WHICH APPEARED DURING THE YEAR.
MONODY ON THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
BRITONS! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darken'd every place,
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face.
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles,
That toll'd a requiem through the solemn aisles,
For her, the Royal Flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That e'en these walls, ere many months should pass,
(Which but return sad accents for her now)
Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow,
Cheer'd by the voice ye would have raised on high
In bursts of British love and loyalty.
But Britain, now thy Chief, thy people, mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The scutcheon glooms-and Royalty hath felt
A grief that every bosom feels its own-
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-
The most beloved and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side,
Who, long as Memory holds her seat, shall view
That speechless, more than spoken, last adieu!
When the fix'd eye long look'd connubial faith,
And beam'd affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld, As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd, While torch succeeding torch illumed each high And banner'd arch of England's chivalry— The rich-plumed canopy-the gorgeous pallThe sacred march-and sable-vested wallThese were not rites of inexpressive show, But hallow'd as the types of real woe, Daughter of England! for a nation's sighs, A nation's heart went with thine obsequies; And oft shall Time revert a look of grief On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair Spirit! send thy blessing from above To realms where thou art canonized by love; Give to a father's, husband's bleeding mind, The peace that Angels lend to human kind ;To us, who, in thy loved remembrance, feel A sorrowing, yet a soul-ennobling zeal, A loyalty that touches all the best And loftiest principles of England's breast ;Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb, Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloomThey shall describe thy life, thy form pourtray; But all the love that mourns thee swept away 'Tis not in language or expressive arts To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts.
GENTLE and mild, approaching Winter's sway
Comes on, divested of its wonted gloom:
A darker pall descends on England's day-
The night of death-the winter of the tomb.-
The fairest flow'r of England's royal line,
Untimely blasted, withers on its stem!
And mingled boughs of dark-leaved cypress twine
Their fun'ral wreath, with England's diadem.
Mourn, Isles of Britain! Empire of the wave,
In dust and ashes veil thy prostrate head;
Where are thy budding hopes? To the dark grave
Consign'd-the narrow chambers of the dead.—
In vain, proud City! through your countless ways,
Unnumber'd hands the feast of lights prepare.
Lo! for your choral songs and festive blaze,
The death-bell tolls-and fun'ral torches glare.
For buoyant hope, the silence of despair-
Sad weeping mourner, for th' expecting crowd-
A lifeless infant, for the promised heir-
For jewell'd robes, the coffin and the shroud.
Pale, cold, and silent, on that narrow bier
She lies so late in health and beauty's glow;
Dear to all hearts-to one, alas! how dear-
What words can paint! Oh God! assuage
Approach, unthinking Youth! this awful scene
Shall wean thy heart from earth and earthly trust-
Shall eloquently teach, how frail and mean
Are man's designs-himself an heap of dust.
How unavailing Youth, and Wealth, and Power,
From Death's insatiate grasp his prey to save-
How powerless to protract, for one short hour,
The mortal stroke-the triumph of the Grave.
Nor these alone-for Virtue's lovelier plea
Of Truth and Innocence alike was vain ;-
It was the Lord's inscrutable decree
And where's the arm that may His arm restrain ?
Yea, 'twas His will, that she, whose carly fate
From every eye calls tender sorrows down,
Should for immortal change her mortal state-
An earthly sceptre for a heavenly crown!
Spoken by Mr Kemble to the Edinburgh Theatre, on the 29th March, 1817. WRITTEN BY SIR WALTER Scott, Bart.
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 my 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 inquires,
"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 grave;
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall;
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-
Oh 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 memory treasured, while her reign endures,
These hours must live-and all their charms are yours.
Oh favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms,
For manly talent, and for female charms,
Could this full blossom prompt the sinking line,
What fervent benedictions now were mine!
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!
ODE BY THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq.
Recited after the Dinner on occasion of Mr Kemble's Retirement from the Stage.
PRIDE of the British stage,
A long and last adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age
Reviv'd 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.”
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