Trust me would appall thee worse,

Held in clearly measured prospect:

Ask not for a curse!

Make not, for I overhear

Thine unspoken thoughts as clear
As thy mortal ear could catch

The close-brought tickings of a watch-
Make not the untold request
That's now revolving in thy breast.

"Tis to live again, remeasuring

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed, In thy second life-time treasuring Knowledge from the first.

Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver !
Life's career so void of pain,

As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?

Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by Fate together spun?
Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance
'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble

Friendship's death-dissever'd ties;

Toil to grasp or miss the bubble

Of Ambition's prize?

Say thy life's new guided action
Flow'd from Virtue's fairest springs-
Still would Envy and Detraction
Double not their stings?

Worth itself is but a charter

To be mankind's distinguish'd martyr." -I caught the moral, and cried, "Hail! Spirit! let us onward sail

Envying, fearing, hating none→→→

Guardian Spirit, steer me on!"

1824.

VALEDICTORY STANZAS

ΤΟ

J. P. KEMBLE, Esq.

COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !

Whose image brought th' heroic age
Revived 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!

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 a glance of time.
But by the mighty actor brought,
Illusion's perfect triumphs come,-
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse 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 the 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.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown—
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne,

And undivided favour ran

From heart to heart in their applause,

Save for the gallantry of man

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced,

Your KEMBLE's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste;

Taste, like the silent dial's power,

That, when supernal light is given,

Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven. At once ennobled and correct,

His mind survey'd the tragic page, And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage.