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But let them pass-Oh! how my heart

Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

3, When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break; But when th’ unconscious infant smiled,

I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake.

4.
I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs

Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

5. Mary, adieu! I must away;

While thou art blest I'll pot repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

6. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride

Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope, the same.

7. Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

8, I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there;

One only feeling could'st thou trace;

The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake: Ob! where is Lethe's fabled stream?

My foolish beart, be still, or break.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS

BROKEN.

1. ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain Have years of care for thine and thee

Alike been all employ'd in vain?

2. Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,

And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee, feels thou art

A fitter emblem of his own.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

In moments to delight devoted,

My life!" with tend’rest tone, you cry;
Dear words! on which my heart had doted,

If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,

Ah! then repeat those accepts never;
Or change “my life!" into “

Which, like my love, exists for ever.

my soul!”

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
When fro:n the heart where Sorrow sits,

Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:

My thougbts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers sbripk,

And droop within their silent cell.

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ORIGIN

OF LOVE.

THE“ Origin of Love!"-Ah why

That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may'st read in many an eye

He starts to life on seeing thee?
And should'st tbou seek his end to know:

My heart forbodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent wo;

But live-until I cease to be.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
In one dread night our city saw, and sigh’d,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride
In one short hour beheld the blazing fade,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn’d!) Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, Like Israel’s pillar, chase the nigbt from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, Shrank back appallid, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; Say--shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?

Yes it shall be- The magic of that name Defies the scithe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she bath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. Oo Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O’erwbelm’d the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurel grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu; But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom That only waste their odours o'er the tomb,

Such Drury claim'd and claims_nor you refuse
One tribute to revive bis slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor board your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal pames, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect bow hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alo ne direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To sooth the sickly taste, it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And Reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
The drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

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