“And now farewell!--a last farewell! I’m wanted down below, And have but time enough to add One word before I go,-- In mourning crape and bombazine Ne’er spend your precious pelf-- Don’t go in black for me,--for I Can do it for myself. “Henceforth within my grave I rest, But Death who there inherits, Allow’d my spirit leave to come, You seem’d so out of spirits; But do not sigh, and do not cry, By grief too much engross’d-- Nor, for a ghost of colour, turn The colour of a ghost! “Again farewell, my Phœbe dear! Once more a last adieu! For I must make myself as scarce As swans of sable hue.” From black to grey, from grey to nought, The shape began to fade, And, like an egg, though not so white, The Ghost was newly laid! TO MR. WRENCH AT THE ENGLISH OPERA HOUSE.[14] Oh very pleasant Mr. Wrench,-- The first, upon the pit’s first bench, I’ve scrambled to my place, To hail thee on these summer boards With joy, even critic-craft affords, And watch thy welcome face! Ere thou art come, how I rejoice To hear thy free and easy voice, Lounging about the slips; And then thy figure comes and owns The voice as careless as the tones That saunter from thy lips. Oh come and cast a quiet glance, To glad a nameless friend, askance The lamps’ ascending glare; Better it is than bended knees, Heart-squeezing, and profound congés-- That old familiar air. Even in the street, in that apt face, Full of gay gravity, I trace The soul of native whim; A constant, never-failing store Of quiet mirth, that ne’er runs o’er, But aye is near the brim. Quoth I, “There goes a happy wight, Inimical to spleen and spite, And careless of all care; Who oils the ruffled waves of strife, And makes the work-day suit of life Of very easy wear. Lord! if he had some people’s ills To cope--their hungry bonds and bills, How faintly they would tease; Things that have cost both tears and sighs-- Their foes, as motelings in his eyes-- Their duns, his summer fleas! The stage, I guess, is not thy school-- Thou dost not antic like the fool That wept behind his mask; Thy playing is thy play--a sport-- A revel, as perform’d at Court, And not a trade--a task! Gay _Freeman_, art thou hired for _him_? No--‘tis thy humour and thy whim To be that easy guest; Whereas whoever plays for pelf, (Like Bennett) only gives _him_-self, Or _her_--like Mrs. West! Nay, thou--to look beyond the stage, Thy life is but another page Continued of the play; The same companionable sprite-- Thy whim and pleasantry by night Are with thee in the day! LOVE, WITH A WITNESS.