IX.

“The verse adorn again “Fierce War, and faithful Love, “And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. “In buskin’d measures move “Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, “With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. “A voice, as of the Cherub Choir, “Gales from blooming Eden bear; “And distant warblings lessen on my ear, “That lost in long futurity expire. “Fond impious Man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, “Rais’d by thy breath, has quench’d the Orb of day? “To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, “And warms the nations with redoubled ray. “Enough for me: With joy I see “The different doom our Fates assign. “Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, “To triumph, and to die, are mine.” He spoke; and headlong from the mountain’s height Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night.

THOMAS GRAY.

――――

THE BARD. _A Covent Garden Ode._

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless John,[51] Confusion on thy banners wait; Though bless’d with all the smiles of _ton_, They mock the air with idle state: Helm nor hauberks twisted mail, Nor e’en thy sister’s[52] acting, shall prevail, To save thy soul from nightly fears, From O.P.’s curse, from O.P.’s cheers.”

Such were the sounds that from the gallery’s height Roll’d thundering to the pit below; Rous’d slumbering Uproar from her seat, And wak’d the yell of clamorous _Row_: Fierce Wienholt stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms! Fitzgerald cried, and shook the sconce: Perch’d on a box, with haughty brow, Flush’d with the purple stream, in angry mood, Rob’d in his soldier’s garb, he stood Prepar’d the loose placard to throw. With haggard eyes, surcharg’d with blood, Shatter’d his garments, torn his hair, His arms wide sprawling to the air, With hurried voice and accent loud, Thus bellow’d to the rebel crowd: “Hark how each private box’s desert cave Sigh’s to the torrent’s voice beneath―― Our fierce battalions deafening clamours breathe, And high in air their hundred arms they wave, Swearing they’ll not an added ducat pay, For _high born_ Shakspeare’s harp, or _softer_ Otway’s lay.”

Stopp’d is the _Bank Clerk’s_ prattling tongue. That rous’d the stormy scene, Brave Cowlam sleeps upon a craggy bed, O.P.’s ye mourn in vain; Clifford, whose lawless bold harangue Made lofty Graham bow his crested head; In dreary _Rufus’ Hall_[53] they lie, Struck with dismay, and ghastly pale, Far, far aloof, the promis’d witness fail, The Attorney-General screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of the noisy art, Dear as the _ruddy drops_ that glad my eyes; Dear as the hopes that lately fed my heart, When first I saw the daring conflict rise.

No more I weep, they do not sleep; In yonder hall, a grisly band I see them sit, they linger yet, And only wait a rallying hand. With me in dreadful harmony to join, And howl destruction to the Kemble line. Peering high, and near the roof, _Pale_ Confusion showed her face; In accents wild, and sharp reproof, Thus addressed her fallen race:―― Mark the hour, and mark the night, When Thames shall echo with delight; And to your ears the dreadful verdict bring: When _Henry’s antique_ towers shall ring With shouts that strike Thames Ditton with affright. The wolf of law, with unrelenting fangs, Tearing the bowels of our mangled mate; Fell conviction, hovering o’er us, hangs; The scourge of Justice, ah! what ills await; Amazement in the van, and fear combined, And poverty and cold imprisonment behind. What tho’ Clifford, daring chief, Has gained, _by chance_, a short lived fame, That will to us bring no relief, Who fed the fire and fann’d the flame; From us the gallant hero’s dead, And Wienholt too has _veil’d his head_. The swarms that in the Statesman’s beams were born. The public taste has laughed to scorn, And all our efforts overwhelm; In easy sail their _new built vessel_ goes, Shakespeare at the prow, and Kemble at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, That, hurl’d in dread repose, has lost its evening prey.

Lo! They fill the tragic bowl, A rich repast prepare; Reason’s feast and flow of soul Again will triumph here; While punishment and vengeance scowl A baleful frown upon our baffled host. Late we heard their battle bray, Arm to arm and force to force; Thro’ hours of havoc urg’d the course, And thro’ all Bow-street squadrons mow’d their way. These hours are gone, and gone our fame, And nearly sunk is O.P.’s name. Judgment suspended o’er their head, Above, below, they deal the blow, And o’er the plain our flying squadrons spread; The _brothers_, smiling at our dismal doom, Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terrors gloom. But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless’d, unaided here to mourn. In yon dark cloud, that skirts the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes; But, ah; what dazzling scenes on Kemble wait! Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll; Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye _crowded houses_, rush not on my soul; No more their long-lost Shakespeare they bewail, The flash of his far-beaming eye they hail, And with him Otway, Southerne, Rowe, Sublime, their starry frontlets rear. And gorgeous dames in gallant show In mimic majesty appear; In the midst a form divine,[54] Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line; Her light’ning eye, her awe-commanding face, Attemper’d sweet to ev’ry grace. What sounds of acclamation fill the air! What strains of trembling rapture round her play; Hear from thy grave, immortal Shakespeare, hear; She breathes a soul to animate thy clay; Bright nature calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves, in the eye of Heaven, her many-colour’d wings.

Lo! they adorn again Fierce war and faithful love, And truth, in fairy fiction dress’d. In buskin’d measures move Pale grief and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. And, hark, a cherub choir; Gales of harmony, that bear, Sounds that my very heart-strings tear; Their horrid warblings pain my startled ear, That, lost in Melody’s soft notes, expire. Vain was our hope that deem’d the sanguine cloud Rais’d by my breath would quench the orb of day; To-morrow he repairs his golden flood, And warms the nation with redoubled ray, Enough for me, with dread I see The different doom our fates assign; Yours is despair and legal care, Sorrow and defeat are mine.” She spoke, and headlong from the gallery’s height, Deep in the roaring pit she plunged to _endless night_.

FALKLAND.

_The Morning Post._ December 8, 1809.

This parody was also included in _The Covent Garden Journal_, 1810, which contains the history of the notorious O.P. Riots at Covent Garden Theatre, when John Philip Kemble was manager.

――――

THE UNION.

[A celebrated Debating Society in Cambridge, composed entirely of Members of the University, where political subjects were discussed, which the Master of St. John’s suppressed during his Vice-Chancellorship in 1817; on which occasion the following Parody on _The Bard_, by Mr. Marmaduke Lawson, M.P., for Boroughbridge, and Fellow of Magdalen College, made its appearance.]