See! Nature's son lament her hapless doom, See! Shakspere bending o'er his fav'rite's tomb. Each shadowy form declines his awful head, And scatters roses on the fun'ral bed.

In slow procession round the shrine they move, And chant her praises thro' the tuneful grove.

Farewell the glory of a wondring age, The second Oldfield of a sinking stage! Farewell the boast and envy of thy kind, A female softness, and a manly mind! Long as the muses can record thy praise, Thy fame shall last to far succeeding days: While wit survives, thy name shall ever bloom, And wreaths unfading florish round thy tomb!

While thus I tune the plaintive notes in vain, For her, whose worth demands a nobler strain; Lo! to my thought some warning genius cries : Attempt not, swain, beyond thy flight to rise. Shall thy weak skill attempt to raise our woes, Or paint a loss that ev'ry bosom knows? 'Tis not thy lays can teach us tears to shed; What eye refrains?—for Woffington is dead!

MONODY III.

TO THE MEMORY OF

GARRICK.

BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ;

Spoken at the Theatre in Drury-Lane.

If dying excellence deserve a tear,

If fond remembrance still be cherish'd here,
Can we persist to bid your sorrows flow

For fabl'd suff'rers, 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 adorn'd his hearse, The throng that mourn'd as their dead favorite

pass'd,

The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last,
While Shakspere'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.

Amid the arts which seek ingenious fame,
Our toil attempts the most precarious claim!
To him, whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient Fame immortal wreathes 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 achiev'd-tho' barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The sacred fame, and lay its glories low,
Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day,
Grac'd by defect, and worship'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artist's name,
Demands his honors, and asserts his fame.

Superior hopes the poet's bosom fire-
O, proud distinction of the sacred lyre !-
Wide as th' inspiring Phoebus darts his ray,
Diffusive splendor 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 th' according rhyme :
The pride of Glory-Pity's sigh sincere-
Youth's earliest blush-and Beauty's virgin tear.

Such is their meed-their honors thus secure, Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure. The actor only, shrinks from time's award; Feeble tradition is his memory's guard; By whose faint breath it must abide, Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied!

Even matchless Garrick's heart to heav'n resign'd, No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!

The grace of action—the adapted mien Faithful as nature to the varied scene:

Th' expressive glance-whose subtle comment draws Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause;

Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,

A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own;
As light from gems assumes a brighter ray ;
And cloathed with orient hues, transcends the day !—
Passion's wild break-and frown that awes the sense,
And every charm of gentler eloquence-

All perishable !-like th' electric fire,

But strike the frame-and as they strike expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,

Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air.

Where then-while sunk in cold decay he lies, And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes ;— Where is the blest memorial than ensures

Our Garrick's fame ?-whose is the trust ?-'tis yours.

And O! by every charm his art essay'd To sooth your cares!-by every grief allay'd! By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew! By his last parting tear, repaid by you! By all those thoughts, which many a distant night, Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!— Still in your heart's dear record bear his name ; Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame; To you it is bequeath'd, assert the trust, And to his worth-'tis all you can—be just.