[William Wordsworth.]

Mr. Wordsworth died 23rd, April, 1850, in his 82nd year.

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“Thy lisping prattle and thy mincing gait. All thy false mimic fooleries I hate; For thou art Folly’s counterfeit, and she Who is right foolish hath the better plea; Nature’s true Idiot I prefer to thee”

CUMBERLAND.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child’s chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle’s porter.]

MY brother Jack was nine in May, {5b} And I was eight on New-year’s-day; So in Kate Wilson’s shop Papa (he’s my papa and Jack’s) Bought me, last week, a doll of wax, And brother Jack a top.

Jack’s in the pouts, and this it is,— He thinks mine came to more than his; So to my drawer he goes, Takes out the doll, and, O, my stars! He pokes her head between the bars, And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top’s peg, And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlour-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite Well, let him cry, it serves him right. A pretty thing, forsooth! If he’s to melt, all scalding hot, Half my doll’s nose, and I am not To draw his peg-top’s tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, “O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-Lane for you to-day!” And while papa said, “Pooh, she may!” Mamma said, “No, she sha’n’t!”

Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney coach, And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopp’d it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle’s porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam:) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am.

My father’s walls are made of brick, But not so tall, and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father’s beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see.

What a large floor! ’tis like a town! The carpet, when they lay it down, Won’t hide it, I’ll be bound; And there’s a row of lamps!—my eye How they do blaze! I wonder why They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing, And kept away; but Mr. Thing- um bob, the prompter man, Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, “Go on, my pretty love; Speak to ’em, little Nan.

“You’ve only got to curtsey, whisp- er, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you’re sure to take: I’ve known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake?”

But while I’m speaking, where’s papa? And where’s my aunt? and where’s mamma? Where’s Jack? O, there they sit! They smile, they nod; I’ll go my ways, And order round poor Billy’s chaise, To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go To join mamma, and see the show; So, bidding you adieu, I curtsey, like a pretty miss, And if you’ll blow to me a kiss, I’ll blow a kiss to you.

[Blows a kiss and exit.

III. AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHŒNIX. {10a}

BY S. T. P. {10b}

“This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked.”

What You Will.

WHAT stately vision mocks my waking sense? Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment, hence! Ha! is it real?—can my doubts be vain? It is, it is, and Drury lives again! Around each grateful veteran attends, Eager to rush and gratulate his friends, Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight, Endear the past, and make the future bright: Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile.

When last we met, Fate’s unrelenting hand Already grasped the devastating brand; Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, Then burst resistless to the astonished skies. The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide, Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all!

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, And raptured thousands on their music hung, Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced, Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste; And still had reigned—but he, whose voice can raise More magic wonders than Amphion’s lays, Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage To rear the prostrate glories of the stage. Up leaped the Muses at the potent spell, And Drury’s genius saw his temple swell; Worthy, we hope, the British Drama’s cause, Worthy of British arts, and your applause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume To renovate the Drama with the dome; The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old With due observance splendidly unfold, Yet raise and foster with parental hand The living talent of our native land. O! may we still, to sense and nature true, Delight the many, nor offend the few. Though varying tastes our changeful Drama claim, Still be its moral tendency the same, To win by precept, by example warn, To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn, And Virtue’s smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

IV. CUI BONO?

BY LORD B. {12a}