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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.

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. 1
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 vaste their odors o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claiin’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 !

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.

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!

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.

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 !

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.


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!

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.

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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.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net

What must they feel whom no false vision, Which Love around your haunts hath set;

But truest, tenderest passions warm'd ? Or circled by his fatal fire,

Sincere, but swift in sad transition, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

As if a dream alone had charm’d?

Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, A bird of free and careless wing

And all thy change can be but dreaming! Was I, through many a smiling spring; But caught within the subtle snare, I burn, and feebly flutter there.

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,

“ORIGIN OF LOVE.” Can neither feel nor pity pain, The cold repulse, the look askance,

The “Origin of Love!”-Ah, why The lightning of Love's angry glance.

That cruel question ask of me,

When thou may'st read in many' an eye In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;

He starts to life on seeing thee? Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;

And should'st thou seek his end to know; Like melting wax, or withering flower,

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, I feel my passion, and thy power.

He'll linger long in silent wo;

But live-until I cease to be.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye ?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ?

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power What wretch with me would barter wo?

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : My bird! relent: one note could give

Remember thou that dangerous hour A charm, to bid thy lover live.

When neither fell, though both were loved. My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain

That yielding breast, that melting eye, In silent anguish I sustain ;

Too much invited to be blest: And still thy heart, without partaking

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, One pang, exults--while mine is breaking.

The wilder wish reproved, represt. Pour me the poison ; fear not thou !

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost Thou canst not murder more than now;

But saved thee all that conscience fears, I've lived to curse my natal day,

And blush for every pang it cost And love, that thus can lingering slay.

To spare the vain remorse of years.

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Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
From what even here hath past, may guess In vain their bones unburied lie,
What there thy bosom must endure.

All earth becomes their monument!

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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.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery

If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newsteail Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."

Let him, who from thy neck unbound

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. And storied urns record who rests below;

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too,

Not what he was, but what he should have been ; The chain is broke, the music mute.

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

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, THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught

Degraded mass of animated dust! From contemplation-where serenely wrought,

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

By nature vile, ennobled but by name, That-but I know. thy blessed bosom fraught

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought

stainless thought Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. Pass on-it honors none you wish to mourn ; With such an aspect, by his colors blent,

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,

I never knew but one, and here he lies. (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,)

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808. The Magdalen of Guido saw the mornSuch seem'st thou—but how much more excellent ! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.


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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!

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,

Abb7e all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,

I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

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!

No lovelier spirit than thine
E’er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.


“ 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.

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.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

| 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone May its verdure like emeralds be:

which fades so fast, There should not be the shadow of gloom, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth In aught that reminds us of thee.

itself be past.

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“O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.”

Gray's Poemata.

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

l'HERE's not a joy the world can give like that it

takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feel

ing's dull decay;

* These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.

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