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 one glance from Time.
But, by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's wedded triumphs come-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,
But ne'er efface 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 his 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.
Ir dying worth could consecrate the ground,
Or dying Genius give a lasting name
To scenes where its pure spirit breath'd around,
To scenes that saw expire its soul of flame;
How blest the spot, where HORNER's steps delay'd
To seek for health beneath a milder sky,
Where closed his eyes upon this world of shade,
When Britain's fondest hopes were doom'd to die!
There Italy, the land of heroes, lies,
And kindred frames are blended with the dust,
That tasted freedom in their native skies,
And hated tyranny, and loved the just.
How soon has Heaven resumed the gift it gave,
As too aspiring for a longer stay,
To early excellence an early grave:
His powers were not intended to decay :
His was a mind to sacred virtue dear—
A soul that, spurning far each crooked art,
With learning deep, with love of honour clear,
Shew'd the directness of a noble heart:
Form'd still the Patriot's glory to command,
To lighten wisdom in its loftiest dome,
To throw a lustre on his native land,
To be the sunshine of his native home.
Full many an eye that watch'd his bright career,
Along the path where perfect honour lies,
Was dimm'd with sorrow as it left the sphere;
For who shall tell the loss when HORNER dies!
Departed now to join the glorious few,
Where all the great of every age are met,
Hearts to their country's good for ever true,
The lights of other worlds that never set.
Oh! fain would he whose hand attempts to twine
A with'ring garland for his honour'd grave,
To real bards the lofty theme resign,
And mourn in silence o'er the print they gave.
Full many a sun has tinged those mould'ring tow'rs,
Since first th' abode of liberty they rose;
And often shall they soothe the wanderer's hours,
Before the ev❜ning of their glory close:
There glides the Arno in Etrurian pride,
By Pisa's walls, when hast'ning to the sea, There, too, shall Memory o'er his tomb preside, To point to all what statesmen ought to be. Aberdeen, 9th March, 1817.
On receiving the Scenes of Infancy from a Lady.
DEPARTED patriot of the Border land,
Leyden, I love thy animated lay,
That swell'd, though mouldering fast into decay,
The magic harp of ancient Teviot's strand;
Which, tuned to harmony at thy command,
Flings its wild notes by glen and flowery brae,
Then sweeps along the wold, and dies away
In solemn cadence by the breezes fann'd.
But O! if e'er I loved these strains of thine,
I love them more that thou'rt forever gone
To worship at a pure and heavenly shrine;
Yet more I love them, being the gift of one
To me a friend, of all friends most sincere,
And dearer even than thy Aurelia dear!
RECITED AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF BURNS,
25th January, 1817.
O FOR that heart-subduing strain,
That rang o'er thy lamented bier,
Glencairn! the generous and the good,
For thou wast to our poet dear!
Had friends been all as thee-sincere,
And sever'd only by the tomb,
This night might not have claim'd a tear
Of anguish, for his wayward doom!
O for those bold and trancing tones,
That thrill'd each passion's inmost cell!
Obedient to their potent power,
For I have tale of woe to tell;
Although a deeper requiem fell,
What time his cold green turf was spread !
Yet deeper sorrow shall not swell,
Beside his dark and narrow bed.
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