THE cards dispers'd, the guests invited,
The curtains drawn, the candles lighted;
In silver state, the port, the sherry,
The strong bohea, the fragrant berry;
A crowd of Literati rush,
And storm the door of Mr. Brush!
Say, wherefore, Muse, this outward din,
This pomp and circumstance within?
Lo, Brush-who gives to City Madam
As many charms, as if she had 'em ;
And tricks out Aldermanic phiz
With sense and meaning-what a quiz!
And makes a form, however queer,
Start forth Apollo Belvidere-
Lo, Brush, a man of paint and letters-
In imitation of his betters-
Brush-in th' Academy, a star, a
Wit, craniologist, and R. A.--
Must have his little batch of Bards
To conversation, tea, and cards.
Lightly tripping up the stairs,
The motley party mount in pairs,
Economics, from Lombard Street,
And Metaphysics, from the Fleet!
Whitechapel prose, and verse that smacks
Of Ludgate, and St. Mary-Axe!
Yon dapper coxcomb, sprucely drest,
Is one, whose rhyme is in request;
While he, who creeps from loftier stories,
Is one, whose poetry a bore is.
Yet here, like sprites, they mingle may,
The wit, the dunce, the grave, the gay;
The young, the old, the short, the tall;
To Mr. Brush they're welcome, all.
They reach the drawing-room; where, lo, Sits Mr. Brush, in statu quo,
Lord of his Tusculum-Soho!
His wife and daughters either side,
Apollo's playthings and his pride!
Around, about, above, beneath,
See "Friendship's Off'ring," " Winter's Wreath,"
"The Keepsake," "Amulet," and " Bijou,"
Brimful of pretty prints to please you!
Smart periodical bouquèts,
That bloom and wither while we gaze,
Then sink in Dulness' lap to rest,
For she takes first what she loves best!
Though in the desart, drear and dry,
A limpid stream conceal'd may lie,
'Tis hardly worth our while to grope
Pandora's box, in search of " Hope."
Now mutual compliments begin,
The weekly critic cocks his chin,
For as a Mag. transcends a journal,
Your seven-days' scribe precedes diurnal.
Where'er he rolls in awkward state,
The smaller wits attendant wait,
Fearing an Informatem fulmen,
For critics are the dread of dull men.
A virgin Muse her off'ring brings,
A tender Ode in leading strings;
A smile intreats, a corner begs,
To set the bantling on its legs.
Bowing and scraping, from his attic,
With humble suit, the bard dramatic,
Beseeches Aristarch to say
A word in favour of his play-:
For, now-a-days, a friendly puff,
And Madame Vestris, half in buff,
And Liston's face, are quantum suff,
*The author of "Anastatius."
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