‘An unfaltering trust approach my grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’ “Hoping you are in the enjoyment of good health, and that you still prosper in the ‘good work,’ which to you I know is a labor of love, “I am your friend, “EDWIN FORREST.” At length, rested in mind and body, chastened in taste, sobered and polished in style, but with no abatement of fire or energy, sought by the public, solicited by friends, urged by managers, and impelled by his own feelings, he broke from his long repose, and reappeared in New York under circumstances as flattering as any that had ever crowned his ambition. Niblo’s Garden was packed to its remotest corners with an auditory whose upturned expanse of eager faces lighted with smiles and burst into cheers as he slowly advanced and received a welcome whose earnestness and unity might well have thrilled him with pride and joy. The following lines, strong and eloquent as their theme, written for the occasion by William Ross Wallace, contain perhaps the most truthful and characteristic tribute ever paid to his genius, drawing the real contour and breathing the express spirit of the man and the player. EDWIN FORREST. Welcome to his look of grandeur, welcome to his stately mien, Always shedding native glory o’er the wondrous mimic scene, Always like a mighty mirror glassing Vice or Virtue’s star, Giving Time his very pressure, showing Nations as they are! Once again old Rome—the awful—rears her red imperial crest, And _Virginius_ speaks her downfall in a father’s tortured breast; Once again far Albion’s genius from sweet Avon leans to view, As he was, her thoughtful _Hamlet_, and the very _Lear_ she drew. Nor alone does Europe glory in the Actor’s perfect art,— From Columbia’s leafy mountains see the native hero start! Not in depths of mere romances can you _Nature’s_ Indian find; See him there, as God hath made him, in the _Metamora_ shrined. Where hast thou, O noble Artist,—crowned by Fame’s immortal flower,— Grasped the lightnings of thy genius? caught the magic of thy power? Not, I know, in foreign regions,—for thou art too true and bold: ’Tis the _New_ alone gives daring thus to paint the shapes of _Old_: From the deep full wind that sweepeth through thine own wild native woods, From the organ-like grand cadence heard in autumn’s solemn floods, Thou hast tuned the voice that thrills us with its modulated roll, Echoing through the deepest caverns of the hearer’s startled soul: From the tender blossoms blooming on our haughty torrents’ side— Like some angel sent by Pity, preaching gentleness to Pride— Thou didst learn such tender bearing, hushing every listener’s breath, When in thee poor _Lear_, the crownless, totters gently down to death: