And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,

He totter'd, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire),
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave!
'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,
Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight o'erwhelm'd him quite,

He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps,
Why are you in such doleful dumps?
A fireman, and afraid of bumps!-
What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot 'em!"
Where the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom, And toil rebuilds what fires consume! Eat we and drink we, be our ditty,

Joy to the managing committee!" Eat we and drink we, join to rum Roast beef and pudding of the plum; Forth from thy nook, John Horner, come, With bread of ginger brown thy thumb, For this is Drury's gay day: Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops, And buy, to glad thy smiling chops, Crisp parliament with lollypops,

And fingers of the Lady.

Didst mark, how toil'd the busy train,
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,

And nimble workmen trod;
To realize bold Wyatt's plan
Rush'd many a howling Irishman;
Loud clatter'd many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod.

Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue with slate;
She "wings the midway air" elate,

As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears,
No pendant portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears
Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread,
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,

You might have deem'd her walls so thick

Were not composed of stone or brick,

But all a phantom, all a trick,

Of brain disturb'd and fancy sick,

So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

The Marchioness, blooming in years,
A rose-bud enveloped in moss;
But thou art the sweet passion-flower,
For who would not slavery hug,
To pass but one exquisite hour

In the arms of Elizabeth Mugg?

VII.

When at court, or some Dowager's rout,
Her diamond aigrette meets our view,
She looks like a glow-worm dressed out,
Or tulips bespangled with dew.
Her two lips denied to man's suit,

Are shared with her favorite Pug;
What lord would not change with the brute,
To live with Elizabeth Mugg?

VIII.

Could the stage be a large vis-à-vis, Reserved for the polished and great, Where each happy lover might see The nymph he adores tête-à-tête; No longer I'd gaze on the ground,

And the load of despondency lug, For I'd book myself all the year round, To ride with the sweet Lady Mugg.

IX.

Yes, she in herself is a host,

And if she were here all alone, Our house might nocturnally boast A bumper of fashion and ton. Again should it burst in a blaze,

In vain would they ply Congreve's plug, For nought could extinguish the rays From the glance of divine Lady Mugg.

X.

Oh could I as Harlequin frisk,

And thou be my Columbine fair, My wand should with one magic whisk Transport us to Hanover Square! St. George's should lend us its shrine, The parson his shoulders might shrug, But a license should force him to join My hand in the hand of my Mugg.

XI.

Court plaster the weapons should tip, By Cupid shot down from above, Which, cut into spots for thy lip,

Should still barb the arrows of love. The God who from others flies quick, With us should be slow as a slug; As close as a leech he should stick To me and Elizabeth Mugg.

XII.

For Time would, with us, 'stead of sand,
Put filings of steel in his glass,
To dry up the blots of his hand,

And spangle life's page as they pass.
Since all flesh is grass ere 't is hay,
Oh may I in clover live snug,
And when old Time mows me away,
Be stacked with defunct Lady Mugg!

Each fire-nymph his kiss from her countenance shields,

'T would soon set her cheekbone a frying; He spit in the tenter-ground near Spital-fields, And the hole that it burnt, and the chalk that it yields,

Make a capital limekiln for drying.

When he open'd his mouth, out there issued a blast,

(Nota bene, I do not mean swearing), But the noise that it made, and the heat that it cast,

I've heard it from those who have seen it, surpass'd

A shot manufactory flaring.

MATTHEW GREGORY LEWIS, commonly called Monk Lewis, from his once popular romance of that name.

He blazed, and he blazed, as he gallop'd to snatch

His bride, little dreaming of danger; His whip was a torch, and his spur was a match, And over the horse's left eye was a patch,

To keep it from burning the manger.

And who is the housemaid he means to enthral
In his cinder-producing alliance?
'Tis Drury-Lane Playhouse, so wide, and so tall,
Who, like other combustible ladies, must fall,
If she cannot set sparks at defiance.

On his warming-pan knee-pan he clattering roll'd,

And the housemaid his hand would have taken,

But his hand, like his passion, was too hot to hold,

And she soon let it go, but her new ring of gold All melted, like butter or bacon!

