A SHORT ODE AT PARTING,
FROM HIS "SPIRIT IN THE CLOUDS"
TO THE ENGLISH SPY.
Prospero. Now does my project gather to a head;
My charms crack not; my spirits obey:
——How's the day?
Ariel. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
You said our work should cease.
—Shakspkare's Tempest.
So fare you well; I have left you commands.
Ibid.—As you like it.
"'Tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true,"
That though on fairest winds we flew,
I in the clouds, beneath them you,
We still must parted be;
And that, e'en whilst the world still hung
On what you wrote, and what I sung,
Enamour'd of our double tongue,
Exits my Bernard B——-.
Well, all great actors must have pause,
When toiling in a patriot cause,
And ere another scene he draws,
New characters to cast,
Secure of having played his part,
As nature dictates, from the heart,
'Tis fair before another start,
He brush up from the last.
But how will humbugs of the age,
(I don't mean Mr. B.'s dull page,)
Crow that they scape satiric rage,
And get off in whole skins;
How will dramatic fools rejoice!
No more is heard great Bernard's voice,
And that, Heav'n knows, there is a choice,
Their flummery begins.{1}
But go your ways; it may be wise,
To let these puny, pestering flies
Buzz about people's ears and eyes,
A season or two longer;
There must be evil mixed with good,
A bottom to the clearest flood,
And let them stand where others stood,
Till shown who is the stronger.
Then, fortune-hunting squires of Bath,
Fine as the Burmese jewell'd Rath,{2}
Pray totter o'er your Bond-street path,
A respite short is yours.
1 I speak of would-be actors (male and female), vain and
incompetent managers, flippant and unequal critics, puffed
and translating authors, in short, of all before and behind
the curtain who have injured, or may injuro, the legitimate
drama. Let the theatres, like our trade, be free, and
monopoly thrive not, and for their success the Spirit will
ever pray; at present, it is "a mad world, my masters;" and
I am afraid Mr. Rayner with his long and set speeches, as
chairman of Thomas's Shakspeareans, will not mend the
matter. We note this to him in a friendly way; seeing, that
he is a worthy fellow, and a clever Caliban, and really
loves Shakspeare next to Newmarket and Doncaster.
2 The Burmese carriage is certainly a curious machine
of Indian workmanship; but it is, we should fancy, mere
outside—fine to look at, but a "rum one to go," like the
be-togged, be-booted, be-spurred, furred, and cloaked half
pays, fortune-hunters, gentlemen with the brogue, &c. that
pay their court so assiduously to Mrs. Dolland's cheesecakes
and Mr. Heaviside's quadrilles. But the world is often
ornament caught.
And daughter-selling mothers, still
Lure the young boys, their eyes may kill,
To wed your flesh and blood, and fill
Your purse, and pay your tours.
Ye London blacks, ye Cheltenham whites,{3}
Ye turners of the days to nights,
Make, make the most of all your flights,
Whilst I and Bernard doze;
But still be sure, by this same token,
We still shall sleep with one eye open{4}
And the first hour our nap is broken,
You'll pay for't through the nose.
3 There are indeed "black spirits and white spirits" of all
sorts and sizes, at all times and places; and a well-cut
coat and a white satin dress are frequently equally
dangerous glossings to frail and cunning mortality within.
To be sure, we have brought down the "tainted wethers of
dame Nature's flock" with the double barrels of wit and
satire, right and left; but like mushrooms or mole-hills,
they are a breeding, increasing species, and it will be only
a real battue of sharp-shooting that will destroy the
coveys. Nevertheless,
"I have a rod in pickle,
Their—————————"
I declare the Spirit is growing earthly.
4 The Bristol men "down along," sleep, they say, in this way
and hence is it rare for Jew or Gentile, Turk or infidel, to
get the blind side of them. Some of them, however, have ere
now been done brown, and that too by being too fanciful and
neat in their likings. These tales of the sleepers of an
eye are too good to be lost; they shall be bound up in the
volume of my brain, hereafter to be perused with advantage.
At present,
"I hear a voice thou canst not hear;
I see a hand thou canst not see;
It calls to me from yonder sphere,
It points to where my brethren be."
When that time comes, and come it must,
For what we say is not pie-crust,
To yield to every trifling thrust,
England shall see some fun.
Like "eagles in a dove-cote," we
Both rooks and pigeons will make flee,
Whilst every cashless company
Shall, laugh'd at, "cut and run."
Thus telling painted folly's sect,
What they're to look to, what expect,
My farewell words I now direct
To thee, migrating Spy;
That done, deliver'd all commands,
I man a cloud-ship with brave hands,
And sail to (quitting mortal lands),
My parlour in the sky.
Bernard, farewell; may rosy health
Companion'd by that cherub wealth,
Be constant to you, like myself,
Your own departing spirit.
Not that you're going to die; no, no,
You'll only take a nap or so;
But yet I wish you, 'fore you go,
These blessings to inherit.
Bernard, farewell; pray think of me,
When you ride earth, or cross the sea;
On both, you know, I've been with thee,
And sung some pretty things;
Great Spy, farewell; when next you rise
To make of fools a sacrifice,
You'll hear, down-cleaving from the skies,
The rustle of my wings.
January, 1826.
Bernard Blackmantle and Bob Transit,