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O'r/ with quaint sm'iles/ dismis's the plaintive stra'in,
Poi'nt the quick je`st/, indulge the comic ve ́in,
Ere yet to buried-Roscious/ we assig'n/
One ki ́nd regre't, one tributary lin ́e?
His fame requires we act a tenderer-part;
His memory/ clai'ms the te'ar/ you gave his ar^t!

The general voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sorrows/ that adorned his he'arse,
The throng that mourn'ed/ as their dead favourite pa'ssed,
The graced respe`ct/ that claimed him to the l'ast;
While Shakspeare's i'mage, (from its ha'llowed ba'se,)
Seemed to prescribe the grave, and point the pl'ace,
Nor the 'se, nor all the sad regrets/ that fl'ow/
From fond fidelity's/ domestic w'oe,

So mu'ch are Garrick's pra'ise- so much his d'ue,
As o'n this sp'ot/ one tear besto'wed/ by you.

Amid the art's, which seek ingenuous fa'me,
Ou'r toil attempt's/ the most precarious-claim!
To hi'm, whose mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient fam'e/ immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of won'der/ Re'ynolds now may rai'se,
Raphael still boasts/ contemporary pra'ise !
Each dazzling li`ght/ and gaudier bloom subdu ́ed,
With undiminished a'we/ his works are vie'wed:
Even beauty's-portrait/ wears a softer prime,
Tou'ched/ by the tender ha'nd/ of me'llowing-time.
The patient sculptor/ owns a humbler part,
A ruder to ́il/ and more mecha`nic-art ;

Conte'nt/ with slow and timorous stro`ke/ to trace/
The lingering lin`e, and mould the tardy grace:
But/ onc`e achieved, the barbarous wre'cks o'erthrow
The sacred fan'e, and lay its gl'ories lo'w,
Ye't shall the sculptured ru'in/ rise to-day,
Gra'ced by defect and wor'shipped in dec'ay;
The enduring re'cord/ bears the artist's name',
Dema'nds his honours, and asserts his fam`e.

Superior ho'pes/ the poet's bosom fi're,
(O proud distinction/ of the sacred ly're!)
Wide as aspiring Phoebus darts his ra'y,
Diffusive splendour/ gilds his votary's lay'.

Whether the so`ng/ heroic woes rehearse,
With epic grandeur/ and the pomp of vers ́e,
Or, fondly ga'y, with unambitious gu'ile,
Attempt no prize/ but favouring beauty's sm'ile;
Or bear dejected/ to the lonely gro've/
The s'oft despair/ of unprevailing love;
What'e'er-the-theme, through every a'ge and cli'me/
Congenial passions/ meet the according rh'yme;
The pride of glo'ry/, pity's-sigh sinc ́ere,
Youth's earliest bl'ush, and be'auty's-virgin te`ar.

Su'ch is their me'ed; their hon`ours thus secu're,
Whose a'rts yield objects, and whose w'orks endu`re ;
The actor-only/ shrinks from time's aw'ard;
Feeble tradi'tion/ is hi's memory's gu'ard;
By whose faint breath/ his merits must ab'ide;
Unvo'uched by pro'of, to sub'stance unalli'ed!
Even matchless Garrick's a'rt, to heaven resigned,
No fixed effect, no mo'del/ leaves behind.

The grace of action, the adapted mi'en, (Faithful as na'ture/ to the varied scene ;)

The expressive glan'ce, whose subtle* comment dra'ws
Entranced attention, and a mute appl'ause;
Ge'sture,/ that marks, with for'ce and feeling-fraught,
A sen'se in silence, and a wi'll in tho`ught;
Harmonious spee'ch, whose pure and liquid to 'ne/
Gives verse a mu'sic, scarce confessed its own;
As light from ge'ms/ assum'es a brigh'ter-ray,
A'nd, decked with orient hu`es, transc`ends the d'ay!
Passion's wild bre'ak, and fro`wn/ that awes the s'ense,
And every cha'rm/ of gentler e'loquence;

All perishable!-like the electric fir'e,

But, strike the frame, and, a's they strike, exp'ire;
In'cense/ too pure a bodied fla'me/ to be'ar;

Its fra'grance/ cha`rms the se'nse, and bl'ends the ai`r.

* Care should be taken to make the proper distinction between the pronunciation of this adjective and "subtile ;"- "subtle " being sounded sut-tl, and "subtile," sub-til, though some of our clergymen most unaccountably pronounce the latter adjective (which occurs in the "Liturgy") as subtle!

Wh'ere th'en, (while sunk in cold dec`ay he li ́es, And pale eclip'se/ for ever veils those e'yes!) Where is the best mem`orial/ that ensu ́res/

Our Garrick's fa'me?-wh`ose is the tr'ust?-'tis yo`ur's!

And o'h! by every charm his art essa'yed,
To sooth your ca'res; by every grief/ alla`yed!
By the hushed wo`nder, which his accents dr'ew,
By his la'st/ part'ing-tear, repaid by you!

By all those thoughts, which many a distant night/
Shall mark his me'mory/ with a sa'd deli'ght!
Still in your heart's dear re'cord/ bear his na'me,
Ch'erish the keen regre't/ that li'fts his fa'me:
To yo'u it is bequeathed; asse'rt the tru'st,
And to his wor'th-('tis all you c'an) — be ju^st.