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
Again assembles us in Drury Lane.
Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,
Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
As along Charles Street I prepared to walk,
Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,
I heard a trowel tick against a brick.
I look'd me up, and straight a parapet
Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.
Joy to thee, Drury! to myself, I said:
He of Blackfriars' Road, who hymn'd thy
downfall

In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied
That flames like those from prostrate Solyma
Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild
thee,

Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour,
As leisure offer'd, close to Mr. Spring's
Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.
They had a plan to render less their labors;

might,

For Vinegar Yard was before her; But, spite of her shrieks, the ignipotent knight, Enrobing the maid in a flame of gas-light,

To the skies in a sky-rocket bore her.

With hodded heads, but these stretched forth a

pole

From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley; To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,

starch,

Whose votaries scorn to be sober;

He pops from his vat, like a cedar or larch; Brown-stout is his doublet, he hops in his march, And froths at the mouth in October.

His spear is a spigot, his shield is a bung;

He taps where the housemaid no more is, When lo! at his magical bidding upsprung A second Miss Drury, tall, tidy, and young, And sported in loco sororis.

Back, lurid in air, for a second regale,

The Cinder King, hot with desire, To Brydges Street hied; but the Monarch of Ale, With uplifted spigot and faucet, and pail,

Thus chided the Monarch of Fire:

"Vile tyrant, beware of the ferment I brew;

I rule the roast here, dash the wig o' me! If, spite of your marriage with Old Drury, you Come here with your tinderbox, courting the New, I'll have you indicted for bigamy!"

PLAYHOUSE MUSINGS.

BY S. T. C.*

"Ille velut fidis arcana sodalibus olim Credebat libris; neque si male cesserat, usquam Decurrens alio, neque si bene."-HOR.

My pensive Public, wherefore look you sad?
I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey
To carry to the mart her crockery ware,
And when that donkey look'd me in the face,
His face was sad! and you are sad, my Public!

*S. T. COLERIDGE.

Precipitate, unhurt accosted earth.

I've heard our front that faces Drury Lane Much criticised; they say 'tis vulgar brick-work, A mimic manufactory of floor-cloth. One of the morning papers wish'd that front Cemented like the front in Brydges-Street; A handsome woman with a fish's tail. As it now looks, they call it Wyatt's Mermaid,

White is the steeple of St. Bride's in Fleet-
Street:

The Albion (as its name denotes) is white:
Morgan and Saunders' shop for chairs and tables
White is Whitehall.
Gleams like a snow-ball in the setting sun;

Fleet-Street,

But not St. Bride's in

She coughs at breakfast, and her gruff papa Cries, "There you go! this comes of playhouses!"

To build no portico is penny wise :

Heaven grant it prove not in the end pound. foolish!

Hail to thee, Drury! Queen of Theatres!
What is the Regency in Tottenham-Street,
The Royal Amphitheatre of Arts,
Astley's Olympic, or the Sans Pareil,

Compared with thee? Yet when I view thee push'd

Back from the narrow street that christened thee,

I know not why they call thee Drury Lane.

Amid the freaks that modern fashion sanctions,

It grieves me much to see live animals

Brought on the stage. Grimaldi has his rabbit,
Laurent his cat, and Bradbury his pig;

Fie on such tricks! Johnson, the machinist
Of former Drury, imitated life

Quite to the life. The elephant in Blue Beard, Stuff'd by his hand, wound round his lithe proboscis,

As spruce as he who roar'd in Padmanaba. Nought born on earth should die. On hackney stands

I reverence the coachman who cries, "Gee,"
And spares the lash. When I behold a spider
Prey on a fly, a magpie on a worm,

Or view a butcher with horn-handled knife
Slaughter a tender lamb as dead as mutton,
Indeed, indeed, I'm very, very sick!

[Exit hastily.

DRURY LANE HUSTINGS. A NEW HALFPENNY BALLAD.

BY A PIC-NIC POET.

"This is the very age of promise: To promise is most courtly and fashionable. Performance is a kind of will or testament, which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it."-TIMON OF ATHENS,

[To be sung by MR. JOHNSTONE, in the character of LOONEY M'TWOLTER.]

I.

MR. JACK, your address, says the Prompter to

me,

So I gave him my card-no, that aint it, says he; Tis your public address. Oh! says I, never fear,

If address you are bother'd for, only look here.

II.

With Drury's for sartin we'll never have done, We've built up another, and yet there's but one; The old one was best, yet I'd say, if I durst, The new one is better-the last is the first.

Tol de rol, &c.

aid

We all should have gone with short commons to bed;

And since he has saved all the fat from the fire,

I move that the house be call'd Whitbread's Entire.

Tol de rol, &c.

ARCHITECTURAL ATOMS.

TRANSLATED BY DR. B.*

Lege, Dick, Lege!-JOSEPH ANDREWS.

[To be recited by the Translator's Son.]

AWAY, fond dupes! who, smit with sacred lore,
Mosaic dreams in Genesis explore,
Doat with Copernicus, or darkling stray
With Newton, Ptolemy, or Tycho Brahe!
To you I sing not, for I sing of truth,
Primeval systems, and creation's youth;
Such as of old, with magic wisdom fraught,
Inspired LUCRETIUS to the Latians taught.

I sing how casual bricks, in airy climb,
Encounter'd casual cow-hair, casual lime;
How rafters, borne through wondering clouds

elate,

Kiss'd in their slope blue elemental slate, Clasp'd solid beams in chance-directed fury, And gave to birth our renovated Drury.

Thee I invoke! Oh puff my bold design, Prompt the bright thought, and swell th' harmonious line;

Uphold my pinions, and my verse inspire
With Winsor's patent gas, or wind of fire,
In whose pure blaze thy embryo form enrolled,
The dark enlightens, and enchafes the cold.

But, while I court thy gifts, be mine to shun
The deprecated prize Ulysses won;
Who, sailing homeward from thy breezy shore,
The prison'd winds in skins of parchment bore.
Speeds the fleet bark, till o'er the billowy green
The azure heights of Ithaca are seen;
But while with favouring gales her way she wins,
His curious comrades ope the mystic skins;
When, lo! the rescued winds, with boisterous

sweep,

Roar to the clouds and lash the rocking deep; Heaves the smote vessel in the howling blast,

Till stript-nonsuited-he is doom'd to toss
In legal shipwreck and redeemless loss!
Lucky, if, like Ulysses, he can keep
His head above the waters of the deep.

Eolian monarch! Emperor of Puffs!
We modern sailors dread not thy rebuffs;
See to thy golden shore promiscuous come
Quacks for the lame, the blind, the deaf, the
dumb;

Fools are their bankers—a prolific line,
And every mortal malady 's a mine.
Each sly Sangrado, with his poisonous pill,
Flies to the printer's devil with his bill,
Whose Midas touch can gild his ass's ears,
And load a knave with folly's rich arrears.
And lo! a second miracle is thine,
For sloe-juice water stands transformed to wine.
Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd,
Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;
Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth,
Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.
See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry,
Win annual tribute by the annual lie!
Aided by thee-but whither do I stray ?—
Court, city, borough, own thy sovereign sway;
An age of puffs an age of gold succeeds,
And windy bubbles are the spawn it breeds.

If such thy power, O hear the Muse's prayer! Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of

air;

Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist
Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist;
As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale,
Whirl'd Orithyia from her native vale-
So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse,
Augusta's sons shall patronise my verse.

I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain,
With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane;
Not to the labors of subservient man,
To no young Wyatt appertains the plan-
We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill,
Impassive media of atomic will;
Ye stare! then Truth's broad talisman discern-
'Tis Demonstration speaks-attend, and learn!

Self-form'd of atoms, sprang the infant world:
From floating elements in chaos hurl'd,
No great First Cause inspired the happy plot,
But all was matter-and no matter what.
Atoms, attracted by some law occult,

ing mast.

Launch'd on a plank, the buoyant hero rides, Where ebon Afric stems the sable tides, While his duck'd comrades o'er the ocean fly, And sleep not in the whole skins they untie.

So, when to raise the wind some lawyer tries, Mysterious skins of parchment meet our eyes; On speeds the smiling suit-" Pleas of our Lord The King" shine sable on the wide record; Nods the prunella'd bar, attorneys smile, And syren jurors flatter to beguile;

DR. BUSBY. This gentleman gave living recitations of his translation of Lucretius, with tea and bread-andbutter. He sent in a real Address to the Drury-Lane Committee, which was really rejected.

Pure child of Chance, which still directs the ball,

As rotatory atoms rise or fall.

In ether launch'd, the peopled bubble floats,
A mass of particles and confluent motes,
Its weight away, aloft the planet springs,
So nicely poised, that if one atom flings
And wings its course through realms of bound-
less 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.