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and Lord Townly. He spoke highly of the first, but with the most unqualified applause of the two last, which were perfect models of ease and good breeding. To these testimonies we shall add that of an Irish Barrister, of great eminence, who died about thirty years ago, and who was always considered not more eminent in the walks of his profession than in those of dramatic criticism. From him we have been informed, " that whatever Wilks did upon the stage, let it be ever so trifling, whether it consisted in putting on his gloves or taking out his watch, lolling on his cane or taking snutt, every movement was marked with such an ease of breeding and manner, every thing told so strongly the involuntary motion of a gentleman, that it was impossible to consider the character he represented in any other light than that of a reality.”

" But what was still more surprising,” said the Gentleman, in relating this arecdote, “ that the person who could thus delight an audience, from the gaiety and sprightliness of his manner, I met the next day in the street hobbling to a hackney-coach, seemingly so enfeebled by age and infirmities, that I could scarcely believe him to be the same man.” Such is the power of illusion, when a great genius feels the importance of character * !”

With Wilks's general talents for tragedy, there were some parts that he was unequal to; and in particular the Ghost in Hamlet. One day, at rehearsal, Booth took the liberty to jest with him upon it. “Why, Bob,” says he, " I thought last night you wanted to play at fisty-cuffs with me, (Booth played Hamlet to his Ghost,) you bullied me so, who, by the bye, you ought to have revered. I remember, when I acted the Ghost with Betterton, instead of my awing him, he terrified me--but there was a divinity hung round that man!"

To this rebuke, Wilks, feeling its propriety, modestly replied, “ Mr. Betterton and Mr. Booth could always act as they pleased; but, for my part, I must do as well as I can.”

* The above event took place in the year 1729, two years before the death of Wilks, who, as Cibber tells us, “was much more enfeebled by the constant irritations of his temper than he was hy his declining years."



As lately, on the mountain's side,

I lay in holy trance;
Ethereal spirits I espied

Upon the moonbeams dance.

Pass'd me flow'd a murmuring stream,

'Neath the boughs of willows weeping; Zephyr courted Luna's beam,

While bis gloomy sire was sleeping.

Then I heard a clap of thunder

Break the elements among ; From my lyre escap'd a number,

Such as ne'er adorn'd my song.

O'er my head I view'd a Spirit,

All his features were sublime ; “ Know (he said) thou shalt inherit,

« Power amid these orbs to climb."

In his hands a torch he bore,

Swift he flew on wings of fire;
Thrice he bade the tempest roar,

Thrice he struck my fault'ring lyre!

In the shudd'ring spangled skies,

Wild he wav'd the torch afar,
Thrice he bade the whirlwinds rise,

Thrice he smote the polar star!

Then, with an electric shock,

Quick the awful scene he changd; Cynthia now illumiu'd a rock,

Where th 'ethereal Spirits rangid.

“ Rise! (he said) Menander rise !

“ Thou hast felt my soy'reign power, “ Mount with me the lofty skies,

“ That beyond the comets tower."

Raptur'd with the pervous strain,

From the mountain's side I darted ;
Swept my polish'd lyre again,

And from worldly cares departed.

While among the stars I wander'd,

Sounds sympbonious touch'd mine ears ;
Round me comets fierce meander'd,

Fix'd to no peculiar spheres.

Here my heavenly Mentor left me,

Dark’ning all the concave bright;
Of his powerful aid bereft me,

And destroy'd my wonted sight.
Throngh the wasteful glooms I fell,

Through the londly-roaring ocean,
'Till I reach'd the gulph of hell,

Where I heard a wild comniotion !

'Long the dun sulphureous regions,

Far my wailings deep resounded ;
Satan, with his frantic legions,

At the noise recoild astounded!

Serpents now about me twin'd,

Flaky fires sear'd all my skin;
Volumes huge of noxious wind,

Fann'd the burning fames witbin!

Struggling from the boiling billows,

Sleep dissolv'd his genial spell;
I woke, and, 'neath the weeping willows,

View'd a newly chorded shell !?
T.C. R. Nov. 1808.


Whilst not a sound disturbs the midnight air,

And Cynthia Alings her solitary gleams
Within yon dell, where slumbers wan Despair,

Who 'guiles the sad hours with fantastic dreams.com

Alone thro' woods unvisited I'll stray,

And wake the listless numbers of my lyre;
Where Memory's eyes the tribute due shail pay,

To her who lives with the Eternal Sire!
On Marianna's tomb, which I so oft have prest,

I'll lay my head, and to the moon complain;
Who, kindly list’ning to my lorn request,

Shall stop my haud, and soothe my fev'rish brain:
But tho' I sleep, the faithful chords shall tell,

Swept by the gale, of her I lov'd so well! Grafton-street, Nov. 1808.

J. G.


Should my heart be depress'd by the demon of grief,

And the charms of the world a dark chaos appear;
Should my friends become shy, and withhold their relief,

Say, where can I find a protector sincere?
Say, where can I find one to mitigate woe,

To drown my complainings--to shield me from death?
Alas! there is uone that's inclin'd to bestow,

To the pangs of misfortune, the comforting breath!
The delight of my life,--the promoter of bliss

No longer my torments of mind can appease!
No more the sweet essence of * Marianne's kiss

Can sooth Melancholy's corroding diseuse !
Soft!-still there is Sarah! whose love-beaming eye,

Flings the sunshine of peace to enliven my heart;
Whose nectarous kisses with Marianue's vie,

And the softest emotions of pity impart.
Then come all ye terrors of “ grim-visag'd” Spleen!

Ye black leering horrors ! ye spirits forloru !
Ye gaunt pallid spectres of features obscene,

Of Hecat's in hell's foulest labyrinth born!
No more will I shrink at your tauntings at night,

Or heed your endeavours to tear me in twain ;
The smile of my lover shall baffle your spite,

And prove all your arts to oppress me are vain!

Miss Marianne Bl...k...w.

Then in thee my dear girl! most distinctly I trace,

A protector--a friend 'midst the deepest of woe;
A lover, the smiles of whose elegant face,

To the keenest misfortune relief can bestow !
August 29, 1808.


Mild orb! that shinest so serevely fair,

Thee do I court at evening's lonely hour;
When Silence awes the meditative air,

Enthron'd aloft on some stupendous tow'r.
On thy dark turrets, hideous to the eye,

Wigmore! * alone at solemn tide I've been,
Intently musing on the spangled sky,

Or, visions sporting on the distant green. ?
For what can equal that enchanting time,

When Fancy plumes her variegated wing;
When wrapt in dreams, the Poet looks sublime,

On those vast regions of th'eterval King;
Ör, thro' the awful solitude of night,
He onward urges his impetuous flight ?

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When mild Aurora gilds my attic sphere,

O'erwbelm'd iu thought I turn from side to side
On my lone couch, and oft the conscious tear,

Bids Wisdom's strongest energies subsidé.
In vain for me she decks the laughing sky

With sweetest flow'rs and hues of every sort;
Me Recollection fondly prompts to sigh,

For her t I left at Yatton's rural court! . .
Nor wou'd I pray indulgent heaven to steel

This doting heart against that Power supreme ;
For what am I, unless inform’d to feel

A sense of virtuous sorrow and esteem?
* A dark, disgusting creature of mankind,

" Of human fórm, but, of barbarian mind! September, 1808.


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