Imagens das páginas

Such is their meed-THEIR honours thus secure, Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure. "The ACTOR only, shrinks from times award ; Feeble Tradition is His Memory's Guard; By whose faint breath his merits must abide, Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied ! Ev'n matchless Garrick's art to Heav'n resign'd, No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!

The Grace of Action--the adapted MIEN Faithful as nature to the varied Scene; The' EXPRESSIVE GLANCE--whose subtle comment

draws Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause ; GESTURE that marks, with force and feeling fraught, A sense in silence, and a will in thought; HARMONIOUS SPEECH, whose pure and liquid tone Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own; As light from gems, assumes a brighter ray And clothed with orient hues, transcends the day!Passion's wild break and Frown that awes the sense,

CHARM of gentler ELOQUENCEAll perishable!-like the electric fire But strike the frame-and as they strike expire; Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear, It's fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air.

WHERE then--while sunk in cold Decay he lies,
And pale Eclipse for ever veils those Eyes ! -
WHERE is the blest memorial that ensures
Our GARRICK's Fame :—whose is the trust ?~'tis

And O! by every charm his art essay'd
To sooth your Cares ?--by every grief allay'd !
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew !
By his last parting tear, repaid by you!

And every

By all those Thoughts, which many a distant night,
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!--
Still in your heart's dear record bear his name;
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath’d, assert the trust,
And to his WORTH—'tis all you can-be just.

What more is due from sanctifying Time,
To chearful Wit, and many a favour'd Rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask beneath.
For these,--when SCULPTURE's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dear!
O loveliest mourner, gentle Mose! be thine
The pleasing woe to guard the laurelld shrine.
As Fancy, oft by Superstition led
To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy Eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping Cherub on a Martyr's tomb-
So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd bier,
With patient Woe, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn-nor yet desire relief,
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief ;
With looks that speak—He never shall return!-
Chilling thy tender bosom clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse the' irreverend dust,
Which Time may strew npon his sacred bust.


With faulty accents and so vile a tone
You quote my lines, I took them for your own.





Adieu ye walls, that hold my favourite maid !

Adicu, fair city, Beauty's darling seat!
At length adieu! at length, tho' late delay'd,

From you my steps unwillingly retreat.
Yet from the summit of this neighbouring hill,

While scanty morn deals forth the light of day,
Where your proud domes yon ample valley fill,

My eyes shall take their lingering last survey. And Fancy there that envied roof descries

Where dwells the dear possessor of my heart:
There lull'd in happy sleep my fair one lies,

Nor knows, nor pities, my unceasing smart.
O wou'd some friendly dream my grief disclose !

-But cease, vain mind, the fond petition cease Nor vex her gentle breast with fruitless woes ;

-Peace to her threshold, to her slumbers peace. Enough for me, if when Hyperions' ray

Unlocks the brighter glories of her eye,
Her kindest wish shall speed me on my way;

While from her soul escapes the struggling sigh.

[ocr errors]


Nor yet, so Hope sweet flatterer would suggest,

Nor yet of Love unconscious is her heart;
Ost have her smiles the mutual flame confess’d;

Nor unlamented shall I now depart.
And oft her lips my plighted vows restor'd ;

How joy'd my soul such blessings to receive!
Each hope she gave that honour cou'd afford;

With every bliss that virtue ought to give. When from her presence, forc'd by fate I came,

Sudden her cheeks the virgin bloom forsook : In her moist eye the rising sorrows swam,

And kind concern hung mournful on her look. Grief ill-conceal’d, seem'd bursting from her breast;

The fond “Farewell," her faltering voice deny'd; With equal warmth my closing hand she press'd;

And looks and nods the fond " Farewell” supply'd ; - Fair city, happy walls, at length adieu! I go; but leave


soul's best part behind; I go from joy, from pleasure, and from you ;

Love, only Love, accompanies my mind: Guard well your choicest charge, this favourite Maid;

the Sun rise gorgeous on your towers ! Me, on my hated way let darkness shade,

Smit by the furious blasts and rattling showers. In glooms congenial to my sorrowing mind

May the sick sky its troubled visage shrowd; My plaints be answer'd by the muttering wind;

And heavy as my heart each lowering cloud. In vain doth Phoebus at the call of morn,

New trick his beams fresh rising from the sea ; In vain doth Spring the laughing fields adorti;

Without my Love, she shines ro Spring to me,

So may

O cou'd the Seasons but my Love restore !

So might my soul their genial pleasures taste : Or bless'd with her I'd hear the whirlwind roar ;

And brave the tempest on th' unshelter'd waste! For she alone can Time's dull space beguile,

Or with fresh joys improve the happy hour: For she can bid the wintry landscape smile,

Or add new beauties to the vernal hour.

ELEGY II. ON RETURNING HOME FROM WINCHESTER. 176). In vain, O native fields, ye strive to please,

In vain to joy yout various scenes invite: Nor can ye give my soul its wonted ease;

Nor can ye give my Fair-one to my sight! Joy is not here: fly, sweet Remembrance fly;

Fly where I revell’d late in Pleasure's train; Recall the fleeting form to Fancy's eye ;

And live o'er all the blissful hours again. Mine was the lot, from every youth to bear

The prize how envy'd, how desir'd by all! Mine was the lot, where hundred nymphs were fair,

To lead the fairest through the mazy ball. How felt my soul when she to music mov'd,

In youthful prime, and blooming beauty warm! Each step, each attitude her form improv’d,

And a new grace arose on every charm. How I obey'd, tho' music gave command,

Her palm's soft touch one moment to resign : Again, ere music bade, I seiz'd her hand,

And lock'd the lovely treasure fast in mine.

« AnteriorContinuar »