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SPOKEN BY MRS. H. SIDDONS,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- That, like the Roman in the capitol, morrow,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall: Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! My life's brief act in public service flown, But when friends drop around us in life's weary The last, the closing scene, must be my own. waning,
Here, then, adieu! while yet sone well-graceil The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as
May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts, Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remain- Not quite to be forgotten, even when ing,
You look on better actors, younger men: The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents be- of old remembrance, how shall mine forgetwailing,
O, how forget!-how oft I hither came To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain, In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame! And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing. How oft around your cirele this weak hand And held to his lips the cold geblet in vain;
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand, As vain those enchantments, ở queen of wild Till the full burst of inspiration came, numbers,
And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, By mem’ry treasured, while her reign endures, And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers, Those hours must live—and all their charms are Farewell then--Enchantress!--1 meet thee no yours.
O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms,
For manly talent and for female charms,
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,
What fervent benedictions now were thipe! Plain, as her native dignity of mind,
But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd:
When e'en your praise falls faltering from my Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
tongue; Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.
And all that you can hear, or I can tell, But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
1s—friends and patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL! The kindness, wit, and sense, we lov'd so well! What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL,
A cat of yore (or else old Æsop lied)
Was changed into a fair and blooming bride, Yet, taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume
But spied a mouse upon her marriage day, Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Forgot her spouse and seized upon her prey; Resign’d, though sad, this votive verse shall flow, Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you saw, And brief, alas! as thy brief span below. Threw off poor me and pounced upon papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made loose, MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, He twisted round my sire's the literal noose.
ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGA STAGE. Such are the fruits of our dramatic labour As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Since the new jail became our next door neighErects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground, bour. * Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, Yes, times are changed, for in your fathers' age And longs to rush on the embattled lines, The lawyers were the patrons of the stage; So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, However high advanced by future fate, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; There stands the bench ( points to the pit) that first To think my scenic hour for ever past,
received their weight. And that those valued plaudits are my last. The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see, Why should we part, while still some powers re- Doom though unwigg'd, and plead without a fee. main,
But now astounding each poor mimic elf, That in your service strive not yet in vain? Instead of lawyers comes the law herself; Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply, Tremendous neighbour, on our right she dwells, And sense of duty fire the fading eye?
Builds high her towers and excavales her cells; And all the wrongs of age remain subdued While on the left, she agitates the town Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
With the tempestuous question, Up or down?t Ah no! the taper, wearing to its close,
"Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we, Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
Law's final end and law's uncertainty. But all too soon the transient gleam is past, But soft! who lives at Rome the pope must flatter, It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter. Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage Then--just farewell! we wait with serious awe, But short-lived conflict with the frosts of
age. Till your applause or censure gives the law, Yes! it were poor, remembering what I was, Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye, To live a pensioner on your applause,
We hold you court and counsel, judge and jury. To drain the dregs of your endurance dry, And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy,
* It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this
piece are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh Till every sneering youih around inquires,
audience. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, “ Is this the man who once could please our sires?” are not far from the theatre. And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien, + At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agiTo warn me off from the encumber'd scene.
tated by a lawsuit betwixt the magistrates and many of
the inhabitants of the city, concerning the range of new This must not be;-and higher duties crave
buildings on the western side of the North Bridge; which Some space between the theatre and the grave; the latter insisted should be removed as a deformity.
the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, OR, say not, my love, with that mortified air, the young man went abroad. During his absence, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
the only means of saving her life, her father conFor those raptures that still are thine own. sented that her lover should be recalled. On the
day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, Tho’April his temples may wreathe with the vine, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though Its tendrils in infancy curld,
much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine
the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the Whose life-blood enlivens the world.
family, that she might see him as he rode past. Tho'thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her
Has assumed a proportion more round, organs, that she is said to have distinguished his And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, horse's footsteps at an incredible distanee. But Looks soberly now on the ground, -
Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her ape Enough, after absence to meet me again,
pearance, and not expecting to see her in that Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
place, rode on without recognizing her, or even Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
slackening his pace. The lady was unable to supFor me the kind language of love!
port the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in ihe arms of her attendants. There is an instans
similar to this traditional tale in count Hamilton's THE PALMER.
