Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell, And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay;

For, hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell ; This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.

O razor ! yet thy poignant edge suspend ;
O yet indulge me with a short delay;
Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend,
Ere his proud locks are scattered on the
clay ;-

Ere the huge wig, in formal curls arrayed, With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;

Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,
To banish lustre from the sacred place.

Mourn, O ye zephyrs! for, alas! no more His waving ringlets shall your call obey! For, ah ! the stubborn wig must now be wore, Since Strephon's locks are scattered on the

clay.

Amanda, too, in bitter anguish sighs,
And grieves the metamorphosis to see.
Mourn not, Amanda ! for the hair that lies
Dead on the ground, shall be revived for

thee.

Some skilful artist of a French frizeur,
With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind,
And cull the precious relics from the floor,
Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.

THE

CANONGATE PLAYHOUSE IN RUINS,

A BURLESQUE POEM.

YE few, whose feeling hearts are ne'er estranged
From soft emotions! ye who often wear
The eye of Pity, and oft vent her sighs,
When sad Melpomene, in woe-fraught strains,
Gains entrance to the breast; or often smile
When brisk Thalia gaily trips along
Scenes of enlivening mirth; attend my song!
And Fancy, thou whose ever-flaming light
Can penetrate into the dark abyss

Of chaos and of hell; O! with thy blazing torch

The wasteful scene illumine, that the Muse With daring pinions may her flight pursue, Nor with timidity be known to soar

O'er the theatric world, to chaos changed.

Can I contemplate on those dreary scenes Of mouldering desolation, and forbid The voice elegiac, and the falling tear! No more, from box to box, the basket, piled With oranges as radiant as the spheres,

Shall with their luscious virtues charm the

sense

Of taste and smell. No more the gaudy beau
With handkerchief in lavender well drenched,
Or bergamot, or rose-watero pure,

With flavoriferous sweets shall chase away
The pestilential fumes of vulgar cits,
Who, in impatience for the curtain's rise,
Amused the lingering moments, and applied
Thirst-quenching porter to their parched lips.

Alas! how sadly altered is the scene!

For, lo! those sacred walls, that late were brushed

By rustling silks and waving capuchines,
Are now become the sport of wrinkled Time!
Those walls, that late have echoed to the voice
Of stern King Richard, to the seat transformed
Of crawling spiders and detested moths,

Who in the lonely crevices reside,
Or gender in the beams, that have upheld
Gods, demi-gods, and all the joyous crew
Of thunderers in the galleries above.

O Shakespeare! where are all thy tinselled kings,

Thy fawning courtiers, and thy waggish clowns? Where all thy fairies, spirits, witches, fiends, That here have gambolled in nocturnal sport, Round the lone oak, or sunk in fear away

From the shrill summons of the cock at morn? Where now the temples, palaces, and towers? Where now the groves that ever verdant smiled?

Where now the streams that never ceased to flow?

Where now the clouds, the rains, the hails, the winds,

The thunders, lightnings, and the tempests strong?

Here shepherds, lolling in their woven bowers, In dull recitativo often sung

Their loves, accompanied with clangour strong From horns, from trumpets, clarinets, bas

soons;

From violinos sharp, or droning bass,
Or the brisk tinkling of a harpsichord.

Such is thy power, O Music! such thy fame, That it has fabled been, how foreign song, Soft issuing from Tenducci's slender throat, Has drawn a plaudit from the gods enthroned Round the empyreum of Jove himself, High seated on Olympus' airy top.

Nay, that his feverous voice was known to sooth

The shrill-toned prating of the females' tongues,
Who, in obedience to the lifeless song,
All prostrate fell; all, fainting, died away
In silent ecstasies of passing joy.

Ye, who oft wander by the silver light Of sister Luna, or to church-yard's gloom, Or cypress shades, if Chance should guide your steps

To this sad mansion, think not that you tread Unconsecrated paths; for on this ground

Haye holy streams been poured, and flowerets strewed;

While many a kingly diadem, I ween,

Lies useless here entombed, with heaps of coin
Stamped in theatric mint ;-offenceless gold!
That carried not persuasion in its hue,
To tutor mankind in their evil ways.

After a lengthened series of years,

When the unhallowed spade shall discompose

This mass of earth, then relics shall be found,