Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there, One only feeling could'st thou trace, The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream, Remembrance never must awake, Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart be still, or break. FROM THE PORTUGUESE: IN moments to delight devoted, "My life!" with tend'rest tone, you cry, Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die. To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never, Or change "my life!" into "my soul!" Which, like my love, exists for ever. IMPROMTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye, Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink: My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, And droop within their silent cell. ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEA TRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been. This fabric's birth attest the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays And made us blush that you forbore to blame; This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, "The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please-long, long may you preside! 69 TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing Hail thou! who on my mirth bestow'd For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me Thy future ills shall press in vain; I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief; It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee-not Eternity. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art A blank; a thing to count and curse Through each dull, tedious, trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform; Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone. TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. AH! Love was never yet without Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, Without one friend to hear my wo, |