By whose faint breath it must abide,

Unvouch'd by proof-to substance unallied!
Even matchless Garrick's heart to heav'n resign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind!

The grace of action-the adapted mien, Faithful as nature to the varied scene: [draws Th' expressive glance-whose subtle comment Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause; Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraught, A sense in silence, and a will in thought; Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone Gives verse a music, scarce confess'd its own; As light from gems assumes a brighter ray; And cloth'd with orient hues, transcends the day !--Passion's wild break-and frown that awes the And every charm of gentler eloquence- [sense, All perishable !-like th' electric fire,

But strike the frame-and as they strike expire; Incense too pure a bodied flame to bear,

Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with air.

Where then-while sunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes ;-
Where is the blest memorial that ensures
Our Garrick's fame!-whose is the trust ?-'tis
yours.

And O! by every charm his art essay'd
To sooth your cares!-by every grief allay'd!
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew!
By his last parting tear, repaid by you!

By all those thoughts, which, many a distant night
Shall mark his memory with a sad delight!

Still in your heart's dear record bear his name ;
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd, assert the trust,
And to his worth--'tis all you can-be just.

What more is due from sanctifying time,
To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd uru shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask be-

neath,

For these-when Sculpture's votive toil shall rear
The dear memorial of a loss so dear!-

O loveliest mourner, gentle Muse! be thine
The pleasing wo to guard the laurel'd shrine.
As Fancy, oft by Superstition led

To roam the mansions of the sainted dead
Has view'd by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb--

So thou, sweet Muse! hang o'er the sculptur'd bier,
With patient wo, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn-nor yet desire relief,
With meek regret and fond enduring grief;
With looks that speak-he never shall return!—
Chilling thy tender bosom clasp his urn;
And with soft sighs disperse th' irreverend dust,
Which time may strew upon his sacred bust.
R. B. Sheridan.

MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY.

YET do I live! O how shall I sustain

This vast unutterable weight of wo?

This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain,
Or all the complicated ills below-

She, in whose life my hopes were treasur'd all,
Is gone for ever fled-

My dearest Emma's dead;

These eyes, these tear-swol'n eyes, beheld her fall:
Ah no-she lives on some far happier shore,
She lives-but (cruel thought!) she lives for me no

more.

I, who the tedious absence of a day

Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's sight, Would chide the lingering moments for delay, And fondly blame the slow return of night; How, how shall I endure

(O misery past a cure!)

Hours, days, and years, successively to roll,
Nor ever more behold the comfort of my soul?
Was she not all my fondest wish could frame?
Did ever mind so much of Heaven partake?
Did she not love me with the purest flame,
And give up friends and fortune for my sake?
Though mild as evening skies,

With downcast streaming eyes,

Stood the stern frown of supercilious brows,
Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her vows.

Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train,
(No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays)
Teach me each moving melancholy strain;
And, O! discard the pageantry of phrase:

Ill suit the flowers of speech with woes like mine! Thus, haply, as I paint

The source of my complaint,

My soul may own th' impassion❜d line;
A flood of tears may gush to my relief,

[grief.

And from my swelling heart discharge this load of

Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear
To wound my ears with the sad tales you teil-
'How good she was, how gentle, and how fair!'
In pity cease-alas! I know too well
How, in her sweet expressive face,

Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind,
Yet heighten'd by exterior grace

Of manners most engaging, most refin’d.

No piteous object could she see,

But her soft bosom shar'd the wo,

While smiles of affability

Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow : Whate'er th' emotions of her heart,

Still shone conspicuous in her eyes, Stranger to every female art,

Alike to feign, or to disguise:

And O-the boast how rare!

The secret in her faithful breast repos'd
She ne'er with lawless tongue disclos'd,

In sacred silence lodg'd inviolate there.
O feeble words-unable to express
Her matchless virtues, or my own distress!

Relentless Death! that, steel'd to human wo,

With murderous hands deals havoc on mankind,

Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,

And leave such wretched multitudes behind?

Hark! groans come wing'd on every breeze!
The sons of Grief prefer their ardent vow;
Oppress'd with sorrow, want, or dire disease,
And supplicate thy aid as I do now:
In vain-Perverse, still on th' unweeting head
"Tis thine thy vengeful darts to shed;
Hope's infant blossoms to destroy,
And drench in tears the face of Joy.

But, oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
When Virtue shall renounce thy pow'r;
When thou no more shalt blot the face of day,
Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid sway.
Alas! the day--where'er I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
I fly the fatal house--suppress my sighs,
Resolv'd to dry my unavailing tears;

But, ah! in vain-no change of time or
The memory can efface

[place Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air, [spair. Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and deWhere were the delegates of Heaven--oh where? Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep!

Had Innocence or Virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I liv'd to weep:
Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To see her force th' endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,

When Torture's keenest rage she prov'd;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart, [heart.
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a husband's
How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,

When, feeling Death's resistless pow'r,