Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee, feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

FEW years have pass'd since thou and 1 Were firmest friends, at least, in name. And childhood's gay sincerity

Preserved our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have lov'd the most,
Too soon forget they loved at all.

And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign,
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estranged again

If so, it never shall be mine

To mourn the loss of such a heart, The fault was Nature's fault, not thine Which made thee fickle as thou art

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide Where stormy passions ever glow

It boots not, that together bred,

Our childish days were days of joy:
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.

And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious world's control,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That world corrupts the noblest soul.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When thought ere spoke is unconfined,
And sparkles in the placid eye.

Not so in man's maturer years,
When man himself is but a tool,
When interest sways our hopes and fears
And all must love and hate by rule.

With fools in kindred vice the same,

We learn at length our faults to blend And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend.

Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be wh it all in turn must be?

No, for myself, so dark my fate
Through every turn of life hath been,
Man and the world I so much hate,
I care not when I quit the scene

But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile and pass away;
As glowworms sparkle through the night,
And dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls,

The welcome vices kindly greet,)

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad

To join the vain, and court the proud.

There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapors move, To fit along from dame to dame,

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclin'd, Will deign to own a kindred care? Who will debase his manly mind,

For friendship every fool may share?

In time forbear; amidst the throng,
No more so base a thing be seen;

No more so idly pass along;

Be something, anything, but-mean

ΤΟ

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest-and 'twill impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass-Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favorite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break, But when th' unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

1 kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine, But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame,
Nor knew till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look, But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there,
One only feeling could'st thou trace,
The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream,

Remembrance never must awake, Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart be still, or break.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

IN moments to delight devoted,

"My life!" with tend'rest tone, you cry, Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die. To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never, Or change "my life!" into "my soul!" Which, like my love, exists for ever.

IMPROMTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND

WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits, Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye,

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 THEA TRE, 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;

Day-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favor 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 odors o'er the tomb.
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 honors idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labors, 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;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe 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!

69

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- ɩ nameless stone.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG

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.

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.