bett ta'en a turnpike lease--
Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill--
I think I could be cheerful still!

VII.

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!

VIII.

But, Joseph--everybody's Jo!--
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 miss'd
The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!

IX.

Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said),
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies--
Enormous hunger--monstrous drowth!
Thy pockets greedy as thou mouth!

X.

Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd!--
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!--
Thy partridge body, always stuff'd
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!--
Thy foot--like Berkeley's _Foote_--for why?
'Twas often made to wipe an eye!

XI.

Ah, where thy legs--that witty pair!
For "great wits jump"--and so did they!
Lord! how they leap'd in lamplight air!
Caper'd--and bounc'd--and strode away!--
That years should tame the legs--alack!
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!

XII.

But bounds will have their bound--the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes;
And those that frisk'd in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hose--
One only--(Champion of the ring)
Could ever make his Winter,--Spring!

XIII.

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!

XIV.

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!--

XV.

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!

XVI.

Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' they walk'd behind thy bier,--
For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters,--if in heav'n or here!
Or in thy grave, or in thy bed!--
There's _Quick_ might just as well be dead!

XVII.

Oh, how