! sight admir’d and mourn’d, Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorn’d!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, Like Israel’s pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o’er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng’d around the burning dome, Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home, As glared the volum’d blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp’d the Muse’s realm, and mark’d her fall; Say――shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear’d where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspere――worthy him and _you_?
Yes――it shall be――the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama _be_ where she has _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’erwhelmed 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![101] 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 emblazoned 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 Play Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject; If e’er frivolity has led to fame, And made us blush that you forbore to blame, If e’er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, All past reproach may present scenes refute, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama’s laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor’s powers, And reason’s voice be echo’d back by ours.
This greeting o’er, the ancient rule obeyed, 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.
Hereon followed “The Rejected Addresses” by the brothers Horace and James Smith, published in 1812 by John Miller, 25, Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, and the wonderfully clever and amusing imitations and parodies contained in the book made it at once popular, and caused it to prominently attract the attention of the literati of the day. The imitation of Lord Byron is not perhaps so successful as some of the other poems. As Lord Jeffrey remarked in _The Edinburgh Review_. “The author has succeeded better in copying the melody and misanthropic sentiments of _Childe Harold_, than the nervous and impetuous diction in which his noble biographer has embodied them.” It is not to be expected that the burlesque address, by the brothers Smith, should present any resemblance to Lord Byron’s opening address at Drury Lane.
CUI BONO? (_Ascribed to Lord Byron._)