When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand Already grasp'd the devastating brand; Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, Then burst resistless to the astonish'd skies. The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, In trembling conflict stemm'd the burning tide, Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, Down rush'd the thundering roof, and buried all !

Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, And raptur'd thousands on their music hung, Where Wit and Wisdom shone by Beauty graced, Sate lonely Silence, empress of the waste; And still had reign'd-but he whose voice can raise More magic wonders than Amphion's lays, Bade jarring bands with friendly zeal engage, To rear the prostrate glories of the stage. Up leap'd the Muses at the potent spell, And Drury's genius saw his temple swell, Worthy, we hope, the British Drama's cause, Worthy of British arts, and your applause.

Guided by you, our earnest aims presume To renovate the Drama with the dome ;

The scenes of Shakespeare and our bards of old,
With due observance splendidly unfold,

Yet raise and foster with parental hand
The living talent of our native land.

O! may we still, to sense and nature true,
Delight the many, nor offend the few.

Tho' varying tastes our changeful drama claim,
Still be its moral tendency the same,

To win by precept, by example warn,

To brand the front of Vice with pointed scorn, And Virtue's smiling brows with votive wreaths adorn.

CUI BONO?

By Lord B.

I.

SATED with home, of wife, of children tired,
The restless soul is driven abroad to roam;
Sated abroad, all seen, yet nought admired,
The restless soul is driven to ramble home;
Sated with both, beneath new Drury's dome
The fiend Ennui awhile consents to pine,

There growls, and curses, like a deadly Gnome,
Scorning to view fantastic Columbine,

Viewing with scorn and hate the nonsense of the

Nine.

II.

Ye reckless dupes, who hither wend your way,
To gaze on puppets in a painted dome,
Pursuing pastimes glittering to betray,
Like falling stars in life's eternal gloom,

What seek ye here? Joy's evanescent bloom?
Woe's me! the brightest wreaths she ever gave
Are but as flowers that decorate a tomb.

Man's heart, the mournful urn o'er which they wave, Is sacred to despair, its pedestal the grave.

III.

Has life so little store of real woes,

That here ye wend to taste fictitious grief?
Or is it that from truth such anguish flows,
Ye court the lying drama for relief?

Long shall ye find the pang, the respite brief,
Or if one tolerable page appears

In folly's volume, 'tis the actor's leaf,

Who dries his own by drawing others' tears,

And, raising present mirth, makes glad his future

years.

IV.

Albeit how like young Betty doth he flee!
Light as the mote that daunceth in the beam,
He liveth only in man's present e'e,

His life a flash, his memory a dream,

Oblivious down he drops in Lethe's stream;
Yet what are they, the learned and the great?
Awhile of longer wonderment the theme!

Who shall presume to prophesy their date,
Where nought is certain, save th' uncertainty of fate?

V..

This goodly pile, upheaved by Wyatt's toil,
Perchance than Holland's edifice more fleet,
Again red Lemnos' artizan may spoil;

The fire alarm, and midnight drum may beat,
And all be strew'd ysmoking at your feet.

Start ye? Perchance Death's angel may be sent
Ere from the flaming temple ye retreat,

And ye who met on revel idlesse bent

May find in pleasure's fane your grave and monu

ment.