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But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace;
Though there thy beauty lingers yet,
It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true!
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers.

Dawnings of Genius.

In those low paths which poverty surrounds,
The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds
(That necessary tool of wealth and pride),
While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side,
Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace
The opening beauties of a daisy's face;
Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes,
The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise;
And often bent, as o'er some magic spell,
He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell:
Raptures the while his inward powers inflame,
And joys delight him which he cannot name;
Ideas picture pleasing views to mind,

For which his language can no utterance find;
Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight,
Unfold new charms, and witness more delight;
So while the present please, the past decay,
And in each other, losing, melt away.
Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by,
He feels enraptured, though he knows not why;
And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain,
And dwells on something which he can't explain.
The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed,
Are bred one moment, and are gone the next;
Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain,
And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again.
So have I marked the dying ember's light,
When on the hearth it fainted from my sight,
With glimmering glow oft redden up again,
And sparks crack brightening into life in vain ;
Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise,
Till faint, and fainting, the last twinkle dies.

Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart,
Its painful pleasing feelings to impart;
Till by successless sallies wearied quite,
The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight:
The wick, confined within its socket, dies,
Borne down and smothered in a thousand sighs.

[Scenes and Musings of the Peasant Poet.]
[From the Village Minstrel.']

Each opening season, and each opening scene,
On his wild view still teemed with fresh delight;
F'en winter's storms to him have welcome been,
That brought him comfort in its long dark night,
As joyful listening, while the fire burnt bright,
Some neighbouring labourer's superstitious tale,
How 'Jack-a-lantern,' with his wisp alight,
To drown a 'nighted traveller once did fail,
He knowing well the brook that whimpered down the
vale.

And tales of fairyland he loved to hear,
Those mites of human forms, like skimming bees,
That fly and flirt about but everywhere;
The mystic tribes of night's unnerving breeze,
That through a lock-hole even creep with ease:
The freaks and stories of this elfin crew,
Ah! Lubin gloried in such things as these;
How they rewarded industry he knew,

And how the restless slut was pinched black and blue.

How ancient damnes a fairy's anger feared,
From gossip's stories Lubin often heard;
How they on every night the hearthstone cleared,
And, 'gainst their visits, all things neat prepared,
As fays nought more than cleanliness regard;
When in the morn they never failed to share
Or gold or silver as their meet reward,
Dropt in the water superstition's care,

To make the charm succeed, had cautious placed there.

And thousands such the village keeps alive;
Beings that people superstitious earth,
That e'er in rural manners will survive,

As long as wild rusticity has birth

To spread their wonders round the cottage-hearth. On Lubin's mind these deeply were impressed; Oft fear forbade to share his neighbour's mirth: And long each tale, by fancy newly dressed, Brought fairies in his dreams, and broke his infant rest. He had his dreads and fears, and scarce could pass A churchyard's dreary mounds at silent night, But footsteps trampled through the rustling grass, And ghosts 'hind grave-stones stood in sheets of white;

Dread monsters fancy moulded on his sight; Soft would he step lest they his tread should hear, And creep and creep till past his wild affright; Then on wind's wings would rally, as it were, So swift the wild retreat of childhood's fancied fear. And when fear left him, on his corner-seat Much would he chatter o'er each dreadful tale; Tell how he heard the sound of 'proaching feet, And warriors jingling in their coats of mail; And lumping knocks as one would thump a flail; Of spirits conjured in the charnel floor; And many a mournful shriek and hapless wail, Where maids, self-murdered, their false loves deplore ;

And from that time would vow to tramp on nights no

more.

O! who can speak his joys when spring's young

morn,

From wood and pasture, opened on his view! When tender green buds blush upon the thorn, And the first primrose dips its leaves in dew: Each varied charm how joyed would he pursue, Tempted to trace their beauties through the day; Gray-girdled eve and morn of rosy hue Have both beheld him on his lonely way, Far, far remote from boys, and their unpleasing play.

Sequestered nature was his heart's delight; Him would she lead through wood and lonely plain, Searching the pooty from the rushy dike; And while the thrush sang her long-silenced strain, He thought it sweet, and mocked it o'er again; And while he plucked the primrose in its pride, He pondered o'er its bloom 'tween joy and pain; And a rude sonnet in its praise he tried, Where nature's simple way the aid of art supplied.

The freshened landscapes round his routes unfurled, The fine-tinged clouds above, the woods below, Each met his eye a new-revealing world, Delighting more as more he learned to know; Each journey sweeter, musing to and fro. Surrounded thus, not Paradise more sweet; Enthusiasm made his soul to glow; His heart with wild sensations used to beat; As nature seemly sang, his mutterings would repeat. Upon a molehill oft he dropt him down, To take a prospect of the circling scene, Marking how much the cottage roof's thatch brown Did add its beauty to the budding green

Of sheltering trees it humbly peeped between ; The stone-rocked wagon with its rumbling sound; The windmill's sweeping sails at distance seen; And every form that crowds the circling round, Where the sky, stooping, seems to kiss the meeting ground.

And dear to him the rural sports of May,
When each cot-threshold mounts its hailing bough,
And ruddy milkmaids weave their garlands gay,
Upon the green to crown the earliest cow;
When mirth and pleasure wear a joyful brow;
And join the tumult with unbounded glee,
The humble tenants of the pail and plough:
He loved 'old sports,' by them revived, to see,
But never cared to join in their rude revelry.

O'er brook-banks stretching, on the pasture-sward
He gazed, far distant from the jocund crew;
"Twas but their feats that claimed a slight regard;
"Twas his-his pastimes lonely to pursue-
Wild blossoms creeping in the grass to view,
Scarce peeping up the tiny bent as high,
Betinged with glossy yellow, red or blue,
Unnamed, unnoticed but by Lubin's eye,

That like low genius sprang, to bloom their day and die.

O! who can tell the sweets of May-day's morn,
To waken rapture in a feeling mind;

When the gilt east unveils her dappled dawn,
And the gay woodlark has its nest resigned,
As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind;
Morn reddening round, and daylight's spotless hue,
As seemingly with rose and lily lined;

While all the prospect round beams fair to view, Like a sweet opening flower with its unsullied dew.

Ah! often brushing through the dripping grass,
Has he been seen to catch this early charm,
Listening the 'love-song' of the healthy lass
Passing with milk-pail on her well-turned arm;
Or meeting objects from the rousing farm-
The jingling plough-teams driving down the steep,
Wagon and cart; and shepherd-dogs' alarm,
Raising the bleatings of unfolding sheep,

As o'er the mountain top the red sun 'gins to peep.

Nor could the day's decline escape his gaze;
He loved the closing as the rising day,
And oft would stand to catch the setting rays,
Whose last beams stole not unperceived away;
When, hesitating like a stag at bay,

The bright unwearied sun seemed loath to drop,
Till chaos' night-hounds hurried him away,
And drove him headlong from the mountain top,
And shut the lovely scene, and bade all nature stop.

With contemplation's stores his mind to fill, O doubly happy would he roam as then, When the blue eve crept deeper round the hill, While the coy rabbit ventured from his den, And weary labour sought his rest again; Lone wanderings led him haply by the stream, Where unperceived he 'joyed his hours at will, Musing the cricket twittering o'er its dream, Or watching o'er the brook the moonlight's dancing

beam.

And here the rural muse might aptly say, As sober evening sweetly siles along, How she has chased black ignorance away, And warmed his artless soul with feelings strong, To teach his reed to warble forth a song; And how it echoed on the even-gale, All by the brook the pasture-flowers among: But ah! such trifles are of no availThere's few to notice him, or hear his simple tale.

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latter years were gratified by the talents and reputation of his two sons, James and Horace. James, the eldest, was educated at a school at Chigwell, in Essex, and was usually at the head of his class. For this retired schoolboy spot' he ever retained a strong affection, rarely suffering, as his brother relates, a long interval to elapse without paying it a visit, and wandering over the scenes that recalled the truant excursions of himself and chosen playmates, or the solitary rambles and musings of his youth. Two of his latest poems are devoted to his reminiscences of Chigwell. After the completion of his education, James Smith was articled to his father, was taken into partnership in due time, and eventually succeeded to the business, as well as to the appointment of solicitor to the Ordnance. With a quick sense of the ridiculous, a strong passion for the stage and the drama, and a love of London society and manners, Smith became a town wit and humorist-delighting in parodies, theatrical colloquies, and fashionable criticism. His first pieces appear to have been contributed to the Pic-Nic newspaper established by Colonel Henry Greville, which afterwards merged into The Cabinet, both being solely calculated for the topics and feelings of the day. A selection from the Pic-Nic papers, in two small volumes, was published in 1803. He next joined the writers for the London Review-a journal established by Cumberland the dramatist, on the novel principle of affixing the writer's name to his critique.

The Review proved a complete failure. The system right, which had been originally offered to Mr Murof publishing names was an unwise innovation, de-ray for L.20, was purchased by that gentleman, in stroying equally the harmless curiosity of the reader, 1819, after the sixteenth edition, for L.131. The and the critical independence of the author; and articles written by James Smith consisted of imitaCumberland, besides, was too vain, too irritable and tions of Wordsworth, Cobbett, Southey, Coleridge, poor, to secure a good list of contributors. Smith Crabbe, and a few travesties. Some of them are then became a constant writer in the Monthly inimitable, particularly the parodies on Cobbett and Mirror (wherein Henry Kirke White first attracted Crabbe, which were also among the most popular. the notice of what may be termed the literary world), Horace Smith contributed imitations of Walter and in this work appeared a series of poetical imita- Scott, Moore, Monk Lewis, Lord Byron, W. T. tions, entitled Horace in London, the joint production Fitzgerald (whose 'Loyal Effusion' is irresistibly of James and Horace Smith. These parodies were ludicrous for its extravagant adulation and fustian), subsequently collected and published in one volume Dr Johnson, &c. The amount of talent displayed in 1813, after the success of the Rejected Addresses by the two brothers was pretty equal; for none of had rendered the authors famous. Some of the James Smith's parodies are more felicitous than that pieces display a lively vein of town levity and of Scott by Horace. The popularity of the 'Rejected humour, but many of them also are very trifling Addresses' seems to have satisfied the ambition of and tedious. In one stanza, James Smith has given the elder poet. He afterwards confined himself to a true sketch of his own tastes and character:short anonymous pieces in the New Monthly Magazine and other periodicals, and to the contribution of some humorous sketches and anecdotes towards Mr Mathews's theatrical entertainments, the authorship of which was known only to a few. The Country Cousins, Trip to France, and Trip to America, mostly written by Smith, and brought out by Mathews at the English Opera House, not only

Me toil and ease alternate share,
Books, and the converse of the fair,
(To see is to adore 'em);

With these, and London for my home,
I envy not the joys of Rome,

The Circus or the Forum!

To London he seems to have been as strongly at

tached as Dr Johnson himself. A confirmed metropolitan in all his tastes and habits, he would often quaintly observe, that London was the best place in summer, and the only place in winter; or quote Dr Johnson's dogma-"Sir, the man that is tired of London is tired of existence." At other times he would express his perfect concurrence with Dr Mosley's assertion, that in the country one is always maddened with the noise of nothing: or laughingly quote the Duke of Queensberry's rejoinder on being told one sultry day in September that London was exceedingly empty-"Yes, but it's fuller than the country." He would not, perhaps, have gone quite so far as his old friend Jekyll, who used to say, that "if compelled to live in the country, he would have the approach to his house paved like the streets of London, and hire a hackney-coach to drive up and down the street all day long;" but he would relate, with great glee, a story showing the general conviction of his dislike to ruralities. He was sitting in the library at a country house, when a gentleman, informing him that the family were all out, proposed a quiet stroll into the pleasure-grounds. "Stroll! why, don't you see my gouty shoe?" "Yes, but what then? you don't really mean to say that you have got the gout? I thought you had only put on that shoe to avoid being shown over the improvements." There is some good-humoured banter and exaggeration in this dislike of ruralities; and accord

ingly we find that, as Johnson found his way to the remote Hebrides, Smith occasionally transported himself to Yorkshire and other places, the country seats of friends and noblemen. The 'Rejected Addresses' appeared in 1812, having engaged James and Horace Smith six weeks, and proving one of the luckiest hits in literature.' The directors of Drury Lane theatre had offered a premium for the best poetical address to be spoken on opening the

