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BOOK I. ODE X.

TRIBUTARY STANZAS TO GRIMALDI THE CLOWN.

Mercuri facunde, nepos Atlantis, &c.

FACETIOUS mime! thou enemy of gloom,
Grandson of Momus; blithe and debonnaire,
Who, aping Pan, with an inverted broom,

t

Canst brush the cobwebs from the brows of care.

Our gall'ry gods encore thy hum'rous song,

Thy Newgate thefts impart ecstatic pleasure,;
Touch'd by thy hand a jew's harp charms the throng,
An empty salt-box teems with attic treasure.

When harlequin, his charmer to regain,

Courts her embrace in many a queer disguise,
The light of heels looks for his sword in vain, Y
Thy furtive fingers snatch the magic prize.

The fabled egg from thee obtains its gold,
Thou set'st the mind from critic bondage loose,
Where the gay young leagu'd with the tott'ring old,
Birds of a feather hail the sacred goose!

Even pious souls from Bunyan durance free,
At Sadler's Wells applaud thy agile wit,
Forget old Care while they remember thee,

"Laugh the heart's laugh," and haunt the jovial pit.

Long may'st thou guard the prize thy humour won,
Long hold thy court in pantomimic state,
And to the equipoise of English fun,

Exalt the lowly, and bring down the great.

J.

WAR AND LOVE.

THE trumpet sounds, the hero arms,
And fiercely seizes spear and helm,
Friends-home-and all that once had charms,
The thoughts of victory o'erwhelm.

When, lo! the maid ador'd appears,
The ruby of her lip hath flown,

Sighs follow sighs, and tears chase tears,
And now-he thinks of love alone!

The laurel that entwin'd his brow,
The rose, upon her cheek, outvies,
And he, who vanquish'd worlds but now,
Becomes a captive to her eyes.

Who'll say, by man then most are slain,
When woman thus the heart can move,
And those who 'scape war's iron chain,
Are fetter'd in the bonds of love?

For tho' the field so many strew,
Where war his crimson banner rears,

Yet, ah! the many are but few,
To those that fall by woman's tears!

No wizard's sword I wish to wield,
O'er which the greedy vulture flies,
For e'en enchanted swords must yield
In magic-to Maria's eyes!

No, no, if I would conquer France,
The glitt'ring steel for me's too slow,

Give me Maria's killing glance,
That pierces, ere you feel the blow.

P. G.

THE MEETING.

AH! Susan, dear Susan! again I behold thee,
Thy beauties as blooming as nature can form;
Ah! Susan, dear Susan! again I enfold thee,
Thy cheek still as rosy, thy lip still as warm,

As when erst in the days of our childhood we gambol'd, And thought not of love, though we tasted its bliss, While as thro' the green woodlands together we rambled, Each look was a smile, and each word was a kiss.

And Susan, dear Susan! art thou still the same then?
The same that in those days of pleasure I knew?
No longer be constancy deemed but a name then,
Since the heart of my Susan continues so true!

And didst thou despise all the offers of splendour?
Had titles or wealth no enchantment. for thee?
And was it to Love, thou wouldst only surrender?
And didst thou surrender to that, but for me?

Affection, then, let the world treat with derision,
Let them treat as ideal what they never felt,
Or let dreamers imagine that love is a vision,

Which lives but the night, and with morning will melt.

But no fancies like these cast a gloom on our truth, love, I fondest of husbands, thou fairest of wives,

For the sun that shone bright on the dawn of our youth, love, Will still shine as bright on the eve of our lives!

3 C-VOL. VII.*

P. G.

INSCRIPTION

For the Tomb of Camoens, in the Church of Sancta Anna de Religiosas Franciscanas, at Lisbon.

YE who have wept o'er genius sunk in woe,
Where earlier years were spent in jocund round;
In gentle pity dew the hallow'd mound
Of Camoens, Lusitania's bard, laid low

Within this pile-for in diviner strains

Has poet e'er thy secrets, Love, reveal'd,
Or, in th' ennobling cause of glory steel'd,
Such deeds perform'd-of such deeds sung the praise?

Tho' cold neglect suffus'd his aged eyes-
Far as the distant verge, whence glitt'ring Sol
In orient pomp leads forth the cheerful day,
To where his beams are hid 'neath western skies,

Th' enraptur'd nations now his name extol,
And own the beauties of his heav'n-born lay.

JOHN ADAMSON.

EPIGRAM,

On seeing Home's Commentary on the Psalms lying on a Lady's Table, together with several Novels.

As in chance medley, on her desk, I find Novels, with books of pious import, join'd, With pleasure, I, the owner's caution, note, Who with the bane provides the antidote. North Walsham.

J. C.

MEMORANDA DRAMATICA.

1810.

THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.

April 23. Richard III.-Harlequin Pedlar.
24. Macbeth.*-Don Juan.

25. Wheel of Fortune,-Harlequin Pedlar.
26. Grecian Daughter.-Oscar and Malvina.
27. Henry IV. Part I.-Paul and Virginia.
28. Gamester.-Who Wins?

30. Macbeth.-We fly by Night.

May 1. All in the Wrong.-Blind Boy.

2. Douglas.-Lock and Key. Benefit of the Theatrical Fund.

3. Gamester.-Tom Thumb.

4. Castle of Andalusia.-Child of Nature.

May

*Since the opening of the new building, on the 18th of last September, Mrs. Siddons has not ventured to play in London. She then appeared in Lady Macbeth, but all the respect entertained for her vast talents availed her nothing; yet she was probably not much more surprised at her little influence than Mr. Charles Incledon was to find himself warbling to deaf ears, or Mr. Liston, on perceiving that his grimaces and slang were returned by his old friends with compound interest. Mr. Kemble having, however, stooped to conquer, that storm was unexpectedly laid, and the slander of Mrs. Galindo, alias Miss Gough, having died away, Mrs. Siddons now again appeared in the same character. The approbation she received would have been gross flattery to any other tragedian that we ever saw in this character, and yet we are told by a gentleman well competent to judge, that Mrs. Pritchard exhibited far more stupendous powers. He particularly remarks the inferiority of Mrs. Siddons in the scene where she walks in her sleep. Here he says (as we have before observed) that Mrs. S. renders the effect of her disturbed imagination perfectly ludicrous, by seeming to take up the water and rub her hands, as if she were diligently employed at a wash-tub. Mrs. Pritchard, on the contrary, kept her finger perpetually applied to the " damned spot," and with her voice, look, and action, almost petrified the theatre with horror.