Melpomene died,
John Kemble replied,

"I like the experiment vastly;"
So booted and spurr'd,

He now trots in the herd

Of Merryman, Parker, and Astley.

IN

THE TEMPLE OF RAGS.

[From the same, April 26.]

N deep recess, where marks yon gloomy dome,
With rival frown, the civic monarch's home,
Where turtle steams the daily crowds regale,
That meet to settle trade's unsteady scale,
The tatter'd goddess high enthron'd appear'd,
Her tawdry robes with inky streaks besmear'd:
In mimic pomp a tinsel crown she wore-
Her magic hand a paper sceptre bore.
Oft round the hall with conscious joy she gaz'd,
Where lying rags in piles immense are rais'd;
And urging still her busy children's toil,
Rewards their labours with a nation's spoil.
'While inwards rushing from a hundred doors
Unnumber'd vot'ries spread their varied stores ;
With clamour strange, her potent spells admire,
When all to rags is chang'd at her desire.
Nor less she feels and pays their zealous care,
Who pour the ready rags to open air,

Where anxious thousands seize the faithless store,
And hug their paper 'stead of surer ore.

As thick as tempests drive the desert sand,
Now paper show'rs o'erwhelm the fated land.
Their humble fortunes, gain'd by years of care,
Despairing thousands see dissolv'd in air.
Wives, children, all now driven from their cell,
The long, long list of ghastly paupers swell.
Th' uncertain scene fair honest commerce flies;
A gambling herd in room of merchants rise.
For rags, the hearts of grateful voters burn,
And gen'rous members gain the wish'd return,

The

The devil's work 's far easier than of old;
No longer forc'd to bait his hooks with gold,
Now knaves, for rags, their souls and country sell,
And Nick, with joy, more crowded finds his hell.
Their fatal toils the paper-crew prolong,
A dread Report at length confounds the throng;
A rag half-finish'd trembling in her hand,
Sudden the goddess calls her frighten'd band.
"The foe," she cries, " attempts our reign to end;
Rouse, rouse, my sons-our gainful sway defend.
What blessings, tell, uncertain rags uphold;
What ills unheard of, spring from steady gold!
To industry what powerful motives grow,

When melt its hard-earn'd fruits like vernal snow!
When labour's hopes no more its pains assuage,
Nor toil of youth secures the ease of age!
No more our comforts, wealth, and power we draw
From native vigour nurs'd by equal law:
To rags alone we trace our happy state;
Meat, drink, and clothing, magic rags create.
Lands, houses, all, our wond'rous rags bestow,
Domestic plenty, safety from the foe;
Triumphant Germans, bless the glorious hour
Your paper sav'd you from Napoleon's power.
"Gold tempts invasion; bless'd with paper stores,
What mad invader would assail our shores?

Rags, rags alone, afford the sure relief ;

With empty pockets we defy the thief.

No raging thirst within his bosom glows,

To crush these isles that still his plans oppose,

That from his grasp the world's great prize withhold,-
No! his ambition aims at bits of gold!

Nor is it gold the caitiff would purloin,

He longs for nothing but our gold in coin!
Oh, thought sublime! To save a sinking state
Melt coin to bars, or else convert to plate..
Vile guineas banish, and his schemes you mar-
He loves our guineas more than ships of war!
Forbear, my sons, with principles to rack
Your muddy noddles, but assail with fact.

VOL. XV.

K

A Facts

Facts unexplain'd are manag'd still with ease,
Turn any way, and prove whate'er you please:
With partial facts then make your en'mies stare,
Ye know not whence they come, nor how they bear.
Be partial facts in wild disorder us'd;

To puzzle others, be yourselves confus'd.

Of clear deduction fly the dang'rous goal,
Avoid great views, and ne'er display the whole.
Dull facts, alas! with principles agree;

you

and me.

