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 assay'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 favor'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

return!

never shall

Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn; And with soft sighs disperse th' irreverend dust

Which Time may strew upon his sacred bust.

Speeches.