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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

parts suage;

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,
EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE.

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,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or, on the tablet, stamp each title dear,

A cat of yore (or else old Æsop lied)
By which thine urn, EUPHEMIA, claims the tear!

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.

O open,

SONG.

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,
You never may the shelter want,

Which told her heart was broken.
That's now denied to me.”
The ranger on his couch loy Farm,

WANDERING WILLIE.
And heard him plead in vain;

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.
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

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.

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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:
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring, Think of this, and rise with day,
That e'er o'er lach-Keith drove the dark ocean Gentle lords and ladies gay.
faem.

THE VIOLET.
When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they

The violet in her green-wood bower,
did rattle,
And blith was each heart for the great victory,

Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle,

May boast itself the fairest flower
In secrel I wept for the dangers of battle,

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.
And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.

Though fair her genis of azure hue,
But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, Beneath the dew drop's weight reclining,

Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,
And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may More sweet through wat’ry lustre shining.
glisten;

The summer sun that dew shall dry,
For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.

Ere yet the day be past its morrow;
And oh, how we doubt when there's distance Nor longer in my false love's eye,
'tween lovers,

Remained the tear of parting sorrow.
When there's naething to speak to the heart
thro' the e'e;

TO A LADY,
How often the kindest, and warmest, prove rovers, WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Take these flowers, which, purple waving,

On the ruined rampart grew,
Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pon-

Where, the sons of freedom braving,
der'd,
If love could change notes like the bird on the

Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd,

Pluck no longer laurels there:
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.

They but yield the passing stranger

Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.
Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through
channel,

THE BARD'S INCANTATION.
Hardships and danger despising for fame,

WRITTEN UNDER THE TAREAT OF INVASION, IN THB
Furnishing story for glory's bright annal,

AUTUMN OF 1804.
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame!

The forest of Glenmore is drear,
Enough, now thy story in annals of glory

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer,
Spain;

Is whistling the forest lullaby:
No more shalt thou grieve me, no more sbalt thou The moon looks through the drifting storm,

But the troubled lake reflects pot her form,
I never will part with my Willie again.

For the waves roll whitening to the land,

And dash against the shelvy strand.
HUNTING-SONG.

There is a voice among the trees
WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

That mingles with the groaning oak-
On the mountain dawns the day,

That mingles with the stormy breeze,
All the jolly chase is here,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;

There is a voice within the wood,
Hounds are in their couples yelling,

The voice of the bard in fitful mood;
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, His song was louder than the blast,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

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!
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,

For the midnight wind is on the heath,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;

The spectre with his bloody hand,

*
And foresters have busy been,

Is wandering through the wild woodland;
To track the buck in thicket green;

The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
Now we come to chant our lay,

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,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;

Skilled to prepare the Raven's food,
We can show the marks he made,

All, by your harpings doomed to die
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,

On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t

“Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange
“ Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!

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.

leave me,

i

Nor through the pines with whistling change, No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!

l'll live upon mine own;
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute, Nor shall wild passion trouble it, -
When Murder with his bloody foot,

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-
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,

I'll rather dwell alone.”
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.

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,
The wind is hushed, and still the lake

Memorial of domestic charities.
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

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,
THE RESOLVE.

Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809. Honoured, beloved, and mourned, 'here Seward

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.
For, as her love was quickly got,
So it was quickly gone;

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.
No more l'll bask in tlame so hot,

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,
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore. Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, should'st They can but sound in desert lone
thou burn?

Their gray-haired master's misery.
They were days of delusion, and cannot return. Were each gray hair a minstrel string,
But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood Each chord should imprecations fling,
by,

Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
And listed my lay, while she turned from mine eye?

Revenge for blood and treachery !
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted to dew?

PROLOGUE
Oh! would it had been so!-0! would that ber eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND.
sky,

'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,
Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to part; Linked as they come with every tender tie,
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,

Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done, Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.

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
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,

The filial token of a daughter's love!
The dame her distaff flung aside,
To tend her kindly housewifery.

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, • The hand that mingled in the meal,

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

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.

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