Shall rouse each man to-morrow from his bed.
And yet for them no opera pours its rhyme;
No loud encore rewards their evening care;
No children run to hail their pantomime,
Or crowd the box, the envied laugh to share.
As sailors oft they hail’d Britannia’s shore;
As forty thieves they spurn’d the Sultan’s yoke;
Their shoulders oft Peruvian Rolla bore;
How bow’d their heads when mighty Bluebeard spoke.
Let not tragedians mock their useful toil,