Can I forget-canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproached yet raised desire,

And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;

While their long lashes' darkening gloss
Seemed stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow.

I dreamt last night our love returned,
And, sooth to stay, that very dream

Was sweeter in its phantasy

Than if for other hearts I burned,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam

In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,

Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,

Till thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless as the mouldering stone

Which tells that we shall be no more.

MIDNIGHT AT CORINTH.

'Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold, round moon shines deeply down;
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;

Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turned to earth without repining,
Nor wished for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmured meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillowed on the waves;
The banners drooped along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill,

And echo answered from the hill.

And the wide hum of that wild host
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin's voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer;

It rose, that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain;
"T was musical, but sadly sweet,

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,
And take a long unmeasured tone,
To mortal minstrelsy unknown.
It seemed to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall:
It struck even the besieger's ear
With someting ominous and drear,
An undefined and sudden thrill,
Which made the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense its silence framed ;
Such as a sudden passing-bell

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employed in vain ?

Yet precious seems each shattered part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee, feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.

IN one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bowed 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 mourned, Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!) Through clouds of fire the massy 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 thronged around the burning dome, Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall:

Say shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favor 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 attest 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 O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. Such Drury claimed and claims — nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head! Nor hoard your honors 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 glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazoned on our line,

Pause―ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!