ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE,

THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. *

66 -Arma Virumque cano! "-VIRGIL.

MR. DYMOKE! Sir Knight! if I may be so bold— (I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,) Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold?— Is your gauntlet ta’en up, which you lately flung down?

Are you—who that day rode so mailed and admired,

Now sitting at ease in a library chair?

Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,

With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare?

What's become of the cup? Great tin-plate worker? say ?

Cup and ball is a game which some people deem fun!

Oh! three golden balls haven't lured you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?

How defunct is the show that was chivalry's mimic!
The breastplate-the feathers-the gallant array!
So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke!
The day of brass breeches! as Wordsworth would
say!

Perchance in some village remote, with a cot, And a cow, and a pig, and a barn-door, and all;

* See Note at the end of the volume.

You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty-tho' absent from Westminster
Hall!

And of course you turn every accoutrement now To its separate use, that your wants may be well

met ;

You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow

A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.

And

you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright

Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task;

And you bake your own bread in your tin; and, Sir Knight,

Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque!

How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas, With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched, And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas, And drenched the King's Bench-if the glove had been touched!

[sions, If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretenHad snatched your "best doe,”—he'd have flooded the floor;

Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions, "Life Preservers," have floated him out of his gore!

Oh, you and your horse! what a couple was there! The man and his backer-to win a great fight! Though the trumpet was loud-you'd an undisturbed air!

And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray sans affright!

Yet strange was the course which the good Cato

bore

When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall;

For though his departure was at the front door, Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.

He went and 'twould puzzle historians to say, When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mail

Whether caution or courage inspired him that day, For, though he retreated, he never turned tail.

By my life, he's a wonderful charger!--the best! Though not for a Parthian corps !-yet for you!Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,

What a Horse for a grand Retrospective Review!

What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof!

What a tail-piece for Bewick !—or piebald for

Poole,

To bear him in safety from Elliston's hoof!

Well; hail to Old Cato! the hero of scenes!
May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge;-
Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans,
Well" pent up in Utica" over the Bridge!

And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best!

And oh! when you come to the Hummums to sleep, May you lie "like a warrior taking his rest!”

ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. *

"This fellow's wise enough to play the fool,
And to do that well craves a kind of wit."

TWELFTH NIGHT.

JOSEPH! they say thou'st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannelled ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife—
"Retired (for Young would call it so)—
The world shut out"-in Pleasant Row!

And hast thou really washed at last

From each white cheek the red half moon! And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the Private Pantaloon? All youth-all ages—yet to be, Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

Thou didst not preach to make us wise-
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling-
Thou didst not "lure us to the skies"-

Thy simple, simple trade was- -Fooling!
And yet, Heaven knows! we could—we can
Much better spare a better man ! ”

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,

Or Southey, for our quiet's sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage,

Or, damme! namby pamby Poole-
Or any other clown or fool!

*The celebrated clown, who took leave of the Stage in 1828, at Drury Lane Theatre.

Go, Dibdin-all that bear the name,
Go, Byway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy-man of painted fame,

But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made
His gray hair scarce in private peace-
Had Waithman sought a rural shade-
Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease-
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill-
I think I could be cheerful still!

Had Medwin left off, to his praise,

Dead lion kicking, like—a friend !—
Had long, long Irving gone his ways,
To muse on death at Ponder's End-
Or Lady Morgan taken leave

Of Letters-still I might not grieve!

But, Joseph-every body's Jo!

Is gone-and grieve I will and must! As Hamlet did for Yorick, so

Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,) And talk as he did when he missed The kissing-crust that he had kissed!

Ah, where is now thy rolling head! Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes, (As old Catullus would have said,)

Thy oven-mouth, that swallowed pies-
Enormous hunger-monstrous drouth!
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth!

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffed!—
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!—
Thy partridge body, always stuffed

With wails and strays, and contrabands!—