APPENDIX.

ADIEU TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat;
Adieu, thou palace, rarely entered;
Adieu, ye mansions, where I 've ventured ;
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs—

How surely he who mounts them swears ;
Adieu, ye merchants, often failing;
Adieu, thou mob, for ever railing;
Adieu, ye packets without letters;
Adieu, ye fools, who ape your betters;
Adieu, thou damn'dest quarantine,
That gave me fever and the spleen;
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs;
Adieu his excellency's dancers ;

Adieu to Peter, whom no fault 's in,

But could not teach a colonel waltzing ;

Adieu, ye females, fraught with graces;
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces ;
Adieu the supercilious air

Of all that strut en militaire.
I go—but God knows where or why...
To smoky towns and cloudy sky;
To things, the honest truth to say,
As bad, but in a different way :-
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue,
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.

Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme, because 't is gratis:
And now I 've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her;
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,

A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And Fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.-

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!

I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,

But only stare from out my casement,
And ask for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,

Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I 'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods-I 've got a fever!

TO DIVES.

A FRAGMENT.

May 26th, 1811.

UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour

'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!
Once fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose !
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of crime unnamed, and thy sad noor must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

1811.

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS*

BY DR. PLAGIARY,

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus "

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.

A modest monologue you here survey,"

Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day,"

As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse,
And gave his son
"the rubbish" to rehearse.
"Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,"
Knew you the rumpus which the author raised;
"Nor even here your smiles would be represt,'
Knew you these lines-the badness of the best.

"Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words borrow'd from Lucretius,) "Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues! "And sleeping pangs awake-and-—but away" (Confound me if I know what next to say). "Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G-recites what Doctor Busby sings!"If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of “tar.” "This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. "Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

"In arts and sciences our isle hath shone"
(This deep discovery is mine alone).
"Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire"
My verse-or I'm a fool-and Fame 's a liar,

"Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore"

With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much more. These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain

Disgraces, too!"inseparable train!"

Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid"

(You all know what I mean, unless you

're stupid):

Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee (see antè, p. 424), was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody,

"Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto,
Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!!
"While Poesy," with these delightful doxies,
"Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes!
"Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,"
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song;
"Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play"
(For this last line George had a holiday).

"Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"

So says the manager,

and so says I.

"But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Is this the poem which the public lost?

“ True—true—that lowers at once our mounting pride;"

But lo!-the papers print what you deride.

"T is ours to look on you-you hold the prize,"

'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertize!

"A double blessing your rewards impart❞—

I wish I had them, then, with all my heart.

"Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,'
Why son and I both beg for your applause.
"When in your fostering beams you bid us live,"
My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

October, 1812.

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER HOUSE AT HALES-OVEN.*

WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought,"
His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,"†
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense

Supplied, and amply too by innocence;

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.

Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,

The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

In Warwickshire.

† See Cymon and Iphigenia.

TRANSLATION FROM MARTIAL.

[Hic est quem legis, ille quem requiris,

Toto notus in orbe Martialis,

Argutis epigrammaton libellis :

Cui, lector studiose, quod dedisti

Viventi decus, atque sentienti,

Rari post cineres habent poetæ.-Lib. i, epig. 2.}

HE unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,

Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it-
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.

Why, how now, Parson Bowles?

Sure the priest is maudlin!

(To the public) How can you, d―n your souls, Listen to his twaddling?

EPIGRAMS.

OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
Cato died for his country, so didst thou;
He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved,
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be saved!