What English heart was not on fire And yet a majesty possessed His transport's most impetuous tone; And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task, too high Of KEMBLE, and of Lear. But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half extinguished glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed, In doubt, more touching than despair; If 'twas reality he felt Had SHAKSPEARE's self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen! And there was many an hour Her tragic paragons had grown;— The columns of her throne ! And undivided favour ran, From heart to heart, in their applause Save for the gallantry of man, In lovelier woman's cause. Fair as some classic dome, Robust and richly graced, Your Kemble's spirit was the home Of genius and of taste. Taste, like the silent dial's power, That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour, These were his traits of worth ;- 'Tis all a transient hour below; Yet shall our latest age This parting scene renew : Pride of the British stage! Literary Gazette. THE LAST TEAR. SHE had done weeping, but her eyelash yet Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts O' the western cloud that veils the April even. The veil rose up, and with it rose the star, Glittering above the gleam of tender blue, That widened as the shower clears off from heaven. Her beauty woke, a sudden beam of soul Flashed from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear. Literary Gazette. ADDRESS TO THE ALABASTER SARCOPHAGUS, DEPOSITED IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM. BY HORACE SMITH, ESQ. THOU Alabaster relic! while I hold My hand upon thy sculptured margin thrown, Might'st thou relate the changes thou hast known; Launched from the Almighty's hand at the creation. Yes thou wert present when the stars and skies And fixed the blazing sun upon its basis, How many thousand ages from thy birth Thou slept'st in darkness it were vain to ask, What time Elijah to the skies ascended, Thebes, from her hundred portals, filled the plain, What funeral pomps extended in thy train, What banners waved, what mighty music swelled, As armies, priests, and crowds bewailed in chorus, Their King-their God their Serapis-their Orus! Thus to thy second quarry did they trust Thee, and the lord of all the nations round, Grim king of silence! Monarch of the dust! Embalmed, anointed, jewelled, sceptered, crowned, Here did he lie in state, cold, stiff, and stark, A leathern Pharaoh grinning in the dark. Thus ages rolled; but their dissolving breath The Persian conqueror o'er Egypt poured Then did the fierce Cambyses tear away The ponderous rock that sealed the sacred tomb; Then did the slowly penetrating ray Redeem thee from long centuries of gloom, And lowered torches flashed against thy side, As Asia's king thy blazoned trophies eyed. Plucked from his grave, with sacrilegious taunt, They tore the sceptre from his graspless hand; Some pious Thebans, when the storm was past, Over its entrance a concealing rill; Then thy third darkness came, and thou didst sleep Twenty-three centuries in silence deep. But he from whom nor pyramids nor sphynx From the tomb's mouth unloosed the granite links, Thou art in London, which, when thou wert new, Was what Thebes is, a wilderness and waste, Where savage beasts more savage men pursue; A scene by nature cursed, by man disgraced. Now 'tis the world's metropolis!-The high Queen of arms, learning, arts, and luxury! Here, where I hold my hand, 'tis strange to think What other hands, perchance, preceded mine; Others have also stood beside thy brink, And vainly conned the moralizing line! Kings, sages, chiefs, that touched this stone, like me, Where are ye now ?—Where all must shortly be. All is mutation;-he within this stone Was once the greatest monarch of the hour. |