If such thy power, O hear the Muse’s prayer! Swell thy loud lungs and wave thy wings of air; Spread, viewless giant, all thy arms of mist Like windmill-sails to bring the poet grist; As erst thy roaring son, with eddying gale, Whirl’d Orithyia from her native vale— So, while Lucretian wonders I rehearse, Augusta’s sons shall patronise my verse. I sing of ATOMS, whose creative brain, With eddying impulse, built new Drury Lane; Not to the labours of subservient man, To no young Wyatt appertains the plan— We mortals stalk, like horses in a mill, Impassive media of atomic will; Ye stare! then Truth’s broad talisman discern— ’Tis demonstration speaks—attend, and learn! From floating elements in chaos hurl’d, Self-form’d of atoms, sprang the infant world: No great _First Cause_ inspired the happy plot, But all was matter—and no matter what. Atoms, attracted by some law occult, Settling in spheres, the globe was the result; Pure child of _Chance_, which still directs the ball, As rotatory atoms rise or fall. In ether launch’d, the peopled bubble floats, A mass of particles and confluent motes, So nicely poised, that if one atom flings Its weight away, aloft the planet springs, And wings its course through realms of boundless space. Outstripping comets in eccentric race Add but one atom more, it sinks outright Down to the realms of Tartarus and night. What waters melt or scorching fires consume, In different forms their being re-assume: Hence can no change arise, except in name, For weight and substance ever are the same. Thus with the flames that from old Drury rise Its elements primeval 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 foetus 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 {77} 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.