I.

O why should our dull retrospective addresses Fall damp as wet blankets on Drury Lane fire?

Away with blue devils, away with distresses, And give the gay spirit to sparkling desire!

II.

Let artists decide on the beauties of Drury, The richest to me is when woman is there; The question of houses I leave to the jury; The fairest to me is the house of the fair.

III.

When woman's soft smile all our senses bewilders, And gilds, while it carves, her dear form on the heart, What need has New Drury of carvers and gilders?

With Nature so bounteous, why call upon Art?

IV.

How well would our actors attend to their duties, Our house save in oil, and our authors in wit, In lieu of you lamps, if a row of young beauties Glanced light from their eyes between us and the pit?

V.

The apples that grew on the fruit-tree of knowledge By woman were pluck'd, and she still wears the prize, To tempt us in theatre, senate, or college - I mean the love-apples that bloom in the eyes.

VI.

There too is the lash which, all statutes controlling, Still governs the slaves that are made by the fair; For man is the pupil, who, while her eye's rolling, Is lifted to rapture, or sunk in despair.

VII.

Bloom, Theatre, bloom, in the roseate blushes Of beauty illumed by a love-breathing smile!

And flourish, ye pillars, {32} as green as the rushes That pillow the nymphs of the Emerald Isle!

VIII.

For dear is the Emerald Isle of the ocean, Whose daughters are fair as the foam of the wave, Whose sons, unaccustom'd to rebel commotion, Tho' joyous, are sober--tho' peaceful, are brave.

IX.

The shamrock their olive, swore foe to a quarrel, Protects from the thunder and lightning of rows; Their sprig of shillelagh is nothing but laurel, Which flourishes rapidly over their brows.

X.

O! soon shall they burst the tyrannical shackles Which each panting bosom indignantly names, Until not one goose at the capital cackles Against the grand question of Catholic claims.

XI.

And then shall each Paddy, who once on the Liffey Perchance held the helm of some mackerel-hoy, Hold the helm of the state, and dispense in a jiffy More fishes than ever he caught when a boy.

XII.

And those who now quit their hods, shovels, and barrows In crowds to the bar of some ale-house to flock, When bred to OUR bar shall be Gibbses and Garrows, a.s.sume the silk gown, and discard the smock-frock.

XIII.

For Erin surpa.s.ses the daughters of Neptune, As Dian outshines each encircling star; And the spheres of the heavens could never have kept tune Till set to the music of Erin-go-bragh!

THE REBUILDING--BY R. S. {33} {99}

- "Per audaces nova dithyrambos Verba devolvit numerisque fertur Lege solutis." HORAT.

[Spoken by a Glendoveer.]

I am a blessed Glendoveer: {34} 'Tis mine to speak, and yours to hear.

Midnight, {35} yet not a nose From Tower-hill to Piccadilly snored!

Midnight, yet not a nose From Indra drew the essence of repose!

See with what crimson fury, By Indra fann'd, the G.o.d of fire ascends the walls of Drury

Tops of houses, blue with lead, Bend beneath the landlord's tread.

Master and 'prentice, serving-man and lord, Nailor and tailor, Grazier and brazier, Through streets and alleys pour'd - All, all abroad to gaze, And wonder at the blaze.

Thick calf, fat foot, and slim knee, Mounted on roof and chimney, {36} The mighty roast, the mighty stew To see; As if the dismal view Were but to them a Brentford jubilee.

Vainly, all-radiant Surya, sire of Phaeton (By Greeks call'd Apollo {37}), Hollow Sounds from thy harp proceed; Combustible as reed, The tongue of Vulcan licks thy wooden legs: From Drury's top, dissever'd from thy pegs, Thou tumblest, Humblest, Where late thy bright effulgence shone on high; While, by thy somerset excited, fly Ten million Billion Sparks from the pit, to gem the sable sky.

Now come the men of fire to quench the fires: To Russell Street see Globe and Atlas run, Hope gallops first, and second Sun; On flying heel, See Hand-in-Hand O'ertake the band!

View with what glowing wheel He nicks Phoenix!

While Albion scampers from Bridge Street, Blackfriars - Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

They shout and they bellow again and again.

All, all in vain!

Water turns steam; Each blazing beam Hisses defiance to the eddying spout: It seems but too plain that nothing can put it out!

Drury Lane! Drury Lane!

See, Drury Lane expires!

Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout, But thought it would not pay To dig him out.

When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of h.e.l.l, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call'd criticism, Came pa.s.sing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness!

Behold the rival theatre!

I've set O. P. at her, {38} Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold.

The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire.

So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet 'Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the k.n.o.bb'd bludgeon to the taper switch, {39} Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll'd roaring in the pit; On paper wings O. P.'s Reclin'd in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off!

Like thunderbolt on Surya's ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in h.e.l.l.

Tears dimm'd the G.o.d of light - "Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick, Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O. P.'d like Kemble?

No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick."

Obedient Yamen Answered, "Amen,"

And did As he was bid.

There lay the buried G.o.d, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo's {40} adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate'er he says he will, From South-hill wing'd his way, To raise the drooping lord of day.

All earthly spells the busy one o'erpower'd; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.