Perhaps your hearts, when years have glided by,
And past emotions wake a fleeting sigh,

May think on her, whose lips have pour'd so long
The charmed sorrows of your Shakespeare's song:-
On her, who, parting to return no more,

Is now the mourner she but seem'd before.--- -
Herself subdued, resigns the melting spell,

And breathes, with swelling heart, her long, her last farewel!!

IN

ADDRESS

ON THE

OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

WRITTEN BY LORD BYRON.

N one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;

In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, O sight, admired and mourned,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chace the night from heav'n,
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames;
While thousands throng'd around the burning dome,
Shrunk back appalled, and trembled for their home; }
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own;
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall;
Say-shall this new nor less aspiring pile,
Reared, where once rose the mightiest in our isle, :
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakespeare-worthy him and you?..

Yes, it shall be--the magie 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 attests the potent spell;
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past.

1

A

Some

Some hour propitious to our prayers, máy bóast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, stormed 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 odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claimed, and claims, nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head;
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, 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 make 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 misplac'd applause:
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by our's!
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.

From CHILDE HAROLD's PILGRIMAGE."

H

By LORD BYRON.

E that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,

Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight;
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be,
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight;
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right,
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow,
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight,
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now,

So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow.

And oh, the little warlike world within!
The well reev'd guns, the netted canopy,
The hoarse command, the busy humming din,
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high:
Hark to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry!
While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides;
Or school-boy Midshipman that standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.

White is the glassy deck, without a stain,

Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks: Look on that part which sacred doth remain For the loan chieftain, who majestic stalks, Silent and fear'd by all-not oft he talks With aught beneath him, if he would preserve That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerve From Law, however stern, which tends their strength to nerve.

Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale!
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray;
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail,
That lagging barks may make their lazy way.
Ah, grievance sore! and listless dull delay,
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze?
What leagues are lost before the dawn of day,
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas,

The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these!

The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe:
Such be our fate when we return to land!

Meant

Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,

Or to some well-known measure featly move,
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove.

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore,
Europe and Afric on each other gazel

Lands of the dark-ey'd Maid and dusky Moor,
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze:
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays,
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown,
Distinct though darkening with her waning phase ;
But Mauritania's giant shadows frown,

From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre down.

"Tis night, when meditation bids us feel

We once have lov'd, though love is at an end:
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal,
Though friendless now will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend,
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend,
Death hath but little left him to destroy!

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side,
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere;
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride,
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year:
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear;
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit, in vain, the heavy heart divest.

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and see her stores unroll'd.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And

And roam along, the world's tir'd denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less
Of all that flatter'd, followed, sought, and sued:
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

TO THYRZA.

By the same.

NE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again,

It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleas'd before: Though ev'ry joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring:
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain wou d wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.

Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the madd'ning soul;
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heav'nly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon-"

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave.