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Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favor which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?

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,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart.
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu:
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!

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

ΤΟ ΤΙΜΕ.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die-

Hail thou! who on my mirth bestow'd
Those boons to all that know thee known:
Yet better I sustain thy load,

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
Would soon subside from swift to slow:
Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to wo.

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;
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
When future wanderers bear the storm

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
The pang, the agony, the doubt,

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.

Without one friend to hear my wo,

I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.

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That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think,
In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too,
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past-to them and thee adieu-

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.”

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been ;
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colors blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent,)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn—
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue

scorn.

Pass on-it honors none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes--but oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow,
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

“Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one

Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices.

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For others' weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;

I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.

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STANZAS FOR MUSIC

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming, And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean

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