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Lat. Satan! Be 'moolant te PE-
Ita rold nat net fiat punt miett:

1. The tear ul must us ves:
Fehe inert 'A 'reathe te vergom) mmg ar,
Aut 16 Hunk she slest um neres,

What The Hailetrah mee.
Tlste's yet the window of that pile,
Wsiets lie lasailt above the Vun's green Isle ;

T'lenek sad and oft looked he
(When this stant and organ sounded slow)
On thie mansion of his love below,

For herself he might not see.
She died He sought the battle-plain;
Hier image filled his dying brain,

When he fell, and wished to fall;
And her name was in his latest sigh,
When Roland, the flower of chivalry,

Expired at Roncevail.

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Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett’st the weary labourer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,

That send'st it from above,
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow,

Are sweet as her's we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,

when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirred

Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven

Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven

By absence from the heart.



Composed for a public meeting held in June, 1817
Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age

Revived to Fancy's view

Like fields refreshed with dewy light

When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble ! fare thee well! His was the spell o'er hearts

Which only acting lends,The

youngest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends : For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs comeVerse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor, What English heart was not on fire

With him at Agincourt ? And yet a majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces


their zone. High were the task—too high,

Ye conscious bosoms here! In words to paint your memory

Of Kemble and of Lear;

But who forgets that white discrowned head,

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguish'd glare Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair, If 'twas reality he felt ?

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, . And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame, When Siddon's auxiliar power

And sister magic came. Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grownThey were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne, And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause.
Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home

Of genius and of taste :-
Taste like the silent dial's power,

That when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct,

His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth :

And must we lose them now !

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