What he forgave, the critic eye forgives,
And, for a while, the verse he sanction❜d lives.
When on that spot where Gallic Freedom rose,
And where she mourn'd her unexampled woes,
Scourge of his nature, and its worst disgrace,
Curse of his age, and murd'rer of his race,
Th' ignoble Tyrant of his Country stood,
And bath'd his scaffolds in the patriot's blood;
Destin'd the patriot's fate in all to share,
To feel his triumphs, and his pangs to bear;
To shun th' uplifted axe, condemn'd to roam
A weeping exile from my cherish'd home *,
When malice pour'd her dark insatiate lye,
Call'd it, though death to stay, a crime to fly;
And, while the falsehood serv'd her hateful ends,
Congenial audience found in hollow friends;
Who to the tale "assent with civil leer,
"And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;"
His friendship o'er me spread that guardian shield,
Which his severest virtue best could wield;
Repell'd by him, relentless Slander found
Her dart bereft of half its pow'r to wound.
Alas! no more to him the task belongs
To soothe my sorrows, or redress my wrongs;
No more his letter'd aid, enlighten'd Sage!
Shall mark the errors of my careless page;
Shall hide from public view the faulty line,
And bid the merit he bestows be mine.
Ah! while with fond regret my feeble verse
Would pour
its tribute o'er his hallow'd hearse,
For him his Country twines her civic palm,
And Learning's tears his honour'd name embalm;
*Miss W. took refuge in Switzerland, during the tyranny of Roberspierre.
His were the lavish stores her force sublime
Through ev'ry passing age has snatch'd from Time;
His, the Historian's wreath, the Critic's art,
A rigid judgement, but a feeling heart;
His, the warm purpose for the gen'ral weal,
The Christian's meekness, and the Christian's zeal;
And his, the moral worth to which is giv'n
Earth's purest homage, and the meed of Heav'n.
BEHOLD yon gaudy painted flower,
Gay blushing to the morning rays,
It sprung and blossom'd in an hour,
With night's chill blast its bloom decays;
Yet thoughtless maidens, as they rove,
Mistake, and call this flow'ret love.
But LovE's true flow'r, before it springs,
Deep in the breast its fibres shoots,
And clasps the heart, and round it clings,
And fastens by a thousand roots;
Then bids its strengthen'd tendrils climb,
And braves the chilling blast of time.
WHO is the mighty master that can trace
Th' eternal lineaments of Nature's face?
'Mid endless dissonance, what mortal ear
Could e'er her peal of perfect concord hear?
Answer, O Haydn! strike the magic chord!
And, as thou strik'st, reply and proof afford.
Whene'er thy Genius, flashing native fire,
Bids the soul tremble with the trembling lyre,
The hunter's clatt'ring hoof, the peasant-shout,
The warrior-onset, or the battle's rout,
Din, clamour, uproar, murder's midnight knell,
Hyæna shrieks, the warhoop, scream, and yell-
All sounds, however mingled, strange, uncouth,
Resolve to fitness, system, sense, and truth!
To others noise and jangling; but to thee
'Tis one grand solemn swell of endless harmony.
When dark and unknown terrors intervene,
And men aghast survey the horrid scene:
Then, when rejoicing fiends flit, gleam, and scowl,
And bid the huge tormented tempest howl;
When fire-fraught thunders roll, when whirlwinds rise,
And earthquakes bellow to the frantic skies,
Till the distracted ear, in racking gloom,
Suspects the wreck of worlds, and gen'ral doom:
Then Haydn stands, collecting Nature's tears,
And consonance sublime amid confusion hears.
To the Memory of GARRICK, spoken as a Monody, at the Theatre Royal, in Drury-Lane*.
BY THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.
IF dying EXCELLENCE deserves a tear,
If fond remembrance still is cherished here,
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow
For fabled sufferers, 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 adorned his hearse,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead Favourite pass'd,
The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last,
While SHAKESPEAR'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.
This monody was first published in 1779, and dedicated to the Right Hon. Countess Spencer.
Amid the Arts 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 subdu'd,
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 atchieved-tho' barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The sacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to day,
Grac'd by defect, and worship'd in decay;
The' 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 the' inspiring РHEBUS darts his
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-thro' every age and clime
Congenial passions meet the' according rhyme;
The pride of glory-Pity's sigh sincere
Youth's earliest blush-and Beauty's virgin tear.
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