To bid its wounds rankle anew;
Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart,
And angels will smile upon you.

Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain,
And youth could its pleasures impart,
Till some serpent distill'd through her bosom the stain,
As he wound round the strings of her heart.

Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break,
Nor strive to retrace them within;
For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek,
Nor think that such sorrow were sin.

When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride,
Shall alike feel the hand of decay,
May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied,
And wipe all your sorrows away!



SHAKSPEARE.

Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee
(of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments
to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London. Intended to be
spoken at one of the Theatres.


While o'er this pageant of sublunar things