VALEDICTORY STANZAS

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J. P. KEMBLE, Esq.

COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!

Whose image brought th' heroic age

Revived to Fancy's view.

Like fields refresh'd 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
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 resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor,—
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possess'd

His transport's most impetuous tone,

And to each passion of the 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;

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 triumph'd to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons's auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown-
They 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 survey'd 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 shew forth
His sternly-pleasing brow?
Alas, the moral brings a tear!-

'Tis all a transient hour below;

And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go!

Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review :---

Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!

NOTE BY THE EDITOR.

On the retirement of Mr. Kemble from the stage his admirers determined to hold a festival in his honour. Campbell, a few days previous to the banquet, in writing to his sister, says, that in the midst of his printed sheets of prose, he was preparing some verses for the festival in honour of John Kemble, it having been said that the verses would come with peculiar grace from one who during fifteen years had enjoyed the friendship of the Siddonses and Kembles. A note from the secretary of the Committee was addressed to Campbell in these words: -"June 24, I am desired by the gentlemen of the committee to return you their sincere thanks for the permission you have so kindly given them of printing your beautiful Ode; but they concur in the opinion that it ought not to be distributed at the dinner. It is hardly necessary, I presume, to inform you that your health will be proposed, but for fear it should not have occurred to you that our gratitude would eagerly seize the only opportunity it may probably ever have of paying you this feeble tribute of respect and admiration, I take the liberty of mentioning our intention that you may not be unprepared for it.-C.K."

The fête, in due course, was held at the Freemasons' Hall, and perhaps no testimonial of esteem and admiration was more warmly expressed. Party spirit and political animosity for once seemed buried, and men of every shade of opinion met together to honour the brilliant merit of John P. Kemble. "He (Campbell) was much gratified by a critique which appeared in the Spectator. He said it was the highest praise his works had ever received; and that it was the more valuable because the whole article was discriminating and critical." He added, earnestly, "I wish I could truly feel that I deserved one half of it; for it is great praise indeed." He turned away the conversation, saying, "Well, the world has been very indulgent to me all along." The admiration expressed in the Spectator for the "Valedictory Stanzas to John Kemble" pleased him much, because he thought the world had undervalued them. He spoke with delight of Mr. Kemble's having thought highly of them.-Reminiscences of the Poet, by members of his family.

These verses afford a very remarkable illustration of the tendency of Mr. Campbell's genius to raise ordinary themes into occasions of pathetic poetry, and to invest trivial occurrences with the mantle of solemn thought.