Some Lear, whose daughters never turn’d his head, Nor changed to gall the honey of his life; Some white Othello who with feather bed Had smothered not, his unoffending wife. The applause of listening houses to command, The critics smile and malice to despise, To win reward from lord and lady’s hand, And the approval of the thundering skies, Their parents hindered, and did thus o’erthrow The brilliant hopes that in their bosom rose To tear Macready’s laurels from his brow, And put out Charley Kean’s immortal nose. Of one of these I heard a drummer say, “Oft have I seen him from the muddy street, Across the crimson benches make his way, To gain his well-loved and accustomed seat, “There, where yon orchestra uprears its rail, On which I hang my drumsticks, many a night I’ve seen him with a dirty shirt, and pale, Watching the motley scene with wild delight. “There, upon yonder seat, which now appears To have rent its robe for grief he is not here, Oft have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears, Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger beer. “One night I missed him from his favourite seat. I wondered strangely where the boy could be. Another night――I gazed――in vain my gaze―― Nor in the _pit_, nor in the _house_ was he! “Come here! I saw him carried to that tomb, With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade, Just read――I’ve left my spectacles at home―― _The Epitaph_ a friend has kindly made.” THE EPITAPH. “Here lieth one beneath the cold damp ground, A youth to London, and the stage unknown, Upon his merits stern Macready frowned, And ‘Swan and Edgar’ marked him for their own. “Large was his bounty, unto aught wherein The stage did mingle, and the cost was sweet, He gave the drama all he could――his ‘tin,’ And gained――’twas all he could――his favourite seat. “No father had he who could interfere To check his nightly wanderings about, And from the best authority we hear, His mother never dreamt that he was out!” HOTSPUR. From _Bentley’s Miscellany_. 1843. This parody was afterwards republished, with alterations, and omissions, in _The Bentley Ballads_. NIGHT THOUGHTS. Saint Martin tolls the hour of long past day, The gas-lights glimmer through deserted streets, The drunkard staggers on his homeward way, And runs his head against each post he meets: In every house they’ve now put out the light, Save where a rushlight burns with feeble shine, Gin palaces have shut up for the night, And I’m watched closely by B, 59. Here, as I stand, pond’ring on this and that, A cabman pulls his horse up with a “Wo!” And looks me in the face, to touch his hat, While hoarsely asking “Vere I’d wish to go?”