And such, my sons, are not for
Thus haply furnish'd, show with skill profound,
An oblong bar, not worth itself, when round:
Face demonstration-prove the dead alive-
That black is white-that two and two make five.
Loud 'gainst the foes of loyal paper rave,

Call, party, traitor, jacobin, and knave;
Let fools for nought their country's bruises heal,
Or prop, in blood-stain'd field, the public weal;
Be ours the nobler part, ye paper elves,
To gull the nation, and enrich ourselves."

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF OUR BRAVE COUNTRYMEN WHO FELL ON THE HEIGHTS OF BARROSA, VINDICATING THE RIGHTS OF OUR INJURED ALLIES, AND ADVANCING THE GLORY OF THE BRITISH ARMS, MARCH 5, 1811.

[From the British Press, April 26.]

PEACE, peace to the turf of the slain!

Their toils and their conflicts are o'er;

Of the bugle the soul-stirring strain
Shall resound in their battles no more.
The strength of the bravest hath fail'd
On thy heights, O Barrosa! afar;
In the tombs that proud vict'ry entail'd,
Sleep the sons of the mighty in war.
Their voices shall never be heard
At the grim-setting watch of the night;
The shadow of death is their guard,
And silent their camp on the height.

They

They liv'd by their country ador'd,

Fear'd by those 'neath the tyrant's command, Who tremble at liberty's sword

In a Briton's invincible hand.

They fell 'mid the shouts of the brave,
Like the bright setting glories of day,
While vict'ry's broad banner did wave
O'er the fields where the warriors lay.
From the foe the proud trophy they won;
That boast let the tyrant forego;

His eagle, that soar'd to the sun,

'Neath the standard, of Freedom lies low.
Kind Muse, who so often hast strung
The harp of green Erin with praise,
Oh! let not her sons be unsung,

Who fell in the battle's bright blaze.
Peace, peace to the souls of the slain!
Their toils and their conflicts are o'er;
They rest on the hills of their fame,

To mix in the battle no more.

Glasgow, April 18, 1811.

W. Y.

THE CIRCUS VERSUS COVENT GARDEN.

[From the Morning Chronicle, April 29.]

Haud secus exarsit quam Circo taurus aperto. OVID. As pleas'd as John Bull when the Circus is open'd.

Free Translation.

THOUGH Kemble and Elliston change their pursuits,

Their actors are at their old habits again;
The men at the Circus still acting like brutes,
The brutes at the theatre acting like men.
To say Covent Garden 's most vulgar, is malice;
Its muse is a well-bred equestrian wench;
The Stable Yard surely is near the King's Palace,
The Circus, as surely, is near the King's Bench.

Then, Kemble, continue your four-footed fun,

'Tis the taste of the public, not yours, that is base; The Muses, or Pyeballs, to you 't is all oneYou get all the money, they all the disgrace.

K 2

When

1

When Betty, and Mudie, and brats, were the rage,
To thousands of noodles they lisp'd out their story ;
Your infantry drove common-sense from the stage,

And why should not cavalry share in the glory?
While you hear the cash rattle, be deaf to their din ;
The sense of the public all folly surpasses:
They pay and abuse, while you laugh, Sir, and win ;
They smile at the horses, and you at the asses.

H.

EPIGRAM.

[From the same.]

BEIN
EING ask'd, "Why in England we 've paper for gold?"
A satirical jade, who let nothing escape her,

Gave an answer at once both convincing and bold—
"Where there's plenty of rags, there is plenty of paper."

QUIZ.

INTENDED DEVICE FOR AN ILLUMINATION.

[From the same, April 29.]

AMONG the expected illuminations through the

town, none, according to report, are to be more brilliant than those preparing for exhibition at the Bank of England. A large sun is to surmount the grand entrance, surrounded by many smaller stars, emblematic of the paper system. One great luminary, the national bank, in the centre, and its tributary planets, the country banks, revolving round it, some of them in orbits so eccentric, as to give a lively idea of insolvency-the various transparencies are executed with a spirit and ingenuity that do infinite credit to the talents of the different artists. A colossal portrait of Mr. Pitt on silver paper, is much talked of; the feet rest on the shoulders of the Directors, who are represented kissing them with the utmost devotion! the head terminates in a kite. In another compartment

are