So nicely poised that, if one atom flings
Its weight away, aloft the planet springs,
And wings its course through realms of boundless space,
Outstripping comets in eccentric race.
Add but one atom more, it sinks outright
Down to the realms of Tartarus and night.
What waters melt, or scorching fires consume,
In different forms their being reassume;
Hence can no change arise, except in name,
For weight and substance ever are the same.
Thus, with the flames that from old Drury rise,
Its elements primæval sought the skies;
There pendulous to wait the happy hour
When new attractions should restore their power.
So, in this procreant theatre elate,
Echoes unborn their future life await;
Here embryo sounds in æther lie concealed,
Like words in northern atmosphere congealed.
Here many a foetus-laugh and half-encore
Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor.
By puffs concipient, some in æther flit,
And soar in bravos from the thundering pit ;
Some forth on ticket-nights from tradesmen break,
To mar, the actor they design to make;
While some this mortal life abortive miss,
Crushed by a groan, or strangled by a hiss.
So, when "dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets,
Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats,
Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes,
Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries;
Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail,
Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail.
Ye fallen bricks, in Drury's fire calcined,—
Since doomed to slumber, couched upon the wind,—
Sweet was the hour when, tempted by your freaks,
Congenial trowels smoothed your yellow cheeks.
Float dulcet serenades upon the ear,
Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere,
Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil,
Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male.
The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit,
And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit ;
Then down they rush in amatory race,
Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace.
Some choose old lovers, some decide for new ;
But each, when fixed, is to her station true.
Thus various bricks are made as tastes invite
The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white,
Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, To alien beauty bends the lawless knee;
But, of unhallowed fascination sick,
Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick.
The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain ;
No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain.
So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps,
A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps,
Falls on the housemaid's ear; amazed she stands,
Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands,
And "matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat,
Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tailed hat;
The milkman, whom her second cries assail,
With sudden sink, unyokes the clinking pail.
Now, louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps;
Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps.
Sweeps but put out-she wants to raise a flame,
And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same.
Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true,-
If once ye go astray, no match for you!
As atoms in one mass united mix,
So bricks attraction feel for kindred bricks.
Some in the cellar view, perchance, on high,
Fair chimney chums on beds of mortar lie;
Enamoured of the sympathetic clod,
Leaps the red bridegroom to the labourer's hod,
And up the ladder bears the workman, taught
To think he bears the bricks-mistaken thought!
A proof behold-if near the top they find
The nymphs or broken-cornered or unkind,
Back to the bottom leaping with a bound,
They bear their bleeding carriers to the ground.
So, legends tell, along the lofty hill
Paced the twin heroes, gallant Jack and Jill;
On trudged the Gemini to reach the rail
That shields the well's top from the expectant pail,
When ah! Jack falls; and, rolling in the rear,
Jill feels the attraction of his kindred sphere;
Head over heels begins his toppling track,
Throws sympathetic somersets with Jack,
And at the mountain's base bobs plump against him, whack !
Ye living atoms who unconscious sit,
Jumbled by chance in gallery, box, and pit,
For you no Peter opes the fabled door,
No churlish Charon plies the shadowy oar ;—
Breathe but a space, and Boreas' casual sweep
Shall bear your scattered corses o'er the deep,
To gorge the greedy elements, and mix
With water, marl and clay, and stones and sticks ;
While, charged with fancied souls, sticks, stones, and clay,
Shall take your seats, and hiss or clap the play.
O happy age when convert Christians read
No sacred writings but the Pagan creed!
O happy age when, spurning Newton's dreams,
Our poet's sons recite Lucretian themes,
Abjure the idle systems of their youth,
And turn again to atoms and to truth!
O happier still when England's dauntless dames,
Awed by no chaste alarms, no latent shames,
The bard's fourth book unblushingly peruse,
And learn the rampant lessons of the stews!
All hail, Lucretius, renovated sage
Unfold the modest mystics of thy page;
Return no more to thy sepulchral shelf,
But live, kind bard,-that I may live myself!
THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH.
ONE of the Kings of Scanderoon
Had in his train; a gross buffoon,
Who used to pester
The Court with tricks inopportune,
Venting on the highest folks his
Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.
It needs some sense to play the fool,
Which wholesome rule
Occurred not to our jackanapes,
Who consequently found his freaks
Lead to innumerable scrapes,
And quite as many kicks and tweaks,
Which only seemed to make him faster
Try the patience of his master.
Some sin, at last, beyond all measure,
Incurred the desperate displeasure
Of his serene and raging Highness.
Whether he twitched his most revered
And sacred beard,
Or had intruded on the shyness
Of the Seraglio, or let fly
May sun and moon for ever fail
To beam their lights in Doneraile;
May every pestilential gale
Blast that curst spot called Doneraile.
May no sweet cuckoo, thrush, or quail,
Be ever heard in Doneraile;
May patriots, kings, and commonweal,
Despise and harass Doneraile.
May every Post, Gazette, and Mail,
Sad tidings bring of Doneraile;
May loudest thunders ring a peal
To blind and deafen Doneraile.
May vengeance fall at head and tail,
From north to south, at Doneraile;
May profit light, and tardy sale,
Still damp the trade of Doneraile.
May Fame resound a dismal tale
Whene'er she lights on Doneraile;
May Egypt's plagues at once prevail,
To thin the knaves of Doneraile.
May frost and snow, and sleet and hail,
Benumb each joint in Doneraile;
May wolves and bloodhounds trace and trail
The cursed crew of Doneraile.
May Oscar, with his fiery flail,
To atoms thresh all Doneraile;
May every mischief, fresh and stale,
Abide henceforth in Doneraile.
May all, from Belfast to Kinsale,
Scoff, curse, and damn you, Doneraile;
May neither flour nor oatenmeal
Be found or known in Doneraile.
May want and woe each joy curtail
That e'er was known in Doneraile;
May no one coffin want a nail
That wraps a rogue in Doneraile.
May all the thieves that rob and steal
The gallows meet in Doneraile;
May all the sons of Granaweal
Blush at the thieves of Doneraile.
May mischief, big as Norway whale,
O'erwhelm the knaves of Doneraile;
May curses, wholesale and retail,
Pour with full force on Doneraile.
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