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Haply a tear-(for I shall surely then

Be past all power to raise her scorn again)—
Haply, I say, one self-dried tear may

fall:

One tear she'll give,—for whom I yielded all !
Then wanton on thy neck for comfort hang,
And soon forget the momentary pang;

Whilst thy fond arms-Oh down, my jealous soul !
What racking thoughts within my bosom roll!
How busy fancy kindles every vein,

Tears my burst heart, and fires my madd'ning brain.→
Hush'd be the ill-timed storm-for what hast thou,
Poor outcast wretch, to do with passion now?
I will be calm ;-'tis Reason's voice commands,
And injured Friendship shakes her recent bands.
I will be calm ;-but thou, sweet peace of mind,
That rock'd my pillow to the whistling wind;
Thou flatt'rer, Hope! thyself a cure for sorrow,
Who never show'd'st the wretch a sad to-morrow,
Thou coz'ner, ever whisp'ring at my ear
What vanity was ever pleased to hear-
Whither, ye faithless phantoms, whither flown!
-Alas! these tears bear witness ye are gone.
Return!-In vain the call! ye cannot find
One blissful seat within the sullen mind;
Ye cannot mix with Pride and Surly Care;
Ye cannot brood with Envy and Despair.

My life has lost its aim! that fatal fair
Was all its object, all its hope or care;
She was the goal to which my course was bent,
Where every wish, where every thought was sent ;
A secret influence darted from her eyes,-
Each look, attraction! and herself the prize.
Concentred there, I lived for her alone,—
To make her glad, and to be blest, was one.

Her I have lost !-and can I blame this poor
Forsaken heart-sad heart that joys no more!
That faintly beats against my aching breast,
Conscious it wants the animating guest:
Then senseless droops, nor yields a sign of pain,
Save the sad sigh it breathes, to search in vain.

Adieu, my friend,-nor blame this sad adieu,-
Though sorrow guides my pen, it blames not you.

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,

IF 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.

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