O'r/ with quaint sm'iles/ dismis's the plaintive stra'in,
Poi’nt the quick je'st/, indu'lge the comic ve'in,
Ere yet to bu'ried-Roscious we assig'n/
One ki’nd regre't, one tri'butary lin'e ?
His fame requir'es/ we act a te’nderer-part;
His memory, claims the te'ar/ you gave his art !

The general vo'ice, the meed of mournful ve'rse,
The splendid sor'rows/ that adorned his he'arse,
The throng that mourn'ed/ as their dead favourite pa’ssed,
The graced respect/ 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 place,
Nor the’se, nor aʻll the sad regrets/ that fl’ow/
From fond fide'lity's/ domestic woe,
So mu'ch are Garrick's pra'ise - so mu'ch his d'ue,
As o'n this sp'ot/ one tear besto'wed/ by yo'u.

Amid the art's, which seek ingenuous fa'me,
Our toil attempt's the most precar'ious-claim !
To hi'm, whose mimic pencil wins the pri’ze,
Obedient fam'e/ immortal wreaths suppli'es :
Whate'er of won'der/ Reynolds now may rai'se,
Ra’phael still boasts/ contem`porary pra'ise !
Each dazzling light/ and gaudier bloom subdu'ed,
With undiminished a'we/ his works are vie'wed :
Even bea'uty’s-portrait/ wears a softer pri’me,
Tou'ched/ by the tender ha'nd/ of me'llowing-time.

The patient scoulptor/ owns a humbler pa'rt,
A ruder toʻil/ 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 achi'eved, the barbarous wrecks o'erthr'ow
The sacred fan'e, and lay its gl'ories lo'w,
Ye't shall the sculptured ru'in/ rise to-da'y,
Graced by defe'ct and wor'shipped in dec'ay;
The enduring record/ bears the artist's name',
Dema'nds his ho'nours, and ass'erts his fam'e.

Supe'rior hoʻpes/ the poʻet'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 rehe’arse,
With epic gra'ndeur/ and the pomp of vers'e,
Or, fondly ga'y, with unambitious gu'ile,
Attempt no pri ze/ but favouring beauty's sm'ile ;
Or bear dejected to the lonely gro've/
The s'oft despa'ir/ of unpreva'iling lov'e ;
What'e'er-the-theme, through every age and clisme
Congenial pas'sions/ meet the acco'rding rh'yme ;
The pride of glo‘ry), pity''s-sigh sinc'ere,
Yo'uth's earliest blush, and be’auty’s-virgin te'ar.

Su'ch is their me'ed; their hon'ours thus secu're,
Whose a'rts yield obíjects, and whose w'orks endu're ;
The acîtor-only/ shrinks from time's aw'ard;
Feeble tradition, is hi's memory's gu'ard;
By whose faint br'eath/ his merits must ab'ide ;
Unvo'uched by pro'of, to sub'stance unalli'ed !
Even matchless Garrick's a'rt, to heaven resigʻned,
No fixed effe'ct, no mo'del/ leaves behi'nd.

The grace of ac'tion, the adapted mi'en,
(Faithful as na'ture/ to the varied scene ;)
The expressive glan'ce, whose subtle* comment dra'ws
Entranced atte'ntion, and a mute applause ;
Ge'sture,/ that marks, with for'ce and fe'eling-fraught,
A sen'se in si'lence, and a wi'll in tho'ught ;
Harmonious spee'ch, whose pure and liquid to'ne
Gives verse a mu'sic, scarce confessed its owon;
As lig'ht 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 per'ishable ! - like the electric fir'e,
But, stri'ke the frame, and, a's they str’ike, exp'ire ;
In'cense/ too pure a bodied fla'me/ to besar;
Its fra'grance) cha'rms the se'nse, and bl'ends the ai'r.

These four
lines require
to be pro-
nounced in a
lower voice.

Wh'ere th'en, (while sunk in cold dec'ay he li'es,
And pale eclip'se/ for ever veils those eyes !)
Wheʻre is the best memorial/ that ensu'res/
Our Ga'rrick’s faʼme ?- wh'ose is the tr’ust?—'tis yoʻur's !

