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.

High were the task-too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here !

I words to paint your memory

Of Kemble and of Lear;

But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare, Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed

In doubt more touching than despair,

If 'twas 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

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!

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET то COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT.

PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!

And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deemed not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?
And died he not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,
To us his bright career too short was given;

Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him! How oft on far Corunna's plain Shall British exiles weep upon his urn!

Peace to the mighty dead;

- our bosom thanks
In sprightlier strains the living may inspire!
Joy to the chiefs that led old Scotia's ranks,
Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire!

Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,

Dear symbol wild! on Freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world. And Roman eagles found unconquered foes.

Joy to the band this day on Egypt's coast,
Whose valor tamed proud France's tricolor,
And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,
Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore!

Joy for the day on red Vineira's strand,
When, bayonet to bayonet opposed,

First of Britannia's host her Highland band

Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed!

Is there a son of generous England here

- he with us shall join,

Or fervid Erin?

To pray that in eternal union dear,

The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine!

Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn,
As rocks resist the billows round their shore;

Types of a race who shall to time unborn
Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

The 42d Regiment.
15*

STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME.

BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell

Beside your cannons conquered not, though slain,
There is a victory in dying well

For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain;

For come what may, there shall be hearts in Spain
To honor, ay embrace your martyred lot,

Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain,

And looking on your graves, though trophied not,

As holier hallowed ground than priests could make the spot!

What though your case be baffled freemen cast
In dungeons-dragged to death, or forced to flee;
Hope is not withered in affliction's blast-

The patriot's blood 's the seed of Freedom's tree;
And short your orgies of revenge shall be,

Cowled demons of the Inquisitorial cell!
Earth shudders at your victory,

for ye

Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again - bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shrieked upon the rack;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den;
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel

No eye may search -no tongue may challenge or reveal!