Blest be that tear, who gives it doubly blest,

That heals with balm the orphan's wounded breast.
Not all that breathes in morning's genial dew,
Revives the parent plant where once it grew;

Yet may those dews with timely nurture aid
The infant flow'rets drooping in the shade.
Whilst long experienc'd worth and manners mild-
A father's merits-still protect his child.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

THE STRANGER,

SPOKEN AT THE EDINBURGH THEATRE, BY MRS. KEMBLE, IN THE

CHARACTER OF ADELAID.

ESCAP'D the arms of my forgiving spouse,

To you I offer now my grateful vows;

I bring no flippant Epilogue to dry
The kind emotions that still cloud your eye,
Nor unreluctant would so soon displace
That lovely sadness for the dimple's grace.

Closed is the scene, Adèlaid's trials o'er,
Unreal griefs your pity court no more;

But ere to night the Moral Muse retires,
She prompts th' address which zealous truth inspires.

O! ye whose sympathising looks disclose Your generous feelings for a sister's woes; Ere yet the tear is check'd, the sigh represt, Let HER sad tale instruct your artless breast; While on your cheek the rose of beauty blows, While youth's warm tide in madd'ning currents flows, While adoration's incense fills your ear,

And suppliant lovers swear it all sincere,

Let prudence teach your cautious hearts to scan
The false allurements of betraying man.

Ah! steel your souls 'gainst Love's insidious guise,
Guard well each sense ere Passion's voice surprize,
Rest sharp remorse your gentle bosoms tear,
And yield the Shrine of Love to sad despair!
For, should fair Innocence, in luckless hour,
By folly urged, forego her spotless pow'r,
Tho' long repentance expiate the crime,
And keen regrets consume the mourner's prime,
Ev'n should offended honor, faith betray'd,
Forbear the wounded suff'rer to upbraid,
No tears can wash the guilty stains away,
Or sullied fame resume its pure array;

Conscience still bleeds, while sympathy relieves,
And even kindness STABS AS IT FORGIVES.

You, to whom Heav'n consign'd the sacred pow'r,
And bade you cherish beauty's tender flow'r,
Be your's the task to mould our softer soul,
And guide our weakness with your mild control;
To sensibility our sway's confin'd,

Yours is the nobler empire of the mind.
O still afford us, when the danger's nigh,

Your tender counsels, your protecting eye!
For, trust me, to repel a rival's art,

Your best security 's a grateful heart,
And while temptation beckons, vice alarms,
Our safest citadel 's-a husband's arms..

Thus would our Muse dispense her counsels sage,

Ere she resign, to gayer scenes, the stage;

And now her monitory mission 's o'er

Say, will her STRANGER be receiv'd once more?

ELEGY

TO THE

MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY.

"Nimium ne crede colori

"Alba ligustra cadunt, Vaccinia nigra leguntur.".

VIRG.

No

more of Love's enchanting joys I sing, No more my mind on Fancy's pinion flies, But to that dreary dwelling stoops her wing Where in Death's icy arms Cleora lies.

Attend the lay, ye gay and beauteous train
Who careless flaunt where late Cleora shone,
Read in her early fate such charms how vain,
Nor joy to call the fading gifts your own.

Fond was the care with which her youth was rear'd,
Joyful her parents saw their blossom blow,
Each day some virtue, or some grace appear'd,

Ah! little thought they of the coming woe.

With pride they show'd th' admiring world their child,
Whose faultless mind might awe detraction's breath,
In whose bright eye resistless sweetness smil'd,
But, ah! what smile can soothe the tyrant Death?

Cleora's cheek the rosy tincture leaves,

Her swimming eye the lively lustre flies;

With keenest pangs her gentle bosom heaves, Heav'n claims its own, the beauteous suff'rer dies.

Ah! what avails it, sister beauties, say,

To shine the fairest of the youthful throng, To win the brave, the witty, and the gay, Touch the soft string, or pour the melting song?

Will charms like these avert the stroke of Death,
Assuage his pangs, or chase his loathsome gloom?
Will they one hour survive your parting breath,
Or cheer the dreary mansions of the tomb?

Ah, No!-'tis virtue, innocence, and truth,

That draw the tear sincere from pity's eye,

Strike the cold heart of age, warