TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.[14]

H very pleasant Mr. Wrench,— The first, upon the pit’s first bench, I’ve scrambled to my place, To hail thee on these summer boards With joy, even critic-craft affords, And watch thy welcome face! Ere thou art come, how I rejoice To hear thy free and easy voice, Lounging about the slips; And then thy figure comes and owns The voice as careless as the tones That saunter from thy lips. Oh come and cast a quiet glance, To glad a nameless friend, askance The lamps’ ascending glare; Better it is than bended knees, Heart-squeezing, and profound congés— That old familiar air. Even in the street, in that apt face, Full of gay gravity, I trace The soul of native whim; A constant, never-failing store Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er, But aye is near the brim. Quoth I, “There goes a happy wight, Inimical to spleen and spite, And careless of all care; Who oils the ruffled waves of strife, And makes the work-day suit of life Of very easy wear. Lord! if he had some people’s ills To cope—their hungry bonds and bills, How faintly they would tease; Things that have cost both tears and sighs— Their foes, as motelings in his eyes— Their duns, his summer fleas! The stage, I guess, is not thy school— Thou dost not antic like the fool That wept behind his mask; Thy playing is thy play—a sport— A revel, as perform’d at Court, And not a trade—a task! Gay Freeman, art thou hired for him? No—‘tis thy humour and thy whim To be that easy guest; Whereas whoever plays for pelf, (Like Bennett) only gives him-self, Or her—like Mrs. West! Nay, thou—to look beyond the stage, Thy life is but another page Continued of the play; The same companionable sprite— Thy whim and pleasantry by night Are with thee in the day!