Pent in by smoke-dried beams, twelve moons or more, Shorn of his ray, Surya in durance lay: The workmen heard him shout, But thought it would not pay To dig him out. When lo! terrific Yamen, lord of hell, Solemn as lead, Judge of the dead, Sworn foe to witticism, By men call’d criticism, Came passing by that way: Rise! cried the fiend, behold a sight of gladness! Behold the rival theatre! I’ve set O. P. at her, {31} Who, like a bull-dog bold, Growls and fastens on his hold. The many-headed rabble roar in madness; Thy rival staggers: come and spy her Deep in the mud as thou art in the mire. So saying, in his arms he caught the beaming one, And crossing Russell Street, He placed him on his feet ’Neath Covent Garden dome. Sudden a sound, As of the bricklayers of Babel, rose: Horns, rattles, drums, tin trumpets, sheets of copper, Punches and slaps, thwacks of all sorts and sizes, From the knobb’d bludgeon to the taper switch, {32} Ran echoing round the walls; paper placards Blotted the lamps, boots brown with mud the benches; A sea of heads roll’d roaring in the pit; On paper wings O. P.’s Reclin’d in lettered ease; While shout and scoff, Ya! ya! off! off! Like thunderbolt on Surya’s ear-drum fell, And seemed to paint The savage oddities of Saint Bartholomew in hell. Tears dimm’d the god of light— “Bear me back, Yamen, from this hideous sight; Bear me back, Yamen, I grow sick, Oh! bury me again in brick; Shall I on New Drury tremble, To be O. P.’d like Kemble? No, Better remain by rubbish guarded, Than thus hubbubish groan placarded; Bear me back, Yamen, bear me quick, And bury me again in brick.” Obedient Yamen Answered, “Amen,” And did As he was bid. There lay the buried god, and Time Seemed to decree eternity of lime; But pity, like a dew-drop, gently prest Almighty Veeshnoo’s {34} adamantine breast: He, the preserver, ardent still To do whate’er he says he will, From South-hill wing’d his way, To raise the drooping lord of day. All earthly spells the busy one o’erpower’d; He treats with men of all conditions, Poets and players, tradesmen and musicians; Nay, even ventures To attack the renters, Old and new: A list he gets Of claims and debts, And deems nought done, while aught remains to do.