THEATRICAL PORTRAITS.

N° I.

MISS CAREW.

"Let lovers who have croaking Delias, swear

Their tones are 'just in tune,' or 'just the thing:"
Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair,

Pan's reedy pipe-Apollo's golden string:

How Memnon sang, and made the Thebans stare,
When he saw Titan's daughter scattering
Flowers:-'tis all stuff.-Reader, what say you?
Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew."

Barry Cornwall.

MUSIC, thou charm and solace of our woes,
Soother of toil, and sweet'ner of repose!

O thou, who blunt'st the point of Sorrow's dart,
And dropp'st like Mercy on the wounded heart,
Art dear to me, when sighing on the lute,
Or whisp'ring through the soft and voice-like flute;
When ling'ring on the harp-strings, or when (freed
From rules of Art) thou fill'st the shepherd's reed!

B

But, dearer far thy heav'nly wild-song flows,
When faintly murm'ring from "a lip of rose."

Such thoughts will rise, whenever I recall CAREW's Sweet voice :-it has "a dying fall," Which soothes with sadness-like the mourning

dove,

Whose notes of sorrow still the pangs of love.

It has that eloquence and pow'r, which make
The heart's wild pulses pause, lest they should break
The chain of melody around them thrown,

Or lose a murmur softer than their own.

Oh! I have wander'd where Bananas cast Their velvet leaves, to shade me as I pass'd; And from some distant orange-grove have heard The faint, sweet music of the Mocking-bird; Which, like a spirit, seem'd to float in air, Born, nurs'd, and cherish'd-living, dying there : And I have heard (afar from ocean's roar) Some inland river kiss its flow'ry shore, Until the sound seem'd melody, and stole In plaintive languor o'er the list'ning soul; And I have heard the breeze steal through the rose, When grey-ey'd morning sees its leaves unclose,

With crimson blushes shining through the dew:— But, lovelier far than these are thy wild notes, CAREW!

As twilight sheds its ros'd and mellow'd ray
Upon the bright and glitt'ring brow of day,
So thou, Sophia,* with thy pensive mien,
Dost cast a milder beauty o'er the scene;
Which thy voice hallows as it glides along,
Light as an echo of the night-bird's song.

Let others prize the Bacchanal's rude lay,
And turn from sadder, sweeter themes away;
But, oh! give me the tones which seem to borrow
The soul of music from a harp of sorrow:

Which, like the words of lovers when they part,
In broken whispers die upon the heart.

* In "The Lord of the Manor.”

N° I.

MR. LISTON.

"Pyramus is a sweet-faced man, a proper man, as one shall see in a Summer's day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man; must needs play Pyramus."

therefore you Shakspeare.

THE play is ended, and the audience now,
With one accord, relax the sombre brow;
O'NEILL no longer "drowns the stage with tears,"
But laughter marks where Lubin Log appears:
That wealthy cit, contemptible and mean,
LISTON can make the fav'rite of the scene;
The tranquil gravity that spreads a shade.
Upon a face which Momus' self hath made,
Forms such a contrast to his fat, round cheeks,
That all are laughing e'en before he speaks:
A grave demeanor robes his smiling looks,
As "dying speeches" cover merry books:
Union of all that's comic and sedate,
A judge's wig upon a monkey's pate.
Excellent actor! Surely he who can

View thee unmov'd, is more or less than man: