  By W. S.
To be spoken by Mr. Kemble in a Suit of the Black Prince's Armour, borrowed from the Tower. Survey this shield all bossy bright; These cuisses twain behold; Look on my form in armour dight Of steel inlaid with gold. My knees are stiff in iron buckles, Stiff spikes of steel protect my knuckles. These once belong'd to sable prince, Who never did in battle wince; With valour tart as pungent quince, He slew the vaunting Gaul: Rest there awhile, my bearded lance, While from green curtain I advance To yon footlights, no trivial dance, And tell the town what sad mischance Did Drury Lane befall. The Night.On fair Augusta's towers and trees Flitted the silent midnight breeze, Curling the foliage as it past, Which from the moon-tipp'd plumage cast A spangled light like dancing spray. Then reassumed its still array: Whenas night's lamp unclouded hung, And down its full effulgence flung, It shed such soft and balmy power, That cot and castle, hall and bower, And spire and dome, and turret height, Appear'd to slumber in the light. From Henry's chapel, Rufus' hall, To Savoy, Temple, and St. Paul, From Knightsbridge, Pancras, Camden Town, To Redriff, Shadwell, Horsleydown, No voice was heard, no eye unclosed, But all in deepest sleep reposed. They might have thought, who gazed around Amid a silence so profound, It made the senses thrill, That 'twas no place inhabited, But some vast city of the dead, was so hush'd and still. The Burning.As Chaos which, by heavenly doom, Had slept in everlasting gloom, Started with terror and surprise, When light first flash'd upon her eyes; So London's sons in night-cap woke, In bed-gown woke her dames, For shouts were heard 'mid fire and smoke, And twice ten hundred voices spoke, "The Playhouse is in flames." And lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tale its lustre lends To every window-pane; Blushes each spout in Martlet Court, And Barbican, moth-eaten fort, And Govent Garden kennels sport, A bright ensanguin'd drain; Meux's new brewhouse shows the light, Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height Where patent shot they sell: The Tennis Court, so fair and tall, Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall, The ticket porter's house of call, Old Bedlam, close by London Wall, Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal, And Richardson's Hotel. Nor these alone, but far and wide Across the Thames's gleaming tide, To distant fields the blaze was borne, And daisy white and hoary thorn In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am. To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise; It seem'd that nations did conspire, To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summon'd firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all. Starting from short and broken snooze, Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes, But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew, In tin or copper traced. The engines thunder'd thro' the street, Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete, And torches glared, and clattering feet Along the pavement paced. And one, the leader of the band, From Charing Cross along the Strand, Like stag by beagles hunted hard, Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard. The burning badge his shoulder bore, The belt and oilskin hat he wore, The cane he had his men to bang, Show'd foreman of the British gang. His name was Higginbottom; now 'Tis meet that I should tell you how The others came in view: The Hand-in-Hand the race begun, Then came the Phoenix and the Sun, Th' Exchange, where old insurers run, The Eagle, where the new; With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole, Robins from Hockley-in-the-Hole, Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl, Crump from St. Giles's Pound: Whitford and Mitford join'd the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell's gloomy mound! E'en Higginbottom now was posed, For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed; Without, within, in hideous show, Devouring flames resistless glow, And blazing rafters downward go, And never halloo "heads below!" Nor notice give at all: The firemen, terrified, are slow To bid the pumping torrent flow, For fear the roof should fall. Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof! Whitford, keep near the walls! Huggins, regard your own behoof, For lo! the blazing rocking roof Down, down in thunder falls! An awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd. At length the mist awhile was clear'd, When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd, Gradual a moving head appear'd, And Eagle firemen knew: 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins to the rescue, ho!" And pour'd the hissing tide: Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, 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, Thro' 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!" Were 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 lollipops, 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. |
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