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E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heaven 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 subtile comment draws
Entranced 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, clothed with orient hues, transcends the day!
Passion's wild break, and frown, that awes the sense,
And every charm of gentle eloquence,
All perishable! like the 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, that ensures
Our Garrick's fame?-whose is the trust? 'tis yours.

And 0, by every charm his art essay'd To soothe 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.

What more is due from sanctifying time
To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his graced urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask beneath.
For these, when sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a loss so dear,
O loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine.
As Fancy, oft by Superstition led
To roam the mansions of the sainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb ;
So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd bier,
With patient woe, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn, nor yet desire relief,
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
With looks that speak-He never shall return!
Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse the irreverend dust,
Which time may strew upon his sacred bust.

MONODY ON R. B. SHERIDAN.

BY LORD BYRON.

When the last sunshine of expiring day,
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower?
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes,
While Nature makes that melancholy pause,
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime;
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep,
A holy concord-and a bright regret,
A glorions sympathy with suns that set ?
Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe,
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below;
Felt without bitterness—but full and clear;
A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,
Shed without shame and secret without pain.

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E'en as the tenderness that hour instils When Summer's day declines along the hills, So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, When all of Genius which can perish, dies.

The The Whic

A mighty Spirit is eclipsed-a Power Hath pass'd from day to darkness-to whose hour Of light no likeness is bequeath’d-no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! The flash of Wit,the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song-the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun-but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind; Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon. But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced--and lightend over all, To cheer-to pierce-to please-or to appal ; From the charm'd council to the festive board, Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, The praised-the proud-who made his praise their pride. When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder-his the avenging rod, The wrath-the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lips-and blazed Till vanquished senatès trembled as they praised.

And here, oh! here, where yet all young and warm
The gay creations of his spirit charm,
The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
Which knew not what it was to intermit;

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring;
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought
To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Here in their first abode you still may meet,
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat:
A halo of the light of other days,
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.

But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause-Ab! little do they know That what to them seemed Vice might be but Woe.

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.
The secret enemy, whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel-accuser-judge-and spy,
The foe—the fool-the jealous—and the vain,
The envious who but breathe in others' pain,
Behold the host! delighting to deprave,
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave,
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows,

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