O'r/ with quaint sm'iles/ dismis's the plaintive stra'in, Poi'nt the quick je`st/, indulge the comic ve ́in, Ere yet to buried-Roscious/ we assig'n/ One ki ́nd regre't, one tributary lin ́e? His fame requires we act a tenderer-part; His memory/ clai'ms the te'ar/ you gave his ar^t!
The general voice, the meed of mournful verse, The splendid sorrows/ that adorned his he'arse, The throng that mourn'ed/ as their dead favourite pa'ssed, The graced respe`ct/ that claimed him to the l'ast; While Shakspeare's i'mage, (from its ha'llowed ba'se,) Seemed to prescribe the grave, and point the pl'ace, Nor the 'se, nor all the sad regrets/ that fl'ow/ From fond fidelity's/ domestic w'oe,
So mu'ch are Garrick's pra'ise- so much his d'ue, As o'n this sp'ot/ one tear besto'wed/ by you.
Amid the art's, which seek ingenuous fa'me, Ou'r toil attempt's/ the most precarious-claim! To hi'm, whose mimic pencil wins the prize, Obedient fam'e/ immortal wreaths supplies: Whate'er of won'der/ Re'ynolds now may rai'se, Raphael still boasts/ contemporary pra'ise ! Each dazzling li`ght/ and gaudier bloom subdu ́ed, With undiminished a'we/ his works are vie'wed: Even beauty's-portrait/ wears a softer prime, Tou'ched/ by the tender ha'nd/ of me'llowing-time. The patient sculptor/ owns a humbler part, A ruder to ́il/ and more mecha`nic-art ;
Conte'nt/ with slow and timorous stro`ke/ to trace/ The lingering lin`e, and mould the tardy grace: But/ onc`e achieved, the barbarous wre'cks o'erthrow The sacred fan'e, and lay its gl'ories lo'w, Ye't shall the sculptured ru'in/ rise to-day, Gra'ced by defect and wor'shipped in dec'ay; The enduring re'cord/ bears the artist's name', Dema'nds his honours, and asserts his fam`e.
Superior ho'pes/ the poet's bosom fi're, (O proud distinction/ of the sacred ly're!) Wide as aspiring Phoebus darts his ra'y, Diffusive splendour/ gilds his votary's lay'.
Whether the so`ng/ heroic woes rehearse, With epic grandeur/ and the pomp of vers ́e, Or, fondly ga'y, with unambitious gu'ile, Attempt no prize/ but favouring beauty's sm'ile; Or bear dejected/ to the lonely gro've/ The s'oft despair/ of unprevailing love; What'e'er-the-theme, through every a'ge and cli'me/ Congenial passions/ meet the according rh'yme; The pride of glo'ry/, pity's-sigh sinc ́ere, Youth's earliest bl'ush, and be'auty's-virgin te`ar.
Su'ch is their me'ed; their hon`ours thus secu're, Whose a'rts yield objects, and whose w'orks endu`re ; The actor-only/ shrinks from time's aw'ard; Feeble tradi'tion/ is hi's memory's gu'ard; By whose faint breath/ his merits must ab'ide; Unvo'uched by pro'of, to sub'stance unalli'ed! Even matchless Garrick's a'rt, to heaven resigned, No fixed effect, no mo'del/ leaves behind.
The grace of action, the adapted mi'en, (Faithful as na'ture/ to the varied scene ;)
The expressive glan'ce, whose subtle* comment dra'ws Entranced attention, and a mute appl'ause; Ge'sture,/ that marks, with for'ce and feeling-fraught, A sen'se in silence, and a wi'll in tho`ught; Harmonious spee'ch, whose pure and liquid to 'ne/ Gives verse a mu'sic, scarce confessed its own; As light from ge'ms/ assum'es a brigh'ter-ray, A'nd, decked with orient hu`es, transc`ends the d'ay! Passion's wild bre'ak, and fro`wn/ that awes the s'ense, And every cha'rm/ of gentler e'loquence;
All perishable!-like the electric fir'e,
But, strike the frame, and, a's they strike, exp'ire; In'cense/ too pure a bodied fla'me/ to be'ar;
Its fra'grance/ cha`rms the se'nse, and bl'ends the ai`r.
* Care should be taken to make the proper distinction between the pronunciation of this adjective and "subtile ;"- "subtle " being sounded sut-tl, and "subtile," sub-til, though some of our clergymen most unaccountably pronounce the latter adjective (which occurs in the "Liturgy") as subtle!
Wh'ere th'en, (while sunk in cold dec`ay he li ́es, And pale eclip'se/ for ever veils those e'yes!) Where is the best mem`orial/ that ensu ́res/
Our Garrick's fa'me?-wh`ose is the tr'ust?-'tis yo`ur's!
And o'h! by every charm his art essa'yed, To sooth your ca'res; by every grief/ alla`yed! By the hushed wo`nder, which his accents dr'ew, By his la'st/ part'ing-tear, repaid by you!
By all those thoughts, which many a distant night/ Shall mark his me'mory/ with a sa'd deli'ght! Still in your heart's dear re'cord/ bear his na'me, Ch'erish the keen regre't/ that li'fts his fa'me: To yo'u it is bequeathed; asse'rt the tru'st, And to his wor'th-('tis all you c'an) — be ju^st.
What mo`re-is-due/ from sanctifying time, To cheerful w'it, and many a f'avoured rhy'me, O'er his graced tom'b/ shall bloom a deathless wre'ath, Whose blossomed swe'ets/ shall deck the mask beneath. For the'se, when sculpture's votive to`ils/ shall r'ear/ The due memo'rial of a loss so de'ar!
O loveliest mou'rner, (gentle m'use!) be thi'ne/ The plea'sing-woe/ to guard the lau`relled-shrine. As fancy o'ft/ by superstition le'd/
To roam the man'sions of the sainted de'ad, Has viewed, (by shadowy eve's unfaithful glo'om,) A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb,
So tho'u, (sweet m'use,) hang o'er his sculptured b ́ier, With patient wo'e, that loves the lingering te'ar; With thoughts/ that mou'rn, nor yet desire reli'ef, With me'ek regr'et, and fo'nd/ endur'ing-grief; With loo`ks/ that sp ́eak-"he' never shall ret'urn !" Chil'ling thy tender bo'som, cla'sp his ur'n; An'd/ with soft sig'hs/ disperse the irreverent d'ust Which time may st'rew/ upon his sac`red-bust.*
"Strew" is pronounced as if written strow.
Pronounced in a lower tone.
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE R. B. SHERIDAN.
WHEN the last sun'shine of expiring d'ay/ In summer's twilight weeps itself away, Wh'o hath not felt the softness of the h'our Sin'k on the heart, as de'w along the flower? With a pure feeling/ which abso`rbs and a'wes, While Nature/ makes that melancholy pa'use, Her breathing m'oment on the bri'dge, where Ti'me/ Of light and darkness/ forms an a'rch sublim'e, Wh'o hath not sh'ared that cal'm/ so still and de`ep, (The voiceless thought/ which would not spe`ak but we^ep,) A holy-concord-and a bright-regret,
A glorious sympathy/ with su'ns/ that se't? 'Tis not harsh'-sorrow, but a ten'der-woe, Nam'eless, but de'ar to gentle he'arts below, Felt/ without b'itterness-but fu'll and clear, A sweet deje'ction—a transparent t'ear Unmixed with worldly grief/ or selfish sta'in, Sh`ed/ without sha'me-and se'cret/ without pa'in. Even as the ten'derness, that hour insti'ls (When Summer's da'y/ declines along the hi'lls ;) So feels the f'ulness of our heart and e'yes When a'll of ge'nius, which ca'n-perish, di`es. A mighty spirit is ecl'ipsed-a po'wer/
Hath passed from d'ay to dar'kness, to whose h'our Of light/ no lik'eness is bequeathed—no naˇme, Focus at on'ce of all the rays of Fam'e! The fla'sh of wi't—the bri`ght intelligence, The bea'm of son'g-the bla'ze of el'oquence, Se't with their su'n-but sti'll have left behi'nd The enduring pro'duce of immortal-mind; Fruits of a genial mo`rn, and glorious no'on, A death less part of hi'm/ who died too soon. But sma'll that portion of the wondrous wh'ole, (These sparkling segments/ of that circling s'oul,) Which all embrac'ed-and ligh'tened over all, To che'er-to pie'rce-to ple ́ase-or to appa'l:
From the charmed council/ to the festive board, Of human fe'elings/ the unbounded lo`rd; In whose accla'im/ the loftiest voices vi'ed,
The praised-the pr'oud-who made his praise/ their pr`ide; When the loud cry of tra'mpled Hindosta'n/ Arose to Heaven/ in her appeal from m'an,
Hi's was the thu'nder-hi's the avenging r'od, The wra^th-the de'legated voice of God!
Which shook the na'tions/ through his lip's—and bla ́zed/ Till va'nquished se'nates/ trembled as they pra`ised.
And he're, oh! he're, where y'et all you`ng and wa'rm The g'ay creations/ of his s'pirit chaʼrm,
The matchless dialogue - the dea'thless w'it, (Which knew not what it was to in termit ;)
The glowing portraits, fre'sh from lif'e, that brin'g/ Ho'me to our hearts/ the truth from which they spri`ng; These wondrous beings of his fan'cy, wro'ught/ To fulness by the fi'at of his thought, Her'e, in their first ab'ode, you still may m'eet/ Bright with the hu'es of his Promethean-heat; A ha'lo of the light of other-days,
Which still the splendour of its o'rb betray's. B'ut, should there be/ to whom the fatal bli'ght/ Of failing-wisdom/ yields a ba'se delight, Me'n/ who exult when minds of heavenly to'ne/ Ja'r in the mu'sic/ which was bo`rn their own, Still let them pau'se Ah! lit'tle do they kn'ow, That/what to the'm seemed vi'ce/ might be but w`o! Hard is his-fate/ on whom the public ga'ze/ Is fixed for e`ver/ to detra'ct or praise; Repose den'ies/ her requiem to his na'me, And Folly loves/ the martyrdom of fame. The secret enemy, whose sleepless e'ye Stands sen'tinel acc'user -judge-and sp`y, The fo'e- the fo`ol -the jealous
- and the va'in, The envious, who but breathe in others'-pain; Behold the ho`st! delighting to deprave', Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, Watch every fa`ult/ that daring Genius o'wes/ Ha'lf to the ar'dour/ which its birth best'ows, Disto'rt the tru'th, accu'mulate the li'e, And pile the pyramid/ of Ca`lumny!
A change of voice is required here.
To be read in a
lower voice.
« AnteriorContinua » |