And o'b! by every charm his art essa’yed,
To soot'h your cares; by every gr’ief/ alla yed !
By the hushed wo'nder, which his accents dr’ew,
By his la'st/ part'ing-tear, repaid by yoou!
By all those thoughts, which many a distant ni’ght/
Shall mark his me'mory/ with a sa'd deli ́ght!
Still in your heart's dear re'cord/ bear his naʼme,
Ch'erish the keen regre't/ that li'fts his faʼme:
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 tim'e,
To cheerful wřit, 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 benea'th.
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 vie'wed, (by shadowy eve's unfai thful glo'om,)
A weeping cher'ub 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 thougʻhts/ 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 return !"
Chil'ling thy tender bo‘som, cla'sp his ur'n ;
An'd/ with soft sig'hs/ disperse the irre'verent d'ust
Which tim'e may strew/ upon his sac'red-bust.*

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE R. B. SHERIDAN.

BYRON.
When the last sun shine of expiring d'ay/
In summer's twi'light weeps itself aw'ay,
Wh'o hath not felt the softness of the h'our
Sin'k on the he'art, as de'w along the flo'wer ?
With a pure fe’eling/ which abso'rbs and a'wes,
While Na'ture/ makes that melancholy pa'use,
Her breathing m'oment on the bri'dge, where Ti'mel
Of lig'ht and da'rkness/ forms an a'rch sublim'e,
Who hath not sh’ared that cal'm/ so still and de'ep,
(The voiceless thou'ght/ which would not spe'ak but we^ep,)
A ho'ly-concord—and a brig'ht-regret,
A glorious sym'pathy/ with su'ns that se't ?
'Tis not harsh'-sorrow, but a ten'der-woe,
Nam eless, but dear to gentle he’arts belo'w,
Felt/ without b'itterness—but fu'll and clea'r,
A sweet deje'ction--a transparent t'ear
Unmixed with worldly gri ef 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 sp'irit is ecl'ipsed—a po'wer/
Hath passed from day to darkness, to whose h'our
Of lig'ht/ no lik’eness is bequea'thed-no naʼme,
Fo‘cus at on'ce of all the ra'ys of Fam'e !
The fla'sh of wit—the bright intel'ligence,
The bea’m of song—the bla'ze of eloquence,
Se't with their su'n—but sti'll have left behi'nd
The enduring pro'duce of immor'tal-mind;
Fru'its of a genial mo'rn, and glorious no'on,
A death'less

part of hi'm/ who died too soo'n.
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:

To be read in a

lower voice.

From the charmed cou'ncil) to the festive boʻard,
Of human fe'elings/ the unbounded lo‘rd;
In whose accla'im/ the loftiest voices vi'ed,
The pra'ised—the pr'oud—who made his p'raise/ their pr'ide;
When the loud cry of trampled Hindosta'n/
Arose to He'aven) in her appeal from m'an,
His was the thu'nder- hi's the avenging r'od,
The wra'th — the de'legated voice of Good!
Which shook the na'tions/ through his lip's -- and bla'zed
Till va'nquished se'nates/ trem'bled as they pra'ised.

And he're, oʻh ! he're, where y'et all you'ng and wa’rm
The g'ay crea'tions/ of his s'pirit cha'rm,
The matchless dia'logue - the deathless w'it,
(Which knew not what it was to in termit;)
The glowing portraits, fresh from lif'e, that brin'g/
Ho'me to our hearts/ the tru'th from which they spri'ng ;
These wondrous beings of his fan'cy, wro'ught/
To ful'ness 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 Prom'ethean-heat;
A halo of the light of other-days,
Which st'ill the sple’ndour of its oʻrb betray's.

B'ut, should there be to whom the fatal blight/
Of fai'ling-wisdom/ yields a ba'se deli’ght,
Me'n/ who exult when minds of heavenly to'ne
Ja'r in the muʼsic/ which was bo'rn their owon,
Still let them pau'se — A'h! little 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 pr'aise ;
Repose den'ies/ her requiem to his na'me,
And Folly lov'es/ the mar’tyrdom of fa'me.
The secret en'emy, whose sleepless e'ye
Stands sen'tinel — acc'user — ju'dge—and sp'y,
The fo'e -- the fo'ol — the jea'lous — and the va'in,
The en vious, who but breathe in others'-pain ;
Behold the ho'st! delighting to deprave',
Who track the steps of Glo‘ry to the graʼve,
Watch every fa'ult/ that daring Genius o'wes/
Ha'lf to the ar'dour/ which its bir'th besto

ows,
Distoʻrt the tru'th, accu'mulate the li'e,
And pile the py'ramid/ of Ca'lumny!

A change of voice is required here.