Fleur d'Epine. “O OPEN the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind;
O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see, The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And lovers' ears in hearing; And the path is hard to find.
And love, in life's extremity, “ No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
Can lend an hour of cheering. From chasing the king's deer,
Disease had been in Mary's bower, Though even an outlaw's wretched state
And slow decay from mourning, Might claim compassion here.
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,
To watch her love's returning. “A weary Palmer, worn and weak, I wander for my sin;
All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, for our lady's sake,
Her form decayed by pining, A pilgrim's blessing win!
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining. “I'll give you pardons from the pope,
By fits, a sultry hectic bue And relics from o'er the sea, —
'Across her cheek was flying; Or if for these you will not ope,
By fits, so ashy pale she grew, Yet open for charity.
'Her maidens thought her dying. “ The hare is crouching in her form,
Yet keenest powers to see and hear The hart beside the hind:
Seemed in her frame residing; An aged man, amid the storm,
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear, No shelter can I find.
She heard her lover's riding; " You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned, Dark, deep, and strong is he,
She knew, and waved to greet him; And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
And o'er the battlement did bend, Unless you pity me.
As on the wing to meet him. “ The iron gate is bolted hard,
He came-he passed—an heedless gaze, At which I knock in vain;
As o’er some stranger, glancing; The owner's heart is closer barred,
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Who hears me thus complain.
Lost in his courser's prancing“ Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
The castle arch, whose hollow tone When old and frail you be,
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could hardly catch the feeble moan,
Which told her heart was broken.
All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, But oft, amid December's storm,
And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; He'll hear that voice again:
O weary betide it! I wandered beside it, For lo, when through the vapours dank, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Morn shone on Ettrick fair,
Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune, A corpse amid the alders rank,
Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; The Palmer weltered there.
Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting,
Now 1 hae gotten my Willie again.
When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when were wailing, Niedpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by 1 sat on the beach wi’ the tear in my e'e, the earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted be. And thought o' the bark where my Willie was tween a daughter of that noble family, and a son sailing, of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick forest. As And wished that the tempest could a'blaw on me.
Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
The violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
Though fair her genis of azure hue,
Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
The summer sun that dew shall dry,
Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
Remained the tear of parting sorrow.
TO A LADY,
On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.
THE BARD'S INCANTATION.
WRITTEN UNDER THE TAREAT OF INVASION, IN THB
AUTUMN OF 1804.
The forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
Is whistling the forest lullaby:
But the troubled lake reflects pot her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees
That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;
There is a voice within the wood,
The voice of the bard in fitful mood;
As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”
“ Wake ye from your sleep of death,
Minstrels and bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The spectre with his bloody hand,
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead! “ Waken, lords and lacties gay.'
“Souls of the mighty, wake and say,
To what high strain your harps were strung, Waken, lords and ladies gay,
When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way, To the green-wood haste away.
And on your shores her Norsemen flung! We can show you where he lies,
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t
“Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called
Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
+ Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received Run a course as well as we:
two bloody defeats.
Nor through the pines with whistling change, No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
l'll live upon mine own;
I'll rather dwell alone. And Rapine with his iron hand,
And thus I'll hush my heart to rest, Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
“ Thy loving labours lost; “O yet awake the strain to tell,
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, By every deed in song enrolled,
To be so strangely crost; By every chief who fought or fell,
The widowed turtles mateless die, For Albion's weal in battle bold;
The phenix is but one; From Coilgach,* first who rolled his car,
They seek no loves-no more will l-
I'll rather dwell alone.”
EPITAPH “By all their swords, by all their scars,
DESIGNED FOR A MONUMENT IN LICHTIELD By all their names, a mighty spell!
CATHEDRAL, By all their wounds, by all their wars,
At the Burial Place of the family of Miss Serrard. Arise, the mighty strain to tell! For ficrcer than fierce Hengist's strain,
Amin these aisles, where once his precepts showed More impious than the heathen Dane,
The heavenward path-way which in life he trod, More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are dear; Gaul's ravening legions hither come!”
