Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.

ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING
OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.
Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and
mourn'd,

Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!)
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments

riven,

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning
dome,
[home,
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?
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,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art [heart.
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu:
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claim'd and claims-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,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,

• Sheridan.

[glass

And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

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.

By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.

BY DR PLAGIARY.

quotation-thus '-',

'A modest monologue you here survey,' Hiss'd from the theatre the 'other day,' As if Sir Fretful wrote the slumberous' verse, And gave his son the rubbish' to rehearse. Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,' Knew you the rumpus which the author raised, 'Nor even here your smiles would be represt,' Knew you these lines--the badness of the best. Flame! fire! and flame!' (words borrow'd from Lucretius,) [issues! 'Dread metaphors which open wounds like And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away' (Confound me if I know what next to say). Lo, Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' And Master G- recites what Dr Busby sings!'If mighty things with small we may compare,' (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic 'spirit drives a conquering car,'

And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 'tar.' This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,' To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 'Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,'

And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

'In arts and sciences our isle hath shone' (This deep discovery is mine alone).

Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire' My verse-or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar, 'Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore' With smiles,' and 'lyres,' and 'pencils,' and much more.

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! inseparable train !' 'Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid' [stupid):

(You all know what I mean, unless you're Harmonious throng' that I have kept in petto Now to produce in a divine sestetto' !! 'While Poesy,' with these delightful doxies, 'Sustains her part in all the 'upper' boxes! Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,' Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play' (For this last line George had a holiday). Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,' So says the manager, and so say I.

But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;' Is this the poem which the public lost? 'True-true-that lowers at once our mounting pride;'

But lo-the papers print what you deride

you give!

TO TIME.

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 birth bestow'd Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

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 couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain :
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain.
Yet ev'n that pain was some relief,

It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief

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 them, 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 ev'n thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: 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.

That cheated us in slumber only,

Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird ! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain ;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU

ART FICKLE.

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit ;
But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,-
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,

To leave the waking soul more lonely.

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 'ORIGIN OF LOVE.'

THE 'Origin of Love!'-Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may'st read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;
But live-until I cease to be.

REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S
POWER.

REMEMBER him whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be bless'd;
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whost busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul ev'n now,

Ev'n now, in midnight solitude.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee!

Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last.
This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroy'd might thee destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,

O God! the fondest, last adieu !

TO M. S. G.

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt;

For that would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love-and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shal! I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree :
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart, By driving dove-eyed peace from hine; Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to saveI bid thee now a last farewell. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain, my soul would dare All, all reproach-but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay,
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine,
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame;
And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In sighs alone it breathed my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain-
But that will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best beloved, adieu!

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ;
Nor let thy mind past joys review-
Our only hope is to forget!

TO CAROLINE.

WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, [tear;

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining [the breeze, Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,

Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

[decree,

'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His creatures, [of me. In the death which one day will deprive you Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, No doubt can the mind of your lover invade; He worships each look with such faithful devotion,

A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, [sympathy glow, And our breasts, which alive with such Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake [low,When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, [flow: Which from passion like ours may unceasingly Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full

us,