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In time forbear; amidst the throng,
WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do.
Thy husband's blest- and 't will impart
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.
I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine,
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
My heart in all, save hope, the same.
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.
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,
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 accents never; Or change "my life!" into " my soul! Which, like my love, exists for ever.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits,
And clouds the brow or fills the eye.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Yet who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd
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,
Such Drury claim'd and claims
nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Pause ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
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. 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!
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die
Hail thou! who on my mirth 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
Thy future ills shall press in vain ;
Yet even that pain was some relief;
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee-not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: