Forget me-'tis my prayer; nor seek to know
The fate of him whose portion must be woe,
Till the cold earth outstretch her friendly arms,
And Death convince me that he can have charms.

E'en when I write, with desert views around,
An emblem of my state has sorrow found:
I saw a little stream full briskly glide,
Whilst some near spring renew'd its infant tide;
But when a churlish hand disturb'd its source,
How soon the panting riv'let flagg'd its course !
Awhile it skulk'd sad murm'ring through the grass,
Whilst whisp'ring rushes mock'd its lazy pace;
Then sunk its head, by the first hillock's side,
And sought the covert earth, it once supplied.

VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF GARRICK,

SPOKEN AS A MONODY, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY LANE

To the right honourable COUNTESS SPENCER, whose approbation and esteem was justly considered by MR. GARRICK as the highest panegyric his talents or conduct could acquire, this imperfect tribute to his memory is, with great deference, inscribed by her ladyship's most obedient humble servant,

March 25th, 1779.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN,

Ir dying excellence deserves a tear,

If fond remembrance still is cherished here,
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow

For fabled suff'rers and delusive woe?

Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strain,
Point the quick jest-indulge the comic vein-
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign

One kind regret-one tributary line!

His fame requires we act a tenderer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!
The general voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sorrows that adorn'd his hearse,

The throng that mourn'd as their dead favourite passed,
The graced respect that claim'd him to the last,
While Shakespeare's image from its hallow'd base
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place,-
Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domestic woe,-

So much are Garrick's praise-so much his due-
As on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you.

Amid the hearts which seek ingenious fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim!
To him whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient Fame immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise,
Raphael still boasts contemporary praise:

Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued,
With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd:
E'en Beauty's portrait wears a softer prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing Time.
The patient Sculptor owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;

Content with slow and timorous stroke to trace
The lingering line, and mould the tardy grace;
But once achieved-though barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptured ruin rise to day,
Graced by defect, and worshipp'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honours, and asserts his fame.
Superior hopes the Poet's bosom fire;
O proud distinction of the sacred lyre !
Wide as th' inspiring Phoebus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendour gilds his votary's lay.
Whether the song heroic woes rehearse,
With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse;
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile,
Attempt no prize but favouring beauty's smile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The soft despair of unprevailing love,-

Whate'er the theme through every age and clime
Congenial passions meet th' according rhyme;
The pride of glory-pity's sigh sincere-
Youth's earliest blush-and beauty's virgin tear.
Such is their meed-their honours thus secure,
Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure.
The Actor, only, shrinks from Time's award;
Feeble tradition is his memory's guard;
By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heaven resign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind !

The grace of action-the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied scene;

Th' expressive glance-whose subtile comment draws
Entranced attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own;

As light from gems assumes a brighter ray,

And clothed with orient hues, transcends the day!
Passion's wild break-and frown that awes the sense
And every charm of gentler eloquence-

All perishable! like th' electric fire,

But strike the frame-and as they strike expire:
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,

Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air,
Where then-while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes—
Where is the blest memorial that ensures

Our Garrick's fame ?-whose is the trust ?-'Tis yours.
And O! by every charm his art essay'd
To soothe your cares!-by every grief allay'd!
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew!
By his last parting tear, repaid by you!

By all those thoughts, which many a distant night
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!
Still in your hearts' dear record bear his name ;
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd-assert the trust,
And to his worth-'tis all you can--be just.
What more is due from sanctifying Time,
To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his graced urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask beneath.
For these,-when Sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dear-

O loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine.
As Fancy, oft by Superstition led

To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb-

So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptured bier
With patient woe, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn-nor yet desire relief;
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
With looks that speak-He never shall return!
Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse th' irreverend dust
Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust.

THE MOSS-COVERED GROTTO.*

UNCOUTH is this moss-cover'd grotto of stone,
And damp is the shape of this dew-dripping tree;
Yet I this rude grotto with rapture will own,
And, willow, thy damps are refreshing to me.
For this is the grotto where Delia reclined,
As late I in secret her confidence sought;
And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind,
As blushing she heard the grave lesson I taught.
Then tell me, thou grotto of moss-cover'd stone,
And tell me, thou willow with leaves dripping dew,
Did Delia seem vex'd when Horatio was gone,

And did she confess her resentment to you.

Methinks now each bough, as you're waving, it tries
To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel;
To hint how she frown'd when I dared to advise,
And sigh'd when she saw that I did it with zeal.
True, true, silly leaves, so she did, I allow,

She frown'd, but no rage in her looks did I see;
She frown'd, but reflection had clouded her brow,
She sigh'd but perhaps 'twas in pity for me.
Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou willow of woe,
I tell thee no rage in her looks could I see ;

I cannot-I will not, believe it was so,

She was not-she could not, be angry with me.

For well did she know that my heart meant no wrong,
It sunk at the thought but of giving her pain,

But trusted its task to a faltering tongue,

Which err'd from the feelings it could not explain.

Yet oh! if indeed I've offended the maid,
If Delia my humble monition refuse,

Sweet willow, the next time she visits thy shade,
Fan gently her bosom, and plead its excuse.

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew,
And just let them fall at her feet and they'll serve
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

• Verses addressed to Miss Linley, and left on the seat of the grotto in Spring Gardens, Bath.