AGAIN, fair images, ye flutter near,
As erst ye shone to cheer the mourner's eye,
And may I hope that ye will linger here?
Will my heart leap as in the days gone by?
Ye throng before my view, divinely clear,
Like sunbeams conquering a cloudy sky!
Beneath your lightning-glance my spirit burns,
Magic is breathing—youth and joy returns!
What forms rise beautiful of happy years?
What lovely shadows float before me fast?
Like an old song still tingling in the ears,
I hear the voice of loves and friendships past;
Renewed each sorrow, and each joy appears,
That marked life's changing labyrinthine waste;
The friends return, who passed in youth away,
Cheated, alas! of half life's little day
But, ah! they cannot hear my closing song,
Those hearts, for whom my earliest lays were tried: Departed is, alas! the friendly throng,
And dumb the echoing spirits that replied; If some still live this stranger world among, Fortune hath scattered them at distance wide, To men unknown my griefs must I impart, Whose very praise is sorrow to the heart!
Again it comes a long unwonted feeling,
A wish for that calm solemn phantom-land My song is swelling now, now lowly stealing,
Like Æol's harp, by varying breezes fanned, Tears follow tears, my weaknesses revealing,
And silent shudders show a heart unmanned, -Dull forms of daily life before me flee,
The PAST the PAST alone, seems true to me!
MANAGER. DRAMATIC POET. MR. MERRYMAN.
My two good friends, on whom I have depended,
At all times to assist me and advise ;
your old friend once more-to-night he tries,
(And greatly fears the fate that may attend it)
For Germany a novel enterprise,
To please the public I am most desirous ;
Live and let live, has ever been their maxim,
Gladly they pay the trifle that we tax 'em,
And gratitude should with new zeal inspire us.
Our temporary theatre 's erected,
Planks laid, posts raised, and something is expected.
Already have the audience ta'en their station,
With eye-brows lifted up in expectation;
They come with bounding spirits hearts excited,
Determined to be charmed - amazed — delighted!
Could always get up popular new pieces;
But never have I been before so harassed
As now so thoroughly perplext, embarrassed!
Every one reads so much of every thing:
The books they read are not the best, 'tis true:
But then they are for ever reading - reading!
This being so, how can we hope to bring
Any thing out, that shall be good and new?
What chance of now as formerly succeeding?
How I delight to see the people striving
To force their way into our crowded booth,
Pouring along, and fighting, nail and tooth,
Digging with elbows, through the passage driving,
As if it were St. Peter's gate, and leading
To something more desirable than Eden;
Long before FOUR, while daylight's strong as ever,
All hurrying to the box of the receiver,
Breaking their necks for tickets — thrusting — jam
As at a baker's door in time of famine !
On men so various in their disposition,
So different in manners - rank — condition;
How is a miracle like this effected?
The poet he alone is the magician.
On thee, my friend, we call — from thee expect it.
Oh, tell me not of the tumultuous crowd,
My powers desert me in the noisy throng;
Hide, hide me from the multitude, whose loud
And dizzy whirl would hurry me along
Against my will; and lead me to some lone
some scene in fairy-land,
There only will the poet's heart expand,
Surrendered to the impulses of song,
Lost in delicious visions of its own,
Where Love and Friendship o'er the heart at rest Watch through the flowing hours, and we are blest!
Thoughts by the soul conceived in silent joy,
Sounds often muttered by the timid voice,
Tried by the nice ear, delicate of choice,
Till we at last are pleased, or self-deceived,
The whole a rabble's madness may destroy;
And this, when, after toil of many years,
Touched and retouched, the perfect piece appears,
To challenge praise, or win unconscious tears,
As the vain heart too easily believed;
Some sparkling, showy thing, got up in haste,
Brilliant and light, will catch the passing taste.
The truly great, the genuine, the sublime
Wins its slow way in silence; and the bard,
Unnoticed long, receives from after-time
The imperishable wreath, his best, his sole reward!
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