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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 kind regre't, one tributary lin'e ?
His fame requir'es/ we act a te'nderer-part;
His memory/ clai'ms the te'ar/ you gave his ar^t!

The general voice, the meed of mournful verse,
The splendid sor'rows/ 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 gr`ave, and point the pl'ace,
Nor the'se, nor all the sad regrets/ that fl'ow/
From fond fidelity's/ domestic w'oe,

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

rai'se,

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 pri ́ze,
Obedient fam'e/ immortal wreaths supplies:
Whate'er of won'der/ Re'ynolds now may
Ra'phael still boasts/ contemporary pra'ise !
Each dazzling light/ and gaudier bloom subdu ́ed,
With undiminished a'we/ his works are viewed:
Even beauty's-portrait/ wears a softer pri ́me,
Tou'ched/ by the tender ha'nd/ of me'llowing-time.

The patient sculptor/ owns a humbler pa`rt,
A ruder to'il/ and more mecha'nic-art ;

Conte'nt/ with slow and timorous stro'ke/ to tr'ace/
The lingering line, 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 record/ bears the artist's name',
Dema'nds his honours, and ass ́erts his fam'e.

Superior ho'pes/ the poet's bosom fi're,
(O proud distinction/ of the sacred ly're!)
Wide as aspiring Phoe'bus 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 gay, with unambitious gu'ile,
Attempt no prize/ but favouring beauty's smile;
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 pas'sions/ meet the acco'rding rh'yme;
The pride of glo'ry/, pity's-sigh sinc ́ere,
Yo'uth'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 ac'tion, 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 thought;
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, dec'ked 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 fire,

But, strike the fr'ame, and, a's they str'ike, 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 air.

These four

lines require

to be pro-
nounced in a
lower voice.

* 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 Ga`rrick's fa'me ?-wh'ose is the trust?-'tis yo`ur's!

And o'h! by every charm his ar't essa'yed,
To soot'h 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 ni'ght/
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 lifts his fa'me:
To yo'u it is bequeathed; asse'rt the tru'st,
And to his worth-('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 wreath,
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 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 thoughts/ that mou'rn, nor yet desire relief,
With me'ek regret, 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 time may st'rew/ upon his sacred-bust.*

"Strew" is pronounced as if written strow.

Pronounced in a lower tone.

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

BYRON.

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 bridge, 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 speak but we^ep,)
A ho`ly-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 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 pain.
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 bright 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;
Fru'its 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 a ́ll,
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 trampled 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 delegated voice of God!
Which shook the na'tions/ through his lip's- - and bla ́zed/
Till va'nquished se'nates/ trembled as they praised.
And he're, o'h! he're, where y'et all you'ng and wa'rm
The g'ay crea'tions/ of his s'pirit chaʼrm,

The mat'chless 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 spring;
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 Prom'ethean-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 blight/
Of failing-wisdom/ yields a base deli'ght,
Me'n/ who exult when minds of heavenly to'ne/
Ja'r in the music/ which was bo`rn their own,
Still let them pau'se
Ah! little do they know,
That/what to the'm seemed vice/ 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 denies/ her requiem to his na'me,
And Folly loves/ the martyrdom 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 jealous

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 Glory to the grave,
Watch every fault/ that daring Genius o'wes/
Ha'lf to the ar'dour/ which its bir'th 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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