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DEDICATION.

DIM dream-like Forms! your shadowy train Around me gathers once again,

The same as in life's morning hour,

Before my troubled gaze you pass'd;
Oh! this time shall I have the power-
Shall I essay to hold you fast?
And do I feel my bosom thrill
True to that sweet delusion still?
Still press ye forward? Well then, take
Dominion o'er me, as you rise

From cloud and mist !-my heart you shake
With youthful thoughts and sympathies,

That, as by magic, wake beneath

The atmosphere you bid me breathe.

Forms known in happy days, you bring,
And much-loved shades amid you spring;
Like a tradition-half expired-

Worn out with many a passing year,
First Love comes forth-so oft desired,
With half-forgotten Friendship, near.
And voiced with sorrow's tone, they bid
The pangs of parted years renew;
All that life's mazy path has hid,
Again they call me to pursue.

B

Those dear ones' names I here repeated,

As shades of sorrow round me rise, Whom Fortune of fair hours has cheated, All early vanish'd from mine eyes.

They do not hear the following lay,
Who listen'd to my earliest song,
The echoes of my heart were they,
But silent now, and sunk away,

Dispersed is all that friendly throng!
And now my sorrow's inmost voice
Is breathed unto the stranger crowd;
I do not at success rejoice,

I sicken at their praise-though loud; All whom my song once woke to mirth, Are dead, or scatter'd o'er the earth!

And now, within my soul, once more
A feeling long unfelt before
Awakes a yearning, warm and bland,
For that still, pensive, Spirit Land;
In half-form'd tones, my lisping lay,
I feel e'en now, is hovering round;
As soft, as when the zephyrs play,

Breathes the Æolian's waken'd sound. I tremble-and upon my cheek,

Tear following fast on tear-drop, tells That the stern heart grows soft and meek, That it with gentler feeling swells; The present hour, each present thing, All that I now around me see, Into the distance seem to wing,— But all the past and vanish'd, spring Back into clear reality!

PRELUDE IN THE THEATRE.

MANAGER, THEATRE-POET, MERRYMAN.
Man. You two-whom I so oft have found
My friends in former times of need,
What are your hopes, on German ground,
Of making our attempt succeed?

Fain to the public I would pleasure give,
Because while living, it lets others live;
Our posts and boards are up-completed—
And all expect the feast we bring ;
There-calm, with brows upraised, they're seated,
And fain would be set wondering.

I know how they are gain'd, amused,
Yet ne'er felt posed as now I feel;

True, to the best they are not used

But they have read a frightful deal !
How shall we act to have all fresh and new,
And yet be pleasing and instructive too?
For much I love to see the crowd, in sooth,
In a dense torrent pressing to our booth,
And with its stirring, pushing, justling mass
Striving our narrow entrance porch to pass,
When ere 'tis four, and yet in open day,
Up to the money-box they fight their way!
When, risking necks amid the press

To get their tickets, in they pour, As in some famine's sharp distress

The mob throngs round a baker's door! It is alone the poet's magic art

That with such varied masses, finds the way To work this wonder,-oh! then, do your part, And work it for me here, my friend, to-day! Poet. Name not to me that motley crowd! Our spirit from before it flies ! The wavering Many from me shroud, Go! veil it from mine eyes! Against all efforts of our own

It drags us, in its whirlpool, down.

No! lead to some still, heavenly spot apart, Where only, for the poet, joy can live, Where love and friendship join'd can to us give, With godlike hand, the blessings of the heart! Ah! what hath there gush'd from us free, Pour'd, issuing from our inmost breast, What the lip utter'd, tremblingly,

Timid, scarce to itself confest

Now failing in its task—and then

Successful when it tries again,

All this will some wild moment's power,

With sudden violence devour,

Though oft it is the work of years

Ere its perfected form appears.

What shines and glitters-has its birth

But for the present hour alone,

The REAL the thing of truth and worth

To all posterity goes down!

Mer. Oh! would that I might hear no more,
About this same posterity!

Suppose I always talk'd it o'er,

Who'd make the fun for those we see?
They will at all times have their mirth,
And I should think, the presence here
Of a brave lad, is something worth,
Who pleasantly himself can bear;
Who ne'er lets people's varying mind,
Or popular caprices, wound him,
But wishes a large throng to find

The better to move all around him.
Then courage, man! and let the world all see
That you a model of your craft can be !
Let Fancy and her chorus swell,

Be Sense, Thought, Passion, heard around,
Yet with all these-now mark me well-
Not without Folly let them sound!
Man. But also, most especially,
Let incident enough arise,
For people all come here to see

Their greatest joy, to use their eyes.
Spin plenty off before their face,

If they can gape, with wonder dumb, Your fame spreads o'er a wider space, You have a favourite become !

The mass can only by the mass be stirr'd,

Each will choose forth that by himself preferr'd;
He who brings much, something to all imparts,
And each contented from the house departs.
If then to give a piece you need,

Let it in pieces be presented;
With such a hash you must succeed,

Served up as easy as invented!

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