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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' ev'ry 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 honours thus secure,
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 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, cloath'd with orient hues, transcends the day!


Passion's wild break, and frown that awes the sense
And ev'ry charm of gentle 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 funk 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 O! by ev'ry charm his art essay'd
To sooth 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, assert the trust,
And to his worth—’tis all you can-be just.

What more is due from sanctifying time,
To chearful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom’d sweet's 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, ost 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 bofom , clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse th’ irreverent dust,
Which time may strew upon his facred bust,




UFT 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’t in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia’s silver light

Tripp'st gaily o’er the green;
If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
• As ancient stories tell,
And for th’ Athenian maid who lov’d,

Thou sought'st a wondrous spell ;
Oh! deign once more t’exert thy power;

Haply some 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 sighs for peace and ease:

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,

Which, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

But, turning, trembles too.
Far as distress the soul can wound,

'Tis pain in each degree:
?Tis bliss but to a certain bound;

Beyond, is agony.
Take then this treacherous sense of mine,

Which dooms me still to smart;
Which pleasure can to pain refine,

To pain new pangs impart,
Oh! haste to shed the sacred balm!

My shatter'd nerves new string;
And for my guest, serenely calm,

The nymph Indifference bring.
At her approach; see Hope, see 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 disown;
The heart that melts for others woe,

Shall then scarce feel its own.


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