Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 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 attests the potent spell Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! ; As soars this fane to emulate the last, On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: 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 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; And made us blush that you forbore to blame— This greeting o'er-the ancient rule obey'd, Receive our welcome too,-whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!— Still may we please, long-long may you preside. XXIV. To Time. TIME!-on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, 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; To them be joy or rest-on me Thy future ills shall press in vain; A debt already paid in pain. Retards, but never counts the hour. Thy cloud could overcast the light, 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 |