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Lethargic juftice on the bench affail,

Edge the dull fword, and poise th' unequal scale;
With Rablais' jeft display th' officious knave,
In life's mad vortex whirling to the grave;
Point at opinion's felf-embroider'd veft,
Folly's gay plume, and pride's enormous creft,
Each frenzy mortify, each vice confound,
And self-conviction only feel the wound.

A MONO DY

TO THE MEMORY OF

MRS. MARGARET WOFFINGTON.

Flebilis indignos elegia folve capillos,

Ah! nimis ex vero nunc tibi nomen erit. OVID.

HERE fled the fair, that all beholders charm'd,

TH

Whose beauty fir'd us, and whose spirit warm'd!

In that fad figh th' unwilling breath retir'd;

The grace, the glory of our scene expir'd!
And shall fhe die, the mufe's rites unpaid,
No grateful lays to deck her parting fhade?
While on her bier the fifter graces mourn,
And weeping tragedy bedews her urn?
While comedy her chearful vein foregoes,
And learns to melt with unaccustom'd wees?

Accept

Accept (O once admir'd!) thefe artless lays;
Accept this mite of tributary praise.

O! could I paint thee with a master's hand,
And give thee all thy merits could demand;
Thefe lines fhould glow with true poetic flame,
Bright as thy eyes, and faultlefs as thy frame!

We mourn'd thy abfence, from our scene retir'd,
Each longing heart again thy charms defir’d.
Yet ftill, alas! we hop'd again to view
Our wifh, our pleasure, ev'ry joy in you!
Again thy looks might grace the tragic rage;
Again thy spirit fill the comic stage.
But lo! difeafe hangs hov'ring o'er thy head;
Dire danger stalks around thy frighted bed!
Those starry eyes have loft each beamy ray,
And ghaftly fickness makes the fair her prey!
Death shuts the scene!-and all our hopes are o'er
Those beauties now muft glad the fight no more!
Say ye, whofe features youthful luftre bloom,
Whofe lips exhale Arabia's foft perfume,
Muft ev'ry gift in filent dust be loft,

No more the wish of man, or female boaft?
Ah me! with time must ev'ry grace be fled!
She, once the pride of all our stage, is dead!
Clos'd are thofe eyes that ev'ry bosom fir'd;
Pale are those charms that ev'ry heart infpir'd!
Where now the mien with majefty endu'd,
Which oft furpriz'd a ravish'd audience view'd ?
What forms too oft the tragic scene disgrace;
What tasteless airs the comic scene deface ?

Tho

Tho' tuneful Cibber ftill the muse sustains,
By nature fram❜d to pour the moving strains,
Tho' from her eye each heart-felt paffion breaks,
And more than mufic warbles when she speaks;
When shall we view again, like thine, conjoin'd,
A form angelic and a piercing mind;

Alike in ev'ry mimic fcene to steer,

The gay, the grave, the lively, and fevere.
Thy judgment saw, thy taste each beauty caught,
No fenfeless parrot of the poet's thought!
Thy bofom well cou'd heave with fancy'd woe,
And, from thy own, our tears were taught to flow.
Whene'er-we view'd the Roman's fullied fame,
Thy beauty juftify'd the hero's fhame.

What heart but then must Anthony approve,
And own the world was nobly loft for love?
What ears cou'd hear in vain thy cause implor'd,
When foothing arts appeas'd thy angry lord?
Each tender breaft the rough Ventidius blam'd,
And Egypt gain'd the figh Octavia claim'd.
Thy eloquence each hush'd attention drew,
While love ufurp'd the tears to virtue due.

See! Phædra rise majestic o'er the scene,
What raging pangs distract the hapless queen!
How does thy fense the poet's thought refine,
Beam thro' each word, and brighten ev'ry line!
What nerve, what vigour glows in ev'ry part,
While claffic lays appear with claffic art!

Who now can bid the proud Roxana rise, With love and anger sparkling in her eyes?

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Who now shall bid her breast in fury glow,
With all the femblance of imperial woe?
While the big passion, raging in her veins,
Would hold the mafter of the world in chains:
But Alexander now forfakes her coaft :-
And, ah! Roxana is for ever lost!

Nor lefs thy pow'r when rigid virtue fir'd
The chafter bard, and purer thoughts infpir'd:
What kneeling form appears with stedfaft eyes,
Her bofom heaving with devotion's fighs!
"Tis fhe! in thee we own the mournful scene,
The fair resemblance of a martyr * queen!
Here Guido's skill might mark thy fpeaking frame,
And catch from thee the painter's magic flame!

Bleft in each art! by nature form'd to please,
With beauty, fenfe, with elegance and ease!
Whofe piercing genius ftudy'd all mankind,
All Shakespear op'ning to thy vig'rous mind.
In ev'ry fcene of comic humour known;
In fprightly fallies wit was all thy own.
Whether you feem'd the cit's more humble wife;
Or fhone in Townley's higher fphere of life:
Alike thy fpirit knew each turn of wit;
And gave new force to all the poet writ.

Nor was thy worth to public scenes confin'd,
Thou knew'it the nobleft feelings of the mind:
Thy ears were ever open to distress;

Thy ready hand was ever ftretch'd to bless.

* Lady Jane Grey, A& V.

Thy

Thy breast humane for each unhappy felt ;
Thy heart for other's forrows prone to melt,
In vain did envy point her fcorpion fting;
In vain did malice fhake her blasting wing:
Each gen'rous breaft difdain'd th' unpleafing tale,
And caft o'er ev'ry fault oblivion's veil:
Confefs'd thro' ev'ry cloud, thy deeds to fhine,
And own'd the virtues of compaffion thine!
Saw mild benevolence her wand disclose,
And touch thy heart at ev'ry suff'ter's woes :
Saw meek-ey'd charity thy fteps attend,
And guide thy hand the wretched to befriend :
Go, ask the breaft that teems with mournful fighs,
Who wip'd the forrows from affliction's eyes:
Go, ask the wretch, in want and fickness laid,
Whofe goodness brighten'd once misfortune's fhade.
O! fnatch me hence to lone fequefter'd fcenes,
To arching grottoes and embow'ring greens!
Where scarce a ray can pierce the dusky fhade,
Where scarce a footstep marks the dewy glade;
Where pale hu'd grief her fecret dwelling keeps ;
Where the chill blood with lazy horror creeps:
Where awful filence spreads her noiseless wing;
And forrow's harp may tune the dismal string.-
Or rather lead my steps to diftant plains,
Where clofing earth enfolds her last remains:
What time the moon difplays her filver beam,
And groves and floods reflect the milder gleam :
When contemplation broods with thought profound,
And fairy visions haunt the fylvan ground.
$ 2

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