I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play;
I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye;
I like your carriage, and your silken grey,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.
Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry! Repair
Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O, come abroad into the wholesome air,
And take your moral place, before Sin seats
Her wicked self in the Professor's chair.
Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's
To dress them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!
Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!
Good lack the ancients did not set up schools
In jail-but at the Porch! hinting, no doubt,
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules
Before 'twas whipt by law. -O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools
All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street,
But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat !
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other colour;
Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue,
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar;
Teach her that "flooring Charleys" is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.
O come and teach our children-that ar'n't ours-
That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours
Children, like Time-or rather they both prey
On youth together-meanwhile Newgate low'rs
Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day,
To shut them out from any more blue sky:
Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!
You are not nice-go into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will.-'Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans pleats;
That they had hats with brims,—that they were drest
In garbs without lappels-than shame the streets
With so much raggedness.-You may invest
Much cash this way-but it will cost its price,
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice!
In brief,-Oh teach the child its moral rote,
Not in the way from which 'twill not depart,-
But out-out-out! Oh, bid it walk remote !
And if the skies are closed against the smart,
Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart.—
Do what you will, his every want supply,
Keep him--but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
" -Arma Virumque cano!"-Virgil.
R. 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 mail'd 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 barndoor, and all ;You show to the parish that peace is your lot,
And plenty,-though 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!
If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions
Had snatched your "best doe,"-he'd have flooded the
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 mai¡,—
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 tailpiece 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,
'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!"
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 flannell'd 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 wash'd 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, Heav'n 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!
Go, Dibdin-all that bear the name,
Go Byeway 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 grey hairs 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-everybody's Joe !—
Is gone-and grieve I will and must !
As Hamlet did for Yorick, so
Will I for thee (though not yet dust),
And talk as he did when he miss'd
The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!
Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said,)
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies -
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