Yet, taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,

Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow, And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

MR KEMBLE'S FAREWELLADDRESS,

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground-
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,

Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,

And that those valued plaudits are my last.

Why should we part, while still some powers remain,

That in your service strive not yet in vain ?

Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,

And sense of duty fire the fading eye,

And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ?

Ah no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,

It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,

To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,

And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy,

Till every sneering youth around enquires,

"Is this the man who once could please our sires ?"

And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.

This must not be ;-and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and the grave,

That like the Roman in the Capitol,

I may adjust my mantle ere I fall ;

15

My life's brief act in public service flown,

The last, the closing scene, must be my own.

Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts

May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,

Not quite to be forgotten, even when

You look on better actors, younger men:
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-
O, how forget!-how oft I hither came

In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakespeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd, the flame!

By mem❜ry treasured, while her reign endures,
Those hours must live-and all their charms are yours.

O favour'd Land! renown'd for arts and arms,

For manly talent and for female charms,

Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,

What fervent benedictions now were thine!

But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung,

When e'en your praise falls faultering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL!