To Mr. Wrench at the English Opera House14
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!