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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 magick came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragick 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 tragick page,

And what the actor could effect,

The scholar could presage.
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These were his traits of worth:

And must we lose them now!

And shall the scene no more shew forth

His sternly pleasing brow! Alas, the moral brings a tear !

"Tis all a transient hour below;

And we that would detain thee here,

Ourselves as fleetly go!

Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review :


Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu !

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BRITONS! although our task is but to shew
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darken'd ev'ry place,
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles,
That toll'd a requiem from the solemn aisles,



For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas!
That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass,
Which but return sad accents for her now,

Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow,

Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high,
In bursts of British love and loyalty.

But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn :-


There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms, and royalty hath felt
A wound that ev'ry bosom feels its own,—
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown—
The most beloved and most devoted bride

Torn from an agonized husband's side,

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