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Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears- Saw the long column of revolving flames
Auspicious to these suffering isles;

Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, And be each drop in future years

While thousands, throng'd around the burning Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

dome, March, 1812. Shrank back appall’d, and trembled for their home,

As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone

The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
THE CHAIN I GAVE.

Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
FROM THE TURKISH.

Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;

Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, THE chain I gave was fair to view,

Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, The lute I added sweet in sound;

Know the same favour which the former knew, The heart that offer'd both was true,

A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you ! And ill deserved the fate it found.

Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,

Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; Thy truth in absence to divine;

On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And they have done their duty well,

And bids the Drama be where she hath been: Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

This fabric's birth attests the potent spellThat chain was firm in every link,

Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
In other hands its notes were such.

Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,

Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Let him who from thy neck unbound

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,

On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art (heart. Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; When thou wert changed, they alter'd too; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, The chain is broke, the music mute.

Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

That only waste their odours 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, LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead. " THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, ABSENT or present, still to thee,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.

Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,

Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;

While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass In turn thy converse and thy song.

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, But when the dreaded hour shall come

And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, And " MEMORY” o'er her Druid's tomb Pauschere their feebler offspring you condemn,

Shall weep that aught of thee can die, Reflect how hard the task to rival them! How fondly will she then repay

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, (Plays And blend, while ages roll away,

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
Her name immortally with thine !

The boundless power to cherish or reject;
April 19, 1812.

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
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT TIIE

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, All past reproach may present scenes refute,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.

And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! In one dread night our city saw, and sigh’d,

Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours! Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone [own. like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your

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.

"iT is ours to look on you-you hold the prize," 'T is twenty guineas, as they advertise! “A double blessing your rewards impart"I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. “Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. “When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

October, 1812.

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.

BY DR. PLAGIARY.

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE

AT HALES-OWEN.

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Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation---thus“. WHEN energising objects men pursue," Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. "A modest monologue you here survey," Hiss'd from the theatre the“ other day," As if Sir Fretful wrote “ the slumberous” verse, And gave his son “the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you 'd never be amazed," Knew you the rumpus which the author raised, "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew you these lines-the badness of the best, "Flame! fire! and flame!” (words borrowed from Lucretius,)

(issues! "Dread metaphors which open wounds” like "And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away" (Confound me if I know what next to say). “Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G- recites what Dr. Busby sings!"If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the grammar for the fair!), Dramatic “spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tuh of “tar." "This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane.

[story," Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

WHEN Dryden's fool,“ unknowing what he sought,"
His hours in whistling spent," for want of though:,''
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence:
Did modern swains, possessid of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended gucsts would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they

crawl.

REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!

REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

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Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

Thy husband too shall think of thee! By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

TO TIME.

"In arts and sciences our isle hath shone" (This deep discovery is mine alone). "Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" My verse-or I'm a fool-and Fame 's a liar, "Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" With "smiles," and "lyres,” and “pencils," and

much more. These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too!“inseparable train!"

(Cupid" "Three who have stolen their witching airs from (You all know what I mean, unless you 're stupid): " Harmonious throng” that I have kept in petto Now to produce in a “divine sestetto"!! “While Poesy," with these delightful doxics, "Sustains her part” in all the “upper” boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you 'll soar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play (For this last line George had a holiday). "Old Drury never, never soar’d so high,” So says the manager, and so say I. " “But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;" Is this the poem which the public lost? (pride;" "True-true--that lowers at once our mounting But lo:-the papers print what you deride.

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 birth 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.

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou !
Thou canst not nurder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

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 woe; 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 tritling 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.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART

FICKLE.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE

SONG,

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'T is this which breaks the heart thou grieves
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou lea vest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To drcam of joy and wake to sorrow

Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition ;

As if a dream alone had charm'd?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming !

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE

“ ORIGIN OF LOVE.”

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 woe, 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 Which Love around your haunts hath set; Or, circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Was I through many a smiling spring; But caught within the subtle snare, I burn, and feebly flutter there. Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain, The cold repulse, the look askance, The lightning of Love's angry glance. In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; Like melting wax, or withering flower, I feel my passion, and thy power. 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: What wretch with me would barter woe? My bird ! relent: one note could give A charm to bid thy lover live. My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain, In silent anguish I sustain; And still thy heart, without partaking One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.

THE “Origin of Love!”—Ah, why

That cruel question ask of me, When thou may'st read in many an eye

He starts to life on sceing thee? And should'st thou seek his end to know:

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He 'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease to be.

REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S

POWER. REMEMBER him whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : Remember thou that dangerous hour,

When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.

TO LORD TIURLOW.

“I lay my branch of laurel down,

Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers,

"I lay my branch of laurel down." THOU"lay thy Dianch of laurel down!"

Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne: Were justice done to both, I trow,

He'd have bur little, and thou-none.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

Rut saved thee all that conscience fears ; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial be thy last. This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego,

Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess

What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For ine they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem th sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

1813.

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ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent (I hope I am not violent), Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. And since not even our Rogers' praise To common sense his thoughts could raiseWhy would they let him print his lays ?

But now to my letter--to yours 't is an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phæbus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some

codgers, And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote;

[Scurra, But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the And you 'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

[First published in 1830.]

To me, divine Apollo, grant-o!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining,
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,

Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink :

My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.

September, 1813.

SONNET, TO GENEVRA. 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 despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thinc air,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born (Except that thou hast nothing to repent),

The Magdalen of Guido saw the mornSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813. SONNET, TO THE SAME. THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,

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.

December 17, 1813.

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he stay'd at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragolt,

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-siain Jew-
And bethought himself what next to do,

“And," quoth he, “I 'll take a drive.
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,

And I'll see how my favourites thrive. “And what shall I ride in?” quoth Lucifer then

“If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,

And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish'd again and again,

And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
“I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me

By driving my favourite pace: (amends,
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.
“So now for the earth to take my chance:”

Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,

He stepp'd across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.
But first as he flew, I forgot to say
That he hover'd a moment upon his way,

To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,

Nor his work done half as well: For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,

That it blush'd like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: “Methinks they have here little need of me!

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

“ TU MI CHAMAS." IN moments to delight devoted,

“My life!” with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words ! on which my heart had doted,

If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,

Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change “my life!” into “my soul!"


Which, like my love, exists for ever.

ANOTHER VERSION.
You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word-

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh: Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,

For, like the soul, my love can never die.

But the softest note that soothed his ear

Was the sound of a widow sighing; And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, Which horror froze in the blue eye clear

Of a maid by her lover lyingAs round her fell her long fair hair; And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, Which seem'd to ask if a God were there! And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hit, With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,

A child of famine dying: And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,

And the fall of the vainly flying !

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