Dry dream-like Forms! your shadowy train
Around me gathers once again,
The same as in life's morning hour,

Before my troubled gaze you pass'd;
Oh! this time shall I have the power-
Shall I essay to hold you fast?
And do I feel my bosom thrill
True to that sweet delusion still!
Still press ye forward? Well then, take
Dominion o'er me, as you rise

From cloud and mist !-my heart you shake
With youthful thoughts and sympathies,
That, as by magic, wake beneath
The atmosphere you bid me breathe.

Forms known in happy days, you bring,
And much-loved shades amid you spring;
Like a tradition-half expired-

Worn out with many a passing year,
First Love comes forth-so oft desired,
With half-forgotten Friendship, near.
And voiced with sorrow's tone, they bid
The pangs of parted years renew;
All that life's mazy path has hid,

Again they call me to pursue.
Those dear ones' names I hear repeated,
As shades of sorrow round me rise,
Whom Fortune of fair hours has cheated,
All early vanish'd from mine eyes.

They do not hear the following lay,

Who listen'd to my earliest song, The echoes of my heart were they, But silent now, and sunk away,

Dispersed is all that friendly throng! And now my sorrow's inmost voice

Is breathed unto the stranger crowd; I do not at success rejoice,

I sicken at their praise-though loud; All whom my song once woke to mirth, Are dead, or scatter'd o'er the earth!

And now, within my soul, once more
A feeling long unfelt before
Awakes a yearning, warm and bland,
For that still, pensive, Spirit Land;
In half-form'd tones, my lisping lay,

I feel e'en now, is hovering round;
As soft, as when the zephyrs play,

Breathes the Eolian's waken'd sound. I tremble-and upon my cheek,

Tear following fast on tear-drop, tells That the stern heart grows soft and meek, That it with gentler feeling swells; The present hour, each present thing, All that I now around me see, Into the distance seem to wing,— But all the past and vanish'd, spring Back into clear reality!

"

MANAGER, THEATRE-POET, MERRYMAN.

Man. You two-whom I so oft have found
My friends in former times of need,
What are your hopes, on German ground,
Of making our attempt succeed?
Fain to the public I would pleasure give,
Because while living, it lets others live;
Our posts and boards are up-completed--
And all expect the feast we bring;
There-calm, with brows upraised, they're seated,
And fain would be set wondering.
I know how they are gain'd, amused,
Yet ne'er felt posed as now I feel;
True, to the best they are not used

But they have read a frightful deal!
How shall we act to have all fresh and new,
And yet be pleasing and instructive too?
For much I love to see the crowd, in sooth,
In a dense torrent pressing to our booth,
And with its stirring, pushing, justling mass
Striving our narrow entrance porch to pass,
When ere 'tis four, and yet in open day,
Up to the money-box they fight their way!
When, risking necks amid the press

To get their tickets, in they pour,
As in some famine's sharp distress

The mob throngs round a baker's door!
It is alone the poet's magic art

That with such varied masses, finds the way
To work this wonder,-oh! then, do your part,
And work it for me here, my friend, to-day!
Poet. Name not to me that motley crowd!
Our spirit from before it flies!

The wavering Many from me shroud,
Go! veil it from mine eyes!

Against all efforts of our own
It drags us, in its whirlpool, down.

No! lead to some still, heavenly spot apart,
Where only, for the poet, joy can live,
Where love and friendship join'd can to us give,
With godlike hand, the blessings of the heart!
Ah! what hath there gush'd from us free,
Pour'd, issuing from our inmost breast,
What the lip utter'd, tremblingly,
Timid, scarce to itself confest-
Now failing in its task-and then
Successful when it tries again,

All this will some wild moment's power,
With sudden violence devour,
Though oft it is the work of years
Ere its perfected form appears.

What shines and glitters-has its birth
But for the present hour alone,

The REAL-the thing of truth and worth
To all posterity goes down!

Mer. Oh! would that I might hear no more,
About this same posterity!

Suppose I always talk'd it o'er,

Who'd make the fun for those we see? They will at all times have their mirth, And I should think, the presence here Of a brave lad, is something worth,

Who pleasantly himself can bear;
Who ne'er lets people's varying mind,
Or popular caprices, wound him,
But wishes a large throng to find

The better to move all around him.
Then courage, man! and let the world all see
That you a model of your craft can be!
Let Fancy and her chorus swell,

Be Sense, Thought, Passion, heard around,
Yet with all these-now mark me well-
Not without Folly let them sound!
Man. But also, most especially,
Let incident enough arise,
For people all come here to see
Their greatest joy, to use their eyes.
Spin plenty off before their face,

If they can gape, with wonder dumb,
Your fame spreads o'er a wider space,
You have a favourite become !

The mass can only by the mass be stirr'd,
Each will choose forth that by himself preferr'd;
He who brings much, something to all imparts,
And each contented from the house departs.
If then to give a piece you need,
Let it in pieces be presented;
With such a hash you must succeed,

Served up as easy as invented!
What use a whole on such a crowd to press,
Who will to pieces pull it ne'ertheless?

Poet. You do not feel how deep the stain
Of such a craft-how base the soil!
How little what you wish to gain
Befits the genuine artist's toil!
Such daubing work as this-with you
I see 's a maxim to pursue!

Man. Such a reproof I do not mind,
The man who means his work to fit
Must use the best tools he can find ;

Consider you've soft wood to split! And just bethink you-what are these Whom what you write is meant to please!

One comes from very idleness,

Another dull'd by overfeeding,
And still more to be fear'd is this
That some have been the papers reading!
Most throng to us from want of thought
As to a masquerade or ball,
"Tis curiosity has wrought

The wings that guide the steps of all ;
The ladies give themselves and dress,
To all, their beauty to display,
Serving us well, we must confess,

They with us act-and not for pay!
What are you dreaming on your poet's height?
Why from a full house pleasure should you
draw?

Examine close your patrons of the night!

One half are cold-the other half are raw ! The curtain down-one's wishes bend

On cards or dice before he rest; Another, a wild night to spend

Upon some harlot's heaving breast!
Why, then, poor fools! so waste your time amiss,
Plaguing the Muses for an end like this?

Give to them mor and more! I tell you plain,
And add to this yet more and more again!
So you will never widely miss your mark;
And mystify them! keep them in the dark!
To give content 's an end most hard to gain-
But say what moves you? Is it joy or pain?
Poet. Begone! and seek thyself another slave!
The poet then, for thee must sport away,
The highest right of man, that nature gave?
Through what has he o'er every heart his sway?
By what does he each element control?
Is't not the music breathing from his soul,
Which, gushing from his heart, with sweetest
strain

Draws back the world into his heart again?
When Nature, from her staff, with placid strength,
Draws forth her thread's interminable length;
When all the forms of being, mix'd, confounding,
Tuneless and harsh, are through each other
sounding,

Who is it warms with life, and wakes to song,
Disposing so the equal-gliding throng,
That all harmoniously it floats along?
Who is it doth the individual call,
To join the consecration sent for all,

Where it swells forth, an ever-glorious chime?
Who bids the passion-tempest rage sublime?
Who lights the ray of evening's red

That in the pensive spirit glows?
Who on the loved one's path can shed
All beauteous blossoms spring bestows?
Who is it hath the skill to bind

From worthless leaves, a garland fair,
That, greatness, worth of every kind
Will, as a wreath of honour, wear?
What is it climbs Olympus' height,
Makes gods but equals of its own?
"Tis of the soul that power and might,
As through the POET it is shown!

Mer. These boasted powers, use you then!
Your trade poetical pursue,

E'en in the self-same mode, as men

A love adventure carry through!
By accident drawn nigh-perchance,

You're struck, and stay, and get involved;
Then something will the joy enhance,
And now the spell is half dissolved:

Again we feel entranced-and then
Distress and pain break in again—
And thus, almost before 'tis known,
It quite to a romance has grown!
In this way, then, our play we'll give,
But paint man's life in fulness there.
All in its torrent move and live,

But few are of its depths aware,
And take it from what point you will,
It interests and pleases still;
Though motley images you weave,

Yet mingle with them something clear;
Mid much that's false, and may deceive,
Let some small spark of truth appear!
That is the way a drink to brew
That quickens all-enlightens too!
Our choicest youth you then will find
Draw round to hear what you reveal.
Then from your work each gentle mind

Its melancholy food will steal;
Now moving this and that, by turns you bid
All see what in their inmost soul is hid.
For 'tis alone the youthful heart,

Where mirth and sorrow yet combine,
Gives honour to the lofty part,

And praise to what may chance to shine!
"Tis vain to try the old and form'd to please,
The young and forming you delight with ease!
Poet. Then give me also back the days,
The time when I myself was young!
When yet a gushing fount of lays

Sprang out all freshly as I sung!
When mists yet veil'd from view my world,
And when my bud—as yet uncurl'd,
Still promised wonders ;-when I wove
The flowers I pluck'd in every grove!
The time in which I naught possess'd,
And yet enough to make me bless'd;
The longing for the true the real,
The pleasure in the bright ideal!
Oh! give me back those joys unnamed,
And each warm impulse never tamed!
That rapture, so intense, it thrill'd

My being with a sense of pain;
That energy of Hate, that fill'd

Uncheck'd, my heart, oh! bring again!
And Love in all its power and truth!
Oh! give me, give me back my youth!

Mer. Ah! my good friend, 'tis youth indeed, That you sometimes, perchance, may need, When, in the sudden fight's alarms,

Your foeman gives your skill a check,
Or when the loveliest maiden's arms
Are twined with ardour round your neck!
Or when the garland of the course,

Yet distant shining, beckons on,
And bids you spur the panting horse,
Towards the goal so hardly won!
When after dancing's mad delight
One drinks, carousing, through the night!
But the familiar lyre to sweep,

To touch its chords with lively grace,
To your self-chosen aim to keep
A happy self-appointed pace;

That is your task, old friend, to-day,
We'll for it praise no less your skill,-
Age makes not childish, as men say,
It finds us but true children still!

Man. Well! words enough we've long been changing,

But now some deeds I fain would see; While you are compliments arranging, We might do something usefully. Why talk so much of tuning here? No hesitation brings it round; Say that you're poets, and no fear, But poetry will soon be found. What 'tis we want, I need not say, Strong drink, my friend-so brew away! Things not begun to-day,-with sorrow You'll find will not be done to-morrow! A day in dallying none should spend ; Let resolution, then, arise, And seize the possible, my friend, Quick by the forelock, as it flies; She never after lets it stray,

But as she must, she works away!
Our German stage, you are aware,

Lets all try what they feel inclined,
So that to-day you need not spare,

Scenes, drops, and wings,-all here you find; The great and lesser lights of heaven

You've liberty to use from me,

The fullest power is to you given,

The golden stars to squander free ;
Fire, rock, and water, fail not here,
No want of birds or beasts we fear !
So, therefore, in this narrow space
Bid all creation's circle swell,
And travel with considerate pace

From heaven, through the world, to hell.