Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man By prudence taught each rude excess to shun; Nor Love nor Pity marr’d his sober plan And Dulness claim’d him for her favorite son, By no eccentric passion led astray, Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend, Calmly through life he steer’d his quiet way, Nor made an enemy, nor gain’d a friend. Seek not his faults――his merits――to explore, But quickly drop this uninstructive tale! His works――his faults――his merits――are no more, Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion’s veil. SIR J. H. MOORE. From _Elegant Extracts from the British Poets_. 1824. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BOW-FAIR, 1823. (_Bow Fair was instituted by Charles II. in 1664._) The _Bow-bell_ tolls the knell of Bow-fair fun, And _Richardson_ winds slowly out of town; Poor old “young Saunders” sees his setting son,―― And _Gyngell_ pulls his red tom-tawdry down. Now three cart-horses draw the caravan, O’er smooth MacAdams, to provincial fairs, And pining showmen, with companions wan, Make dreary humour, while the hawbuck stares! No more shall cockneys don their Sunday coats, Stepney, Brook-green, or brighter Bow to fill, No folk shall row to Greenwich Hill in boats, And roll in couples adown One Tree Hill! Girls shall no longer dance in gingham gowns, Nor monkeys sit on organs at the door, _Gongs_ shall be turn’d to frying-pans; and clowns Take to the country, and be clowns no more! No learned pig, no veal, no mutton pie,―― No heads be crack’d, no under garments won,―― No giants twelve no dwarfs just three feet high―― No calves with two heads, shown to calves with one At Scowton’s dire destruction will be seen! The trumpet will give up its tragic truths! The magistrate desiring to be _Keen_, Will put an end, as usual, to the _Booths_. No lucky bags, no drums, no three-hand reels, No cocks in breeches, no tobacco-sots! No more shall Wapping learn to dance quadrilles, Or shake a hornpipe ’mid the pewter pots! No more the Fairing shall the fair allure, For fairs no more the fairing may expose; In pleasure-lovers, work shall work a cure; And Sundays only show the Sunday clothes! The magistrates decree that “fair is foul,” And put a stop to profitable sport; They exercise the Lion’s shilling howl, And cut the Irish giant’s income short. No more the backy-box, in dark japan, Shakes on the stick, and lures the rabble rout; No more the lemon, balanced by the man, Flies at the touch and flings its toys about; Take warning then, ye fair! from this fair’s fall! _One Act_ (the Vagrant Act) has been its ruin! Listen, oh listen, to _Law’s serious call_, For fun and pleasure lead but to undoing! From _The Mirror_. 1823. ――――:o:―――― THE LONG VACATION.