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.
Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble At the dread voice of other years
spread, “ When targets clashed, and bugles rung,
In female grace the willow droops her head; And blades round warriors' heads were Aung, Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The foremost of the band were we,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; And hymn’d the joys of Liberty!"
What poet's voice is smothered here in dust,
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
lies! Mr wayward fate I needs must plain, Though bootless be the theme;
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship I loved, and was beloved again,
say, Yet all was but a dream:
Go seek her genius in her living lay.
THE RETURN TO ULSTER.
Once again, but how changed since my wanderBut coldly dwell alone.
ings began Not maid more bright than maid was e'er
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann. My fancy shall beguile,
And the pines of Cambrassil resound to the roar, By flattering word, or feigned fear,
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. By gesture, look, or smile:
Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou bum? No more l'll call the shaft fair shot,
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures reTill it has fairly flown,
turn? Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;
Can 1 live the dear life of delusion again, l'll rather freeze alone.
That flow'd when these echoes firsi mixed with Each ambushed Cupid I'll defy,
my strain? In cheek, or chin, or brow,
It was then that around me, though poor and unAnd deem the glance of woman's eye
known, As weak as woman's vow:
High spells of mysterious enchantment were I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
thrown; That is but lightly won;
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. And learn to live alone.
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their The diamond's ray abides,
lyre; The flame its glory hurls about,
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, The gem its lustre hides;
But a vision of noontide, distinguished and clear. Such gem 1 fondly deemed was mine, Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the cail, And glowed a diamond stone,
And renewed the wild pomp of the chase and the But, since each eye may see it shine,
hall; I'll darkling dwell alone.
And the standard of Fion flashed fierce from on No waking dream shall tinge my thought
high, With dies so bright and vain,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh No silken net, so slightly wrought, Shall tangle me again:
• In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fine
gal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by * The Galgacus of Tacitus,
the Sun-bcam of Macpherson,
It seemed that the harp of green Erin once more “ Long have my harp's best notes been gone,
Their gray-haired master's misery.
Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
Revenge for blood and treachery !
'Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, And her voice, that was moulded to melody's Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; thrill,
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Had been but a zephyr that sighed and was still! Of distant music, dying on the ear; Oh! would it had been so !-- not then his poor But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, heart
We list the legends of our native land,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, on, “ Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your Or till Arcadia’s* winter-fettered soil, train,
He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes, And restore me the dream ofmy spring tide again!” And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,
The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, “ O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; Thy wayward notes of wail and wo
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, Far down the desert of Glencoe,
By gray-haired patriarch, the tales of old, Where none may list their melody?
The infant group that hushed their sports the while, Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
And the dear maid who listened with a smile. Or to the dun deer glancing by,
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Or to the eagle that from high
Is denizen of Scotland once again. Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?”
Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, “ No, not to these, for they have rest, –
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Each tyrant passion shows his wo and rage, Abode of lone security.
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, But those for whom I pour the lay,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Not wild wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. Could screen from treacherous cruelty.
The plaided boatman, resting on his var,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar “ Their flag was furled, and mute their drum,
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night The very household dogs were dum,
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Unwont to bay at guests that come
Proudly preferred that first our efforts give In guise of hospitality.
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; His blithest notes the piper plied,
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!
FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, • The hand that mingled in the meal,
HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.
The original verses are arranged to a beautiful
Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the The friendly hearth which warmed that hand,
double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which At midnight armed it with the brand,
is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorams, or That bade destruction's flames expand Their red and fearful blazonry.
boat-songs. They were composed by the family
bard upon the departure of the earl of Seaforth, “ Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an Nor infancy's uppitied plain,
unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the More than the warrior's groan, could gain Stuart family, in the year 1718.
Respite from ruthless butehcry! The winter wind that whistled shrill,
FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great earl of the North, The snows that night that choaked the hill, The lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth; Though wild and pitiless, had still Far more than southron clemency.
• Arcadia, or Nova Scotia.
FROM THE GAELIC.