Mr. Bemble's Farewell Address,'

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.

1817.

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet s sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground

Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that these valued plaudits are my last.
Why should we part, while still some powers
remain,

That in your service strive not yet in vain?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,
And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy;
Till every sneering youth around inquires,
"Is this the man who once could please our
sires ?"

And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.
This must not be;-and higher duties crave,
Some space between the theatre and the grave,
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:

1 These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, called the "Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr. James Ballantyne says, "The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had labored under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind.— 'He was,' he said, in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown,' and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceasedwere resumed--rose again were reiterated--and again were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr. Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him), to deliver

The last, the closing scene, must be my own. My life's brief act in public service flown,

Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts

May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-
O, how forget!—how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame!
By mem❜ry treasured, while her reign endures,
Those hours must live-and all their charms are
yours.

O favor'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my

tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL.

Lines,2

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.

1817.

WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.

his farewell." "Mr. Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, m so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional life for ever."

2 These lines were first printed in "The Forget-Me-Not, for 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817; but reached her too late for her purpose. In a letter which inclosed them, the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of the day on which they were sent-that he thought the idea better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope of their adding perhaps "a little salt to the bill."

As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.
No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day-
All these endured no favor claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too, who ply the Thespian art, Oft feel such bodings of the heart, And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, Dare hardly hope your favor gain'd. She, who from sister climes has sought The ancient land where Wallace fought;Land long renown'd for arms and arts, And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts;-1 She, as the flutterings here avow, Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;

Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
"Tis yours the hospitable task

To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

AIR-" Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run."

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. Th words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies [1822.]

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill.

1817.

["SCOTT's enjoyment of his new territories was, however, interrupted by various returns of his cramp, and the depression of spirit which always attended, in his case, the use of opium, the only medicine that seemed to have power over the disease. It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn, that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth,-namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshiels Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland,-all the work of the poet's hand." -Life, vol. v. p. 237.]

"O favor'd land! renown'd for arts and arms,
For manly talent, and for female charms."

Lines written for Mr. J. Kemble.

"Nathar iel Gow told me that he got the air from an old

The Monks of Bangor's March.
AIR-" Ymdaith Mionge."
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEO. THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES

1817.

ETHELFRID or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighboring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,

gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield (he thinks), who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air."- GEORGE THOMSON.

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the place

Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,—
Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease.
Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,
Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff,
Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,
The desperate revelries of wild despair,
Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds
That the poor captive would have died ere prac
tised,

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

The Prison, Scene iii. Act i

(4.)-CHAP. XXVII.

Far as the eye could reach no tree was sen,
Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green;
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew ;
No bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo;
No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear,
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here.
Prophecy of Famine.

(5.)-CHAP. XXXI.

"Woe to the vanquish'd!" was stern Brenno's wors When sunk proud Rome beneath the Gallic sword—

SPOKEN BY MRS. HENRY SIDDONS,
FEB. 16, 1818.

A CAT of yore (or else old Æsop lied)
Was changed into a fair and blooming bride,
But spied a mouse upon her marriage day,
Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her prey;
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you saw,
Threw off poor me, and pounced upon papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made loose,
He twisted round my sire's the literal noose.
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor
Since the New Jail became our next-door neighbor.

Yes, times are changed; for, in your fathers' age,
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage;
However high advanced by future fate,
There stands the bench (points to the Pit) that first
received their weight.

The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see,
Doom though unwigg'd, and plead without a fee.

But now, astounding each poor mimic elf, Instead of lawyers comes the law herself; Tremendous neighbor, on our right she dwells, Builds her high towers and excavates her cells; While on the left she agitates the town,

1 "The Appeal," a Tragedy, by John Galt, the celebrated author of the "Annals of the Parish," and other Novels, was played for four nights at this time in Edinburgh.

2 It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this piece are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh audience. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from 'he theatre.

With the tempestuous question, Up or down?3
"Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we,
Law's final end, and law's uncertainty.
But, soft! who lives at Rome the Pope must flatter,
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter.
Then-just farewell! We wait with serious awe
Till your applause or censure gives the law.
Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye,
We hold you Court and Counsel, Judge and Jury.

Mackrimmon's Lament.*

1818.

AIR-" Cha till mi tuille."'s

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, "Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon,” “I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return ! The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.

MACLEOD'S Wizard flag from the gray castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,

As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!

Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming;

Farewell, each dark glen, in which red-deer are roaming;

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river; Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never !

"Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are

sleeping;

Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;

At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agitated by a lawsuit betwixt the Magistrates and many of the Inhabitants of the City, concerning a range of new buildings on the western side of the North Bridge; which the latter insisted should he removed as a deformity.

4 Written for Albyn's Anthology. 5" We return no more."