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.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!)
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome,
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,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?

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 attest the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

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. 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 toms. Such Drury claim'd 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 made us blush that you forbore to blame;
Ife'er the sinking stage could condescend
To sooth 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!

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!

TO TIME.

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 mirth 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.
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 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: 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.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG 1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, Which Love around your haunts hath se;

Or circled by his fatal file,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

4.

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.

5.

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.

6.

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.

7.

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?

8.

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter wo?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.

9.

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.
10.

Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now;
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And love, that thus can lingering slay.

11.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know,
That joy is harbinger of wo.

▲ SONG. 1.

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 grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.

2.

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.
3.

To dream 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,

4.

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?"

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 seeing thee?

And should'st thou seek his end to know:
My heart forbodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent wo;

But live-until I cease to be.

REMEMBER HIM, &c.

1.

Remember him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.
2.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blest:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, represt.
3.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But 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.

5.

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.
6.

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!
7.

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!
8.

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.

9.

Then to the things whose bliss or wo,
Like mine is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
10.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath past, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.
11.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My phrensy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.

12.

Though long and mournful must be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

13.

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.

LINES.

INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.

1.

Start not-nor deem iny spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never duil.

2.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died; let earth my bones resign:
Fill up thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
3.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

4.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

5.

Quaff while thou canst-another race, When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead.

6.

Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER,

BART. 1.

There is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry, And Triumph weeps above the brave.

2.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!
3.

A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue :
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.
4.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

5.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamentod by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose
6.

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ;
And early valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

7.

But there are breasts that bleed with chee

In wo, that glory cannot quell

And shuddering hear of victory,

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 8.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 9.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They cannot choose but weep the more Deep for the dead the grief must be, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

FROM THE TURKISH.
1.

The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
2.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spel!
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
3.

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.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

5.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too,
The chain is broke, the music mute.
"T is past-to them and thee adieu-
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

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 despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I 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 naught Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

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,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

"NRAR 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. THIS PRAISE, WHICH WOULD BE UNMEANING FLATTERY IP INSCRIBED OVER HUMAN ASHES,

18 BUT A JUST TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF
BOATSWAIN, A DOG,

WHO WAS BORN AT NEWFOUNDLAND, MAY 1803,
AND DIED AT NEWSTEAD ABBEY, NOV. 18, 1808."

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'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,
Who knows thee well inust quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn

FAREWELL.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
"T were 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 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!

1.

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.
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 2.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the biest?

1.

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

2.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
S.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too wellLong, ong shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nur frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath been."
Coleridge's hristabel

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so soft hath lam,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou would'st at last discover
"T was not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's wo-
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth-

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
Is-that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow
Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou would'st solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"

Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,

Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me now