Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse.

Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear.

Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, And though no friendly hand on thee bestow The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow.

Deriving vigour from the breath of fame!

MISTER PUNCH.

A HASTY SKETCH.

Who stops the Minister of State, When hurrying to the Lords' debate?

Who, spite of gravity beguiles, The solemn Bishop of his smiles?

See from the window, "burly big,"

The Judge pops out his awful wig, Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!--While _both_ the Sheriffs and the Mayor Forget the "Address"--and stop to stare--And who detains the Husband true, Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, To save his Wife "in greatest danger;"

While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger Another hour from life and light, To gape at the bewitching sight.

The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, Despite his poetry and merit, Stops in his quick retreat awhile, And tries the long-forgotten smile; E'en the pursuing _b.u.m_ forgets His business, and the man of Debts; The one neglecting "Caption"--"Bail"-- The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"-- So wondrous are the spells that bind The n.o.ble and ign.o.ble mind.

The Paviour halts in mid-grunt--stands With rammer in his idle hands; And quite refined, and at his ease, Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, To take a peep at _Mister Punch_.

Delightful thy effects to see, Thou charm of age and infancy!

The old Man clears his rheumy eye, The six months' Babe forgets to cry; No pa.s.sers by--all fondly gloat, So welcome is thy cheering note, Which time nor taste has ever changed; And after every clime we've ranged, Return to thee--our childhood's joy, And, spite of age, still play the boy!

Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, And by his side the prim old Maid _Looks_ "welcome fun" and "who's afraid."

Behold, that happy ruddy face, In which there seems no vacant place, That could another joy impart, For one laugh more would break his heart.

And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, Striving in vain the laugh to smother.

That giggling Girl must burst outright, For _Punch_ has now possess'd her quite.

While She, who ran to Chemist's shop For life or death--here finds a stop: Forgets for whom--for what--she ran, And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man!

The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, Permits poor souls, without offence, To sell their fruit and count their pence, And, as by humour grown insane, Allows the boys to touch his cane!

Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, Ceases to cry--and loudly laughs.

See! what a wondrous powerful spell _Punch_ holds o'er Dustman and his bell; And scolding Wife with clapper still-- The Landlord quits awhile his till, While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, Steals pence for self, and beer for _Punch_.

Look at that window, you may trace At every pane a laughing face.

Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, And in the story just above her, The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, All finding _Punch_ a cure for vapours.

E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, Throws on the group an eye askance; Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear That some gay friend may catch him here.

The Widowed wretch, who only fed, On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, Forgets her cares, and seems to smile To see friend _Punch_ her babe beguile.

Magician of the wounded heart, Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: Long be the merryman of our Isle, And win the universal smile!

CONTENT.

In some lone hamlet it were better far To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, Or barter honour for a prince's smile!

Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan G.o.d, Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, Where the brown presence of the blazing clod Regales the aspect of the aged sire.

There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, Are through December's gloomy regions led; The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, While fix'd attention dares not turn its head.

Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, The song employs the early dim of night, Till village-curfew counts a later hour.

And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top Is wet with kisses from the florid ring!

There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, Within some crumbling c.h.i.n.k, with moss embrown'd, The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around.

Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!

EPITAPH.

ON MATILDA.

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, The humble tribute of a friend unknown; To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, And add to misery's scroll another name.

Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid Within the early grave thy sorrows made.

Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear, Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd.

That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; 'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.

When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, That promised health and joy for years to come, Methought the lily nature proudly gave, Would never wither in th' untimely grave.

Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower!

Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.

Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?

And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die!

Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.

I, where the marble swells not, to rehea.r.s.e Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse.

Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell!

TO ------.

AN IMPROMPTU.

O Sue! you certainly have been A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen Each laughing love's bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart; And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; Placed on that cheek, it doth impart More lovely tints--more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, And set his very soul a-thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live, Too poor in this rich world to rove; Too poor for aught but verse to give, But not, thank G.o.d, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: I'm forced to give my verse away, Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, Six times a-week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine, Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: These wants I'll own are often mine;--But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; Say what he will, I know he thinks That all he writes is wondrous fine!