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PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. Murray, on the Night of Mrs. Abington's Return to the Stage, October 6, 1797, after she had been absent from it six Years.

BY GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER, ESQ.

WHENE'ER the mind assumes a pensive cast,
And Memory sits musing on the past;
When Melancholy counts each friend gone by,
True as Religion strings her rosary,

The eye grows moist for many in silence laid,
And drops that bead which Nature's self has made.
To friends alone, then, is the tear-drop due ?
Oh, no! to public virtue-genius too:
Fondly we dwell on merit Death has cross'd,
On talent we have witness'd and have lost.
Here, on this mimic scene, alas! the day!
How many fleeting time has snatch'd away!
His fatal scythe, of late, the hoary sage
Has swung with ampler sweep along the stage.
Tardy no more, he treads the Drama's ground,
But strides like Mars, and mows with fury round,
Companions of his course, on either hand
Death glares-and gentle Hymen waves his brand.
Here Death to a chill grave some actor carries,
Here Hymen beckons—and an actress marries.
Thinned thus of brilliant talent and of worth,
Is then our Drama threaten'd with a dearth?
Not so, we trust-for Judgment sure can find
Full many a favourite still left behind.

Many whose industry and modest sense
Your smiles have mellow'd into excellence ;
Whose sparks of merit, fann'd into a flame
By Candour's breath, now kindle into fame.
And if, while glancing o'er Thalia's ground,
The critic eye some casual void has found,
Can she not fill the chasm in her train,
And lure some favour'd votary back again?
Even now the Muse on high her banners rears;
Thalia calls-and ABINGTON appears:

Yes, ABINGTON-too long we've been without her,
With all the school of Garrick still about her.
Mature in powers, in playful fancy vernal-
For Nature, charming Nature, is eternal.
And oh while now a favourite returns,
Whose breast for you with grateful passion burns,
Keep up Thalia's cause !--scorn, scorn to drop it!
And cheer her priestess who now comes to prop it.

EPIGRAM.

A WELL-FED Divine, by good living and wine,
Was so tortur'd with gout he no more could endure it;
In the dead of the night, ere his soul took its flight,
He was join'd by his wife and obsequious curate.
Tho' they both wish'd him gone, 'tis a hundred to one
You don't guess their opposite causes of grieving;
His spouse, I'm afraid, wish'd him heartily dead,
The curate as heartily wish'd for his living.

CAIUS FITZURBAN.

LLANGOLLEN;

Written at the Close of the Autumn, 1792.

BY W. SOTHEBY, ESQ.

THOU that embosom'd in the dark retreat
Veil'st from profaner gaze thy hallow'd seat,
Genius of wild Llangollen! once again

I turn to thy rude haunts and savage reign:
'Mid the grey cliffs that o'er yon heights impend,
O'ershadowing mountains that the vale defend,
Woods whose free growth the gloom of midnight spreads,
And torrents foaming down their flinty beds,
Within thy shelter'd solitudes confin'd,

At distance from the murmur of mankind,
I soothe to peace the cares of life awhile,
And woo lone Nature's long-forgotten smile.

Lov'd vale! when o'er thee beam'd the spring-tide ray, And from thy heights slow sunk the summer day, From thy delightful scenery restrain'd,

Far off by fond solicitude detain'd,

I watch'd where pain's wan eye sad vigils kept,
Or hung upon the couch where languor slept:
Bright Autumn fading, ere my footstep came,
On the illumin'd forest ceas'd to flame,
But now, while waning to his mournful end,
He sinks from sight like a departing friend,
Swift let me trace the varied views around,
Spread o'er the range of thy enchanted ground;
While yet upon the leaf pale hues appear,
And the last tint yet lingers on the year;

That, like the flush of the faint hectic strays,
Wan-gleaming as the bloom of life decays.

While the retreating shadows of the night,
Sail from yon mountain's dim-discover'd height;
As up the steep my restless footsteps climb,
And from the path-way brush the silver rime,
Mute are the melodies that wake the morn,
And silence reigns around the way forlorn.
Vain my fond wish to gaze in magic trance
O'er the unfolding valley's wide expanse;
And from the breezes on the brow inhale
The freshness of the spirit-stirring gale.
Where late, by eve's pale radiance silver'd o'er,
Dee wound her mazy wave from shore to shore;
And the brown fallow, and the verdant field,
And hill and dale immingling shone reveal'd;
O'er the dank vale, the vapour streaming wide,
Rolls onward like the ocean's foamy tide:
Thick darkness lours around, save where a beam
Touches the village spire with transient gleam;
Or, like a promontory's chalky brow,
The tow'r's hoar crest o'erhangs the flood below.
Dinas ! more beauteous, thus, in late decay,
Thy castle, cloth'd with pensive colours grey;

*Dinas Bran,

The remains of Dinas Bran, one of the primitive Welsh "castles, nearly cover the summit of a vast conoid hill, steeply "sloped on every side. The founder is unknown. In the reign

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of Henry III. it was the retreat of Gryflyd ap Madog, who, traiterously confederating with the English against his country. "men, was obliged to secure himself from their vengeance in this "aërial fastness. On the death of Gryffyd, Edward I. ungratefully bestowed on John, earl Warren, the wardship of the eldest "son of his old ally; as he did that of the second on Roger Mortimer. These lords caused their wards to be drowned under

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Bleak mountain! yet more beauteous thus thy head, Untrac'd but by the stranger's lonely tread, Than in thy gorgeous day, when tyrant power With trophies hung thy far-resplendent tower: The British bard, at thy unhonour'd name, Points to the wreck, a monument of shame! "So fall the tow'rs, by vengeful time defac'd, "That stood when rebel arms their strength disgrac'd; "Moulder the walls that hid the traitor's head, "When freedom to the field her Britons led. "Wretch that expired'st within yon rocky mound, "By solitude and terror circled round; "Vain was thy hope on Edward that repos'd; "Vain the last wish thy dying breath thai clos'd. "Yet, ere the requiem bade thee peaceful rest, "Scarce cold the lip that utter'd the request, "A stranger's hand usurp'd thy ancient power, "A stranger's banner glitter'd on thy tower. "Lo! the defenders grateful Edward gave, "To soothe thy spirit hov'ring o'er thy grave. "Stern Avarice and Murder stalk around, "Sole guardians, thy forsaken infants found. "No parent on their death-bed drops the tear; "No parent strews with flow'rs their honour'd bier. "But the rude hinds their fate obscure bewail, "Trac'd in the strange traditionary tale; "And village girls point weeping to the wave "Where fairies floated o'er their wat❜ry grave.” So fly the dreams deluded youth recalls, So fade the giories of the Gothic halls!

"Halt-bridge, and took possession of their estate. An obscure "tradition of their murder was current in the country, under the "fable of two young fairies, who had been there destroyed in that "manner."-Pennant's Tour in Wales.

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