Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise, Its elements primæval sought the skies, There, pendulous to wait the happy hour, When new attractions should restore their power. So in this procreant theatre elate, Echoes unborn their future life await; Here embryo sounds in ether lie conceal'd, Like words in northern atmosphere congeal'd. Here many a fœtus laugh and half encore Clings to the roof, or creeps along the floor. By puffs concipient some in ether flit, And soar in bravos from the thundering pit; Some forth on ticket nights from tradesmen break, To mar the actor they design to make; While some this mortal life abortive miss, Crush'd by a groan, or strangled by a hiss. So, when "dog's-meat" re-echoes through the streets, Rush sympathetic dogs from their retreats, Beam with bright blaze their supplicating eyes, Sink their hind-legs, ascend their joyful cries; Each, wild with hope, and maddening to prevail, Points the pleased ear, and wags the expectant tail. Ye fallen bricks! in Drury's fire calcined, Since doom'd to slumber, couch'd upon the wind, Sweet was the hour, when tempted by your freaks, Congenial trowels smooth'd your yellow cheeks. Float dulcet serenades upon the ear, Bends every atom from its ruddy sphere, Twinkles each eye, and, peeping from its veil, Marks in the adverse crowd its destined male. The oblong beauties clap their hands of grit, And brick-dust titterings on the breezes flit; Then down they rush in amatory race, Their dusty bridegrooms eager to embrace. Some choose old lovers, some decide for new, But each, when fix'd, is to her station true. Thus various bricks are made as tastes invite, The red, the grey, the dingy, or the white. Perhaps some half-baked rover, frank and free, To alien beauty bends the lawless knee, But of unhallow'd fascinations sick, Soon quits his Cyprian for his married brick; The Dido atom calls and scolds in vain, No crisp Æneas soothes the widow's pain. So in Cheapside, what time Aurora peeps, A mingled noise of dustmen, milk, and sweeps, Falls on the housemaid's ear; amaz'd she stands, Then opes the door with cinder-sabled hands, And "matches" calls. The dustman, bubbled flat, Thinks 'tis for him, and doffs his fan-tail'd hat; The milkman, whom her second cries assail, With sudden sink, unyokes the clinking pail; Now louder grown, by turns she screams and weeps; Alas! her screaming only brings the sweeps. Sweeps but put out--she wants to raise a flame, And calls for matches, but 'tis still the same. Atoms and housemaids! mark the moral true, If once ye go astray, no _match_ for you!