Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by,

Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go.

For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

E'en I ain weary in yon skies

To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-
And took the sting from Death!

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste

Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

VALEDICTORY STANZAS,

'TO 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 refreshed 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 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!

VOL. I.-12

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 grownThey 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.

These were his traits of worth :

And must we lose them now!

And shall the scene no more show forth His sternly pleasing brow!