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But the scene was swiftly changed into a churchyard's dismal view,

And her lips grew black beneath his kiss, from love's delicious hue.

What more he dreamt, he told to none; but, shuddering, pale, and dumb,

Look'd out upon the waves, like one that knew his hour was come.

'Twas now the dead watch of the night-the helm was lash'd a-lee,

And the ship rode where Mount Etna lights the deep Levantine sea ;

When beneath its glare a boat came, row'd by a woman in her shroud,

Who, with eyes that made our blood run cold, stood up and spoke aloud

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Come, Traitor, down, for whom my ghost still wan

ders unforgiven !

Come down, false Ferdinand, for whom I broke my peace with heaven!”____

It was vain to hold the victim, for he plunged to meet her call,

Like the bird that shrieks and flutters in the gazing serpent's thrall.

You may guess the boldest mariner shrunk daunted from the sight,

For the spectre and her winding-sheet shone blue with hideous light;

Like a fiery wheel the boat spun with the waving of her hand,

And round they went, and down they went, as the cock crew from the land.

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 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.

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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;

F

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