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new edifice; and a casual hint from Mr Ward, secre

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filled the theatre, and replenished the treasury, but
brought the witty writer a thousand pounds-a sum
to which, we are told, the receiver seldom made
allusion without shrugging up his shoulders, and
ejaculating, A thousand pounds for nonsense!'
Mr Smith was still better paid for a trifling exer-
tion of his muse; for, having met at a dinner party
the late Mr Strahan, the king's printer, then suffer-
mained unimpaired, he sent him next morning the
ing from gout and old age, though his faculties re-
following jeu d'esprit :-

Your lower limbs seemed far from stout
When last I saw you walk;
The cause I presently found out
When you began to talk.

The power that props the body's length,
In due proportion spread,

In you mounts upwards, and the strength
All settles in the head.

Mr Strahan was so much gratified by the compli-
ment, that he made an immediate codicil to his
will, by which he bequeathed to the writer the sum
of L.3000! Horace Smith, however, mentions that
Mr Strahan had other motives for his generosity,
for he respected and loved the man quite as much
as he admired the poet. James made a happier,
though, in a pecuniary sense, less lucky epigram
on Miss Edgeworth :-

We every-day bards may ‘anonymous' sign—
That refuge, Miss Edgeworth, can never be thine.
Thy writings, where satire and moral unite,
Must bring forth the name of their author to light.
Good and bad join in telling the source of their birth;
The bad own their EDGE, and the good own their
WORTH.

The easy social bachelor-life of James Smith was tary to the theatre, suggested to the witty brothers perately, and at his club-dinner restricted himself to much impaired by hereditary gout. He lived temthe composition of a series of humorous addresses, his half-pint of sherry; but as a professed joker and professedly composed by the principal authors of the diner out,' he must often have been tempted to day. The work was ready by the opening of the Attacks of theatre, and its success was almost unexampled. gout began to assail him in middle life, and he graover-indulgence and irregular hours. Eighteen editions have been sold; and the copy-dually lost the use and the very form of his limbs, bearing all his sufferings, as his brother states, with 'an undeviating and unexampled patience.' One of

* Memoir prefixed to Smith's Comic Miscellanies, 2 vols.

1841.

the stanzas in his poem on Chigwell displays his philosophic composure at this period of his life:

World, in thy ever busy mart
I've acted no unnoticed part-

Would I resume it? oh no!

Four acts are done, the jest grows stale;
The waning lamps burn dim and pale,
And reason asks-Cui bono?

He held it a humiliation to be ill, and never complained or alluded to his own sufferings. He died on the 24th December 1839, aged 65. Lady Blessington said, If James Smith had not been a witty man, he must have been a great man.' His extensive information and refined manners, joined to an inexhaustible fund of liveliness and humour, and a happy uniform temper, rendered him a fascinating companion. The writings of such a man give but a faint idea of the original; yet in his own walk of literature James Smith has few superiors. Anstey comes most directly into competition with him; yet it may be safely said that the Rejected Addresses' will live as long as the 'New Bath Guide.'

The surviving partner of this literary duumvirate -the most constant and interesting, perhaps, since that of Beaumont and Fletcher, and more affectionate from the relationship of the parties-has distinguished himself by his novels and historical romances, and by his generosity to various literary men. Mr Horace Smith has also written some copies of verses, one of which, the Address to the Mummy, is a felicitous compound of fact, humour, and sentiment, forcibly and originally expressed.

The Theatre. By the Rev. G. C. [Crabbe.]
"Tis sweet to view, from half-past five to six,
Our long wax candles, with short cotton wicks,
Touched by the lamplighter's Promethean art,
Start into light, and make the lighter start:
To see red Phoebus through the gallery pane
Tinge with his beam the beams of Drury Lane,
While gradual parties fill our widened pit,
And gape, and gaze, and wonder, ere they sit. *
What various swains our motley walls contain!
Fashion from Moorfields, honour from Chick Lane;
Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,
Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches Court;
From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,
Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;
The lottery cormorant, the auction shark,
The full-price master, and the half-price clerk;
Boys who long linger at the gallery door,

With pence twice five, they want but twopence more,
Till some Samaritan the twopence spares,
And sends them jumping up the gallery stairs.
Critics we boast who ne'er their malice baulk,
But talk their minds, we wish they'd mind their talk;
Big worded bullies, who by quarrels live,
Who give the lie, and tell the lie they give;
Jews from St Mary Axe, for jobs so wary,
That for old clothes they'd even axe St Mary;
And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,
Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait;
Who oft, when we our house lock up, carouse
With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, chance can joy bestow,
Where scowling fortune seemed to threaten wo.
John Richard William Alexander Dwyer
Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;
But when John Dwyer listed in the Blues,
Emanuel Jennings polished Stubbs's shoes.
Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy
Up as a corn cutter a safe employ;

In Holywell Street, St Pancras, he was bred
(At number twenty-seven, it is said),
Facing the pump, and near the Granby's head.
He would have bound him to some shop in town,
But with a premium he could not come down :
Pat was the urchin's name, a red-haired youth,
Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.
Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongues in awe,
The muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat;
But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat;
Down from the gallery the beaver flew,
And spurned the one, to settle in the two.
How shall he act? Pay at the gallery door
Two shillings for what cost when new but four?
Or till half price, to save his shilling, wait,
And gain his hat again at half-past eight?
Now, while his fears anticipate a thief,
John Mullins whispers, Take my handkerchief.
Thank you, cries Pat, but one won't make a line;
Take mine, cried Wilson ; and, cried Stokes, take mine.
A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties,
Where Spitalfields with real India vies.
Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted hue,
Starred, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,
Old calico, torn silk, and muslin new.
George Green below, with palpitating hand,
Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band;
Upsoars the prize; the youth, with joy unfeigned,
Regained the felt, and felt what he regained,
While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat
Made a low bow, and touched the ransomed hat. **

The Baby's Debut.-By W. W. [Wordsworth.] [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,
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, oh 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 shan'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 mopped 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 these 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

Umbob, the prompter man,

Gave with his hand my chaise a shove, And said, 'Go on, my pretty love; Speak to 'em, little Ñan.

You've only got to curtsey, whisper, 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? Oh, 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 kiss, and exit.

A Tale of Drury Lane.-By W. S. [Scott.]

As chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,

When light first flashed upon her eyes:
So London's sons in nightcap woke,
In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,

'The playhouse is in flames.'

And lo! where Catherine Street extends, A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane :

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport,
A bright ensanguined drain;

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:

The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket Porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across the Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrowed lustre seemed to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around Beheld the flames from Drury's mound, As from a lofty altar rise;

It seemed that nations did conspire, To offer to the god of fire Some vast stupendous sacrifice! The summoned firemen woke at call, And hied them to their stations all. Starting from short and broken snoose, Each sought his ponderous hobnailed shoes; But first his worsted hosen plied, Plush breeches next in crimson dyed, His nether bulk embraced; Then jacket thick of red or blue, Whose massy shoulder gave to view The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thundered through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed;
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo Heads below!'
Nor notice give at all:
The firemen, terrified, are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,

For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Concealed them from the astonished crowd.
At length the mist awhile was cleared,
When lo! amid the wreck upreared,
Gradual a moving head appeared,
And Eagle firemen knew

'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of wo,
'A Muggins to the rescue, ho!'

And poured the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For rallying but to fall again,

He tottered, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succour one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave!
'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams,
Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

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