Loud fell the gate against the post!

Her heart-strings like to crack: For much she fear'd the grisly ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
As it had done before :-

Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surpris'd;
Out came her daughter dear;
Good-natured souls! all unadvis'd

Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierc'd through the night,

Some short space o'er the green : And there the little trotting Sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An Ass's Foal had lost its dam,
Within the spacious park ;
And simple as the playful lamb,
Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he-no imp of sin,—
No crimes had ever known;
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor;

The matron learn'd to love the sound

That frighten'd her before.

A favourite the Ghost became ;

And 'twas his fate to thrive ;

And long he liv'd and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale;
And some conviction too-

Each thought some other Goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.

ODE TO GRIMALDI.

Odes and Addresses to Great People.

JOSEPH! they say thou'st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannell'd ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife-
Retired (for Young would call it so

The world shut out-in Pleasant Row!

And hast thou really washed at last

From each white cheek the red half moon !

And all thy public clownship cast,

To play the private Pantaloon?

All youth, all ages yet to be,

Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

Thou didst not preach to make us wise-
Thou hadst no finger in our schooling;
Thou didst not "lure us to the skies"—

Thy simple, simple trade was-Fooling!

And yet, heaven knows! we could, we can Much "better spare a better man !"

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage;
Or Southey, for our quiet's sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage;
Or, damme! namby-pamby Poole,➡
other clown or fool.

Or

any

Go, Dibdin-all that bear the name,
Go, Bye-way Highwayman! go, go!
Go, Skeffy-man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo, with a sprain!

Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made
His
gray
hairs scarce in private peace-
Had Waithman sought a rural shade,
Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease;
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill,
I think I could be cheerful still!

Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead lion kicking, like—a friend !—
Had long, long Irving gone his ways,
To muse on death at Ponder's End;
Or Lady Morgan taken leave
Of letters, still I might not grieve!

But Joseph-every body's Joe!

Is gone, and grieve I will and must ; As Hamlet did for Yorick, so

Will I for thee, (though not yet dust);

And talk as he did, when he missed
The kissing crust that he had kissed!

Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes,
As old Catullus would have said;

Thy oven mouth, that swallowed pies;
Enormous hunger-monstrous drought!
Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth.

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffed-
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands;
Thy partridge body, always stuffed

With waifs, and strays, and contrabands? Thy foot-like Berkeley's Foote—for why? 'Twas often made to wipe an eye.

Ah, where thy legs? that witty pair!
For "great wits jump," and so did they;
Lord, how they leaped in lamplight air,
Capered, and bounced, and strode away;
That legs should tame the legs-alack !
I've seen spring through an almanack.

But bounds will have their bound-the shocks
Of time will cramp the nimblest toes;

And those that frisked in silken clocks,
May look to limp in fleecy hose-
One only, (champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter-Spring.

And gout, that owns no odds between
The toe of czar and toe of clown,
Will visit; but I did not mean

To moralize, though I am grown

Thus sad thy going seem'd to beat
A muffled drum for fun's retreat.

And

may be 'tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone thou, Joseph, one-the other
A Joe! sic transit gloria Munden!
A third departure some insist on-
Stage apoplexy threatens Liston.

Nay, then, let sleeping beauty sleep
With ancient Dozey to the dregs;
Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And put a hatchment o'er her eggs;
Let Farley weep, for magic's man
Is gone-his Christmas Caliban.

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet reign,

As though they walked behind thy hier;
For since thou wilt not play again,

What matters-if in heaven or here,

Or in thy grave, or in thy bed

There's Quick* might just as well be dead!

Oh, how will thy departure cloud

The lamp-light of the little breast;
The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his proudest friend and best.
Poor urchin! what avails to him

The cold New Monthly's ghost of Grimm?

For who, like thee, could ever stride

Some dozen paces to the mile

* One of the old actors-still a performer (but in private) of Old Rapid.