As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone Yes it shall be -the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell. Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head! Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! Dear are the days which made our annals bright, While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, And made us blush that you forbore to blame; (1) [Originally, "Ere Garrick died," &c.—" By the bye, one of my cor. rections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom 'When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began 'Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other." B. to Lord H.-E.] (2) [The following lines were omitted by the Committee Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, your own. 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 The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please—long, long may you preside! (1) "Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores The past reproach let present scenes refute, Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." "Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, "determined to castrate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me."" — E.] 1 (1) ["Soon after the Rejected Addresses' scene in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, ' Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread himself?' I answered by an enquiry of what sort of an address he had made. 'Of that,' replied Sheridan, 'I remember little, except that there was a phœnix in it.'—' A phoenix!! Well, how did he describe it?'' Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: 'it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he, did not let us off for a single feather.'" B. Letters, 1821.—E] TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me Yet even that pain was some relief; Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight For then, however drear and dark, That beam hath sunk, and now thou art One scene even thou canst not deform; And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone. TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. AH! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, While day and night roll darkling by. Without one friend to hear my woe, |