To Mr. Wrench at the English Opera House

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!