Oh, Mrs. Hengler! Madame,--I beg pardon, Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden! Accept an Ode not meant as any scoff-- The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz, Whose squibs are far more popular than his; Whose works are much more certain to go off. Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame; With many a bang the public ear it courts; And yet thy arrogance we never blame, But take thy merits from thy own reports. Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers, We make no doubting, misbelieving comments, Even in thy most bounceable of moments; But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers!-- Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing, Thy Rockets raise thee, And Serpents praise thee, As none beside are ever praised--by hissing! Mistress of Hydropyrics, Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, Professor of a Fiery Necromancy, Oddly thou charmest the politer sorts With midnight sports, Partaking very much of _flash_ and _fancy_! What thoughts had shaken all In olden time at thy nocturnal revels,-- Each brimstone ball, They would have deem’d an eyeball of the Devil’s, But now thy flaming Meteors cause no fright; A modern Hubert to the royal ear, Might whisper without fear, “My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night!” Nor would it raise one superstitious notion To hear the whole description fairly out:-- “One fixed--which t’other four whirl’d round about With wond’rous motion.” Such are the very sights Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven, Between the hours of midnight and eleven, Turning our English to Arabian Nights, With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons, Blue stars and white, And blood-red light, And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters’ waggons. Thrice lucky woman! doing things that be With other folks past benefit of parson; For burning, no Burn’s Justice falls on thee, Altho’ night after night the public see Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson! Sure thou wast never born Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head, Nor lectur’d night and morn Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread, Allowed by a prophetic dam and sire To play with fire. O didst thou never, in those days gone by Go carrying about--no schoolboy prouder-- Instead of waxen doll a little Guy; Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein, Up the parental pigtail lay a train, To let off all his powder?