( 400) . fGen! 
PUNCH AND JUDY. 
A Philosophical Poem, in Two Cantos; 
With a Commentary in Verse, by Bougersdichius. 
CANTO II. 
* Ludibria seriis permiscere solitus.”— Tacitus. 
We parted for atime, my Punchinello, 
For friends must part,—and often part in pain— 
And thee, dear Judy, like a shabby fellow, 
I left just in the middle of my strain :— 
But now, at evening’s twilight soft and mellow, 
I take my idle verse up once again, 
Where I was saying, life has few employments 
Higher than yow’s, and still more tew enjoyments. 
As for myself, Z know but little better 
That I can do—and I have done much worse— 
Than thus attend to tricks, which leave no fetter 
Upon the heart, or vacuum in the purse, 
Nor bid me feel—as I have felt, a debtor 
E’en to myself—that sure yet bitter curse a 
Imposed on wasted. time—powers misemployed, 
And energies ill governed, or destroyed ! 
I feel no calm in academic bower ; 
I live in crowds, and seldom hear the bee hum, 
As swift he flies, from living flower to flower ; 
I am no licensed guest at the Museum, 
Nor visit Murray’s at the learned hour ; 
I am no member of the Athenzeum, 
Or companies for commerce, or for piety, 
Or any philosophical society. 
And therefore, Punch, I turn to thee, and smile 
At many a grayer folly, richly gilt, 
Which charmed my earlier fancy :—the tall pile 
Of hopes that vanish now, like water spilt ;— 
The paper-plans, a fair and goodly file ;— 
The airy domes by young ambition built— 
The visions and wild acts, which, day by day, 
Half dreamt, half dissipated, life away ! 
But what am I? why, nothing to my story ;— 
Yet when we make ourselves the subject-matter 
Of our discourse, alike the young and hoary, 
Severe or gay, can eloquently chatter ; 
And find an ear attuned to their vain glory, _. 
And meet no frowns, all grossly though they flatter. 
Thou, Punch, to others only art a study : 
Nor flattery sooths the dull cold ear of Judy. 
Where Kemble once with his majestic tread, 
“ The last of Romans” played a hero’s part ;— 
Where Siddons awed, or melted; as she led 
Our passions captive with transcendant art ; 
Or sweet O’Neil her softer magic shed, 
And struck the waters from the stony heart, — 
Few moons have waned, since thousands rushed to see, 
Oh, Punch! how well Mazurier mimics thee ! 
_— 
Wii ie tie 
