Thy foot-like Berkeley's Foote--for why?
'Twas often made to wipe an eye!
Ah, where thy legs-that witty pair-
For "great wits jump "-and so did they!
Lord! how they leaped in lamp-light air!
Capered-and bounced-and strode away!—
That years should tame the legs-alack!
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!
But bounds will have their bound-the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisked in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose-
One only-(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter-Spring!
And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown,
Will visit but I did not mean
To moralize, though I am grown
Thus sad-Thy going seemed to beat
A muffled drum for Fun's retreat!
And, may be 'tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London,
Are gone-thou, Joseph, one-the other
A Joe!" sic transit gloria Munden!”
A third departure some insist on
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!—
Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient "Dozey" to the dregs-
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs !
Let Farly weep for Magic's man
Is gone-his Christmas Caliban !
Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' they walked behind thy bier
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters-if in heaven or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!
There's Quick, might just as well be dead!
Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamp-light of the little breast!
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best-
Poor urchin! what avails to him
The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm?
For who like thee could ever stride
Some dozen paces to the mile!—
The motley, medley coach provide―
Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable man complete!—
proper Covent Garden feat!
Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat-swill-swallow-bolt-and choke! Nod, weep, and hiccup-sneeze and wink?Thy very yawn was quite a joke!
Tho' Joseph Junior acts not ill,
"There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!
Joseph, farewell! dear funny Joe!
We met with mirth-we part in pain!
For many a long, long year must go,
Ere Fun can see thy like again-
For Nature does not keep great stores
of perfect Clowns-that are not Boors!
ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ.
EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
"Dost thou not suspect my years?"
MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
On! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurch
A sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!
And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o'er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,
Like pensioners that creep about and die ;-
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!
How sweet!-as Byron of his infant said-
Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!
How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch!
To meet thy Criticism walking home,
Averse from rows, and never calling “Watch!
Rich is thy page in soporific things-
Composing compositions-lulling men-
Faded old posies of unburied rings-
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen
Lives of Right Reverends that have never livedDeaths of good people that have really diedParishioners-hatched-husbanded-and wived, Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!
The sacred query-the remote response-
The march of serious minds, extremely slow-
The graver's cut at some right aged sconce,
Famous for nothing many years ago!
B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write
"Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;— And C., next month, an answer doth indite, Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,
Caught upon Martin Luther years agone; And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.
There is no end of thee-there is no end,
Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets!
Go on, Sylvanus !-Bear a wary eye,
The churches cannot yet be quite run out! Some parishes must yet have been passed byThere's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubts,
Go on-and close the eyes of distant ages!
Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!
So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and lively, though but seldom red.
Go on and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!
Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn!
Still live still prose! continue still to tell us
Old truths! no strangers, though we take them
in!
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
"Archer. How many are there, Scrub?
Scrub. Five and forty, Sir."-BEAUX STRATAGEM.
"For shame let the linen alone!"
MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.
MR. SCRUB-Mr. Slop-or whoever you be!
The Cock of Steam Laundries-the head Pat-
entee
Of Associate Cleansers-Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime—
Copartners and dealers, in linen's propriety-
That make washing public-and wash in society-
O lend me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below-
From your new Surrey Geysers all foaming and
hot-
That soft "simmer's sang" so endeared to the
Scot-
hands may stand still, or your steam, without danger
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub—
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub-
And lend me your ear-Let me modestly plead
For a race that your labours may soon supersede-
For a race that, now washing no living affords—
Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards,
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at
Not with bread in the funds or investments of cheese
But to droop like sad willows that lived by a
Which the sun has sucked up into vapour and
|