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Like fields refreshed with dewy light

When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright

Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up

That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble ! fare thee well!
His was the spell o'er hearts 1

Which only acting lends
The youngest of the sister Arts,

Where all their beauty blends :
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,

Steals but a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,

And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,
· Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor,-
What English sheart was not on fire

With him at Agincourt ?
And yet a majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast

The Graces gave their zone.
High were the task-too high,

- Ye conscious bosoms here!
In words to paint your memory

Of Kemble and of Lear;

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But who forgets that white discrowned head,

Those bursts of reason's half-extinguish'd glare'Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair, If ’twas reality he felt?

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumphed to have seen! And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame, When Siddon's auxiliar power

And sister magic came. Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grownThey were the children of her pride,

The columns of her throne, And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man,

In lovelier woman's cause.
Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced,
Your Kemble's spirit was the home

Of genius and of taste :-
'Taste like the silent dial's power,

That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct,

His mind surveyed the tragic page, And what the actor could effect

The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth:

And must we lose them now!

And shall the scene no more show forth

His sternly pleasing brow!
Alas, the moral brings a tear!-

"Tiş all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall

latest

age
This parting scene review :-
Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu! •

our

LINES,

SPOKEN BY MR.

****

AT DRURY LANE THEATRE,

On the first opening of the House after the death of "

Princess Charlotte, 1817.

Britons ! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious wo,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darkened ev'ry place,
And moistened with a tear the manliést face!
The bell is scarcely hushed in Windsor's piles,
That tolled a requiem from the solemn aisles,
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That ev’n these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,

Cheered by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But, Britain ! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :-
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that ev'ry bosom feels its own,-
The blessing of a father's heart o’erthrown-
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized Kusband's side,
Who “ long as memory holds her seat” shall view
That speechless, more than spoken last adieu,
When the fixed eye long looked connubial faith.
And beamed affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swelled ;
While torch succeeding torch illumed each high
And bannered arch of England's chivalry.
The rich plumed canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable-vested wall-
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real wo!
Daughter of England ! for a nation's sighs,
A nation's heart went with thine obsequies !
And oft shall time revert a look of grief
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair spirit! send thy blessing from above
On realms where thou art canonized by love!
Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind,
That

peace that angels lend to humankind;
To us who in thy loved remembrance feel
A sorrowing, but a soul ennobling zeal-
A loyalty that touches all the best
And loftiest principles of England's breast !
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb ;.
Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom !

They shall describe thy life-thy form portray
But all the love that mourns thee swept away,
'Tis not in language or expressive arts
To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts !

LINES,

On receiving a seal with the Campbell Crest, from

K. M., before her marriage.

This wax returns not back more fair,

Th'impression of the gift you send,
Than stamped upon my thoughts I bear

The image of your worth, my friend !-
We are not friends of yesterday:-

But poet's fancies are a little
Disposed to heat and cool, (they say,)

By turns impressible and brittle.
Well! should its frailty e'er condemn

My heart to prize or please you less,
Your type is still the sealing gem,

And mine the waxen brittleness.

What transcripts of my wea! and wo

This little signet yet may lock-
What uttrances to friend or foe,

In reason's calm or passion's shock!

What scenes of life’s yet curtained page

May own its confidential die,
Whose stamp awaits th' unwritten page

And feelings of futurity !

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