What mo`re-is-due/ from sanctifying time,
To cheerful w'it, and many a f'avoured rhy'me,
O'er his graced tom'b/ shall bloom a deathless wre'ath,
Whose blossomed swe'ets/ shall deck the mask beneath.
For the'se, when sculpture's votive to`ils/ shall r'ear/
The due memo'rial of a loss so de'ar!

O loveliest mou'rner, (gentle m'use!) be thi'ne/
The plea'sing-woe/ to guard the lau`relled-shrine.
As fancy o'ft/ by superstition le'd/

To roam the man'sions of the sainted de'ad,
Has viewed, (by shadowy eve's unfaithful glo'om,)
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb,

So tho'u, (sweet m'use,) hang o'er his sculptured b ́ier,
With patient wo'e, that loves the lingering te'ar;
With thoughts/ that mou'rn, nor yet desire reli'ef,
With me'ek regr'et, and fo'nd/ endur'ing-grief;
With loo`ks/ that sp ́eak-"he' never shall ret'urn !"
Chil'ling thy tender bo'som, cla'sp his ur'n;
An'd/ with soft sig'hs/ disperse the irreverent d'ust
Which time may st'rew/ upon his sac`red-bust.*

"Strew" is pronounced as if written strow.

Pronounced in a lower tone.



WHEN the last sun'shine of expiring d'ay/
In summer's twilight weeps itself away,
Wh'o hath not felt the softness of the h'our
Sin'k on the heart, as de'w along the flower?
With a pure feeling/ which abso`rbs and a'wes,
While Nature/ makes that melancholy pa'use,
Her breathing m'oment on the bri'dge, where Ti'me/
Of light and darkness/ forms an a'rch sublim'e,
Wh'o hath not sh'ared that cal'm/ so still and de`ep,
(The voiceless thought/ which would not spe`ak but we^ep,)
A holy-concord-and a bright-regret,

A glorious sympathy/ with su'ns/ that se't?
'Tis not harsh'-sorrow, but a ten'der-woe,
Nam'eless, but de'ar to gentle he'arts below,
Felt/ without b'itterness-but fu'll and clear,
A sweet deje'ction—a transparent t'ear
Unmixed with worldly grief/ or selfish sta'in,
Sh`ed/ without sha'me-and se'cret/ without pa'in.
Even as the ten'derness, that hour insti'ls
(When Summer's da'y/ declines along the hi'lls ;)
So feels the f'ulness of our heart and e'yes
When a'll of ge'nius, which ca'n-perish, di`es.
A mighty spirit is ecl'ipsed-a po'wer/

Hath passed from d'ay to dar'kness, to whose h'our
Of light/ no lik'eness is bequeathed—no naˇme,
Focus at on'ce of all the rays of Fam'e!
The fla'sh of wi't—the bri`ght intelligence,
The bea'm of son'g-the bla'ze of el'oquence,
Se't with their su'n-but sti'll have left behi'nd
The enduring pro'duce of immortal-mind;
Fruits of a genial mo`rn, and glorious no'on,
A death less part of hi'm/ who died too soon.
But sma'll that portion of the wondrous wh'ole,
(These sparkling segments/ of that circling s'oul,)
Which all embrac'ed-and ligh'tened over all,
To che'er-to pie'rce-to ple ́ase-or to appa'l:

From the charmed council/ to the festive board,
Of human fe'elings/ the unbounded lo`rd;
In whose accla'im/ the loftiest voices vi'ed,

The praised-the pr'oud-who made his praise/ their pr`ide;
When the loud cry of tra'mpled Hindosta'n/
Arose to Heaven/ in her appeal from m'an,

Hi's was the thu'nder-hi's the avenging r'od,
The wra^th-the de'legated voice of God!

Which shook the na'tions/ through his lip's—and bla ́zed/
Till va'nquished se'nates/ trembled as they pra`ised.

And he're, oh! he're, where y'et all you`ng and wa'rm
The g'ay creations/ of his s'pirit chaʼrm,

The matchless dialogue - the dea'thless w'it,
(Which knew not what it was to in termit ;)

The glowing portraits, fre'sh from lif'e, that brin'g/
Ho'me to our hearts/ the truth from which they spri`ng;
These wondrous beings of his fan'cy, wro'ught/
To fulness by the fi'at of his thought,
Her'e, in their first ab'ode, you still may m'eet/
Bright with the hu'es of his Promethean-heat;
A ha'lo of the light of other-days,

Which still the splendour of its o'rb betray's.
B'ut, should there be/ to whom the fatal bli'ght/
Of failing-wisdom/ yields a ba'se delight,
Me'n/ who exult when minds of heavenly to'ne/
Ja'r in the mu'sic/ which was bo`rn their own,
Still let them pau'se Ah! lit'tle do they kn'ow,
That/what to the'm seemed vi'ce/ might be but w`o!
Hard is his-fate/ on whom the public ga'ze/
Is fixed for e`ver/ to detra'ct or praise;
Repose den'ies/ her requiem to his na'me,
And Folly loves/ the martyrdom of fame.
The secret enemy, whose sleepless e'ye
Stands sen'tinel acc'user -judge-and sp`y,
The fo'e- the fo`ol -the jealous

- and the va'in,
The envious, who but breathe in others'-pain;
Behold the ho`st! delighting to deprave',
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave,
Watch every fa`ult/ that daring Genius o'wes/
Ha'lf to the ar'dour/ which its birth best'ows,
Disto'rt the tru'th, accu'mulate the li'e,
And pile the pyramid/ of Ca`lumny!

A change of voice is required here.

To be read in a

lower voice.

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