But my

soul revived at seeing

Ocean, like an emerald spark, Kindle, while an air-dropt being Smiling steered my bark. Heaven-like

yet he looked as human

As supernal beauty can,
More compassionate than woman,
Lordly more than man.

And as some sweet clarion's breath
Stirs the soldier's scorn of death,
So his accents bade me brook
The spectre's eyes of icy look,
Till it shut them-turned its head,
Like a beaten foe, and fled.

"Types not this," I said, "fair spirit! That my death-hour is not come ? Say, what days shall I inherit ?Tell my soul their sum."

"No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect, Trust me, would appall thee worse,* Held in clearly-measured prospect: Ask not for a curse!

Make not - for I overhear

Thine unspoken thoughts as clear

As thy mortal ear could catch

The close-brought tickings of a watch -

Make not the untold request

That's now revolving in thy breast.

"'Tis to live again, remeasuring

Youth's years, like a scene rehearsed,

In thy second life-time treasuring
Knowledge from the first.
Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver !
Life's career so void of pain,
As to wish its fitful fever
New begun again?

Could experience, ten times thine,
Pain from Being disentwine-
Threads by Fate together spun?

Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun?
No, nor could thy foresight's glance

'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.

"Wouldst thou bear again Love's troubleFriendship's death-dissevered ties; Toil to grasp or miss the bubble

Of Ambition's prize?

Say thy life's new-guided action

Flowed from Virtue's fairest springs

Still would Envy and Detraction

Double not their stings?

Worth itself is but a charter

To be mankind's distinguished martyr."
-I caught the moral, and cried, "Hail!
Spirit! let us onward sail

Envying, fearing, hating none

Guardian Spirit, steer me on!"

VALEDICTORY STANZAS TO J. P. KEMBLE, Esq.

COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE, 1817.

PRIDE of the British stage,

A long and last adieu !

Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy's view.

Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last,

Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
And memory conjures feelings up
That wine or music need not swell,

As high we lift the festal cup

To Kemble fare thee well!

His was the spell o'er hearts
Which only Acting lends,-
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but a glance of time.
But, by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion's perfect triumphs come,

Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.

Time may again revive,

But ne'er eclipse the charm,

When Cato spoke in him alive,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor,-
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possessed

His transport's most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of the breast

The Graces gave their zone.

But who forgets that white discrownéd head,
Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare -

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,

In doubt more touching than despair,
If 't was reality he felt?

Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumphed to have seen!

And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
When Siddons's auxiliar power
And sister magic came.
Together at the Muse's side

The tragic paragons had grown-
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne,

And undivided favor ran

From heart to heart in their applause, Save for the gallantry of man

In lovelier woman's cause.

Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly graced,

Your KEMBLE'S spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste;

Taste, like the silent dial's power,
That, when supernal light is given,
Can measure inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth :
And must we lose them now?
And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly-pleasing brow?

Alas, the moral brings a tear!

"Tis all a transient hour below;

And we that would detain thee here
Ourselves as fleetly go!

Yet shall our latest age

This parting scene review :

Pride of the British stage,

A long and last adieu!

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