WRITTEN BY THE HON. WILLIAM LAME
ERE yet suspense has still'd its throbbing fear
Or melancholy wiped the grateful tear,
While e'en the miseries of a sinking state,
A monarch's danger, and a nation's fate,
Command not now your eyes with grief to flow
Lost in a trembling mother's nearer wo;
What moral lay shall poetry rehearse,
Or how shall elocution pour the verse
So sweetly, that its music shall repay
The loved illusion which it drives away?
Mine is the task, to rigid custom due,
To me ungrateful as 'tis harsh to you,
To mar the work the tragic scene has wrought,
To rouse the mind that broods in pensive thought,
To scare reflection, which, in absent dreams,
Still lingers musing on the recent themes;
Attention, ere with contemplation tired,
To turn from all that pleased, from all that fired;
To weaken lessons strongly now impress'd,
And chill the interest glowing in the breast-
Mine is the task; and be it mine to spare
The souls that pant, the griefs they see, to share
Let me with no unhallow'd jest deride
The sigh, that sweet compassion owns with pride-
The sigh of comfort, to affliction dear,
That kindness heaves, and virtue loves to hear.
E'en gay Thalia will not now refuse
This gentle homage to her sister-muse.
O ye, who listen to the plaintive strain,
With strange enjoyment, and with rapturous pain, Who erst have felt the Stranger's lone despair, And Haller's settled, sad, remorseful care,
Does Rolla's pure affection less excite
The inexpressive anguish of delight?
Do Cora's fears, which beat without control,
With less solicitude engross the soul?
Ah, no! your minds with kindred zeal approve
Maternal feeling, and heroic love.
You must approve: where man exists below,
In temperate climes, or midst drear wastes of snow,
Or where the solar fires incessant flame,
Thy laws, all-powerful Nature, are the sano:
Vainly the sophist boasts he can explain
The causes of thy universal reign-
More vainly would his cold presumptuvas art
Disprove thy general empire o'er the heart:
A voice proclaims thee, that we must believe--
A voice, that surely speaks not to deceive;
That voice poor Cora heard, and closely press'd
Her darling infant to her fearful breast;
Distracted dared the bloody field to tread,
And sought Alonzo through the heaps of dead,
Eager to catch the music of his breath,
Though faltering in the agonies of death,
To touch his lips, though pale and cold, once more,
And clasp his bosom, though it stream'd with gɔre
That voice too Rolla heard, and, greatly brave,
His Cora's dearest treasure died to save;
Gave to the hopeless parent's arms her child,
Beheld her transports, and, expiring, smiled.
That voice we hear-oh! be its will obey'd!
'Tis valour's impulse, and 'tis virtue's aid-
It prompts to all benevolence admires,
To all that heavenly piety inspires,
To all that praise repeats through lengthen'd years,
That honour sanctifies, and time reveres.
SPOKEN AS A MONODY, AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY LANE.
To the right honourable COUNTESS SPENCER, whose approbation and esteem were 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 cherish'd 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 Shakespere'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 ingenuous 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 heav'n 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 subtle comment draw
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-
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