Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile
Attempt no prize but favouring beauty's fmile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The foft despair of unprevailing love;
Whate'er the theme, thro' ev'ry age and clime
Congenial paffions meet th' according rhyme;
The pride of glory, pity's figh fincere,
Youth's earliest blush, and beauty's virgin tear.
Such is their meed-their honours thus fecure,
Whose arts yield objects, and whose works endure.
The actor only shrinks from time's award;
Feeble tradition is his mem'ry's guard;
By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Unvouch'd by proof, to substance unallied!
E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heav'n refign'd
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.
The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as nature to the varied fcene;
Th' expreffive glance, whose subtle comment draws,
Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause;
Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A fenfe in filence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious fpeech, whose pure and liquid tone
Gives verse a mufic, fcarce confefs'd its own;
As light from gems affumes a brighter ray,
And, cloath'd with orient hues, tranfcends the day!
Paffion's wild break, and frown that awes the fense
And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence,
All perishable!-like th' electric fire
But ftrike the frame, and as they ftrike, expire;
Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,
Its fragrance charms the fenfe, and blends with air.
Where then, while funk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils thofe eyes!
Where is the bleft memorial that enfures
Our Garrick's fame ?-whofe is the trust ?-'tis
And O! by ev'ry charm his art essay'd
To footh your cares! by ev'ry 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 mem'ry with a fad 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, affert the truft,
And to his worth-'tis all you can-be just.
What more is due from fanctifying time,
To chearful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose bloffom'd fweet's shall deck the mask beneath.
For thefe, when fculpture's votive toil shall rear
The due memorial of a lofs fo dear!
O loveliest mourner, gentle muse! be thine
The pleafing woe to guard the laurell'd shrine.
As fancy, oft by fuperftition led
To roam the mansions of the fainted dead,
Has view'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb;
So thou, fweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd bier,
With patient woe, that loves the lingering tear:
With thoughts that mourn, nor yet defire 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 th' irreverent dust,
Which time may ftrew upon his facred bust,
FT I've implor'd the gods in vain,
And pray'd till I've been weary;
For once I'll try my wish to gain,
Of Oberon the Fairy.
Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
That lurk'ft in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's filver light
Tripp'ft gaily o'er the green;
If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient ftories tell,
And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd,
Thou fought'st a wond'rous spell;
Oh! deign once more t'exert thy power;
Haply fome herb or tree,
Sov'reign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.
I ask no kind return of love,
No tempting charm to please:
Far from the heart those gifts remove
That fighs for peace and ease:
Nor peace nor eafe the heart can know,
Which, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,
But, turning, trembles too.
Far as diftrefs the foul can wound,
'Tis pain in each degree:
Tis blifs but to a certain bound;
Beyond, is agony.
Take then this treacherous fenfe of mine,
Which dooms me ftill to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,
To pain new pangs impart,
Oh! hafte to shed the facred balm!
My shatter'd nerves new ftring;
And for my gueft, ferenely calm,
The nymph Indifference bring.
At her approach; fee Hope, fee Fear,
See Expectation fly;
And Disappointment in the rear,
That blasts the promis'd joy.
The tear which pity taught to flow
The eye shall then difown;
The heart that melts for others woe,
Shall then scarce feel its own.
|