Of dark illusions blot his upper skies, Yet, as they change, through that incumbent gloom S. ODE, WRITTEN FOR RECITATION AT THE FAREWELL DINNER IN HONOUR OF JOHN KEMBLE, ESQ. BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. PRIDE of the British stage, A long and last adieu! Whose image brought the heroic age Like fields refreshed with dewy light, 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 His was the spell o'er hearts Full many a tone of thought sublime, Time may again revive, But ne'er efface the charm, And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone; And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High was the task, too high Ye conscious bosoms here, Of KEMBLE, and of Lear. But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half extinguished 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, Her tragic paragons had grown;-- From heart to heart, in their applause Save for the gallantry of man, In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, His mind surveyed the tragic page, These were his traits of worth;- And shall the scene no more show forth Alas! the moral brings a tear,- Ourselves as fleetly go. Yet shall our latest age This parting scene renew: Pride of the British stage! Literary Gazette. THE LAST TEAR. SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet That widened as the shower clears off from heaven. Literary Gazette. ADDRESS TO THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS, DEPOSITED IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ. THOU Alabaster relic! while I hold My hand upon thy sculptured margin thrown, Let me recall the scenes thou couldst unfold, Might'st thou relate the changes thou hast known; For thou wert primitive in thy formation, Launched from the Almighty's hand at the creation. Yes-thou wert present when the stars and skies How many thousand ages from thy birth Thou slept'st in darkness it were vain to ask, Till Egypt's sons upheaved thee from the earth, And year by year pursued their patient task, Till thou wert carved and decorated thus, Worthy to be a king's sarcophagus! What time Elijah to the skies ascended, Some ancient Theban monarch was extended Thebes, from her hundred portals, filled the plain, What banners waved, what mighty music swelled, As armies, priests, and crowds bewailed in chorus, Their King-their God—their Serapis—their Orus! Thus to thy second quarry did they trust Thee, and the lord of all the nations round, Grim king of silence! Monarch of the dust! Embalmed, anointed, jewelled, sceptered, crowned, Here did he lie in state, cold, stiff and stark, A leathern Pharaoh grinning in the dark. Thus ages rolled; but their dissolving breath The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt poured The steel-clad horseman,-the barbarian horde, |