“What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;— Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrownèd king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. “Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. “E’en I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,— The majesty of Darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! “This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of Victory,— And took the sting from Death! “Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up On Nature’s awful waste To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste— Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race, On Earth’s sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God!” VALEDICTORY STANZAS To J. P. KEMBLE, ESQ. COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, _Held June, 1817_. Pride of the British stage, A long and last adieu! Whose image brought the heroic age Revived to Fancy’s view Like fields refreshed with dewy light When the sun smiles his last Thy parting presence makes more bright Our memory of the past; And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble—fare thee well! His was the spell o’er hearts Which only Acting lends,— The youngest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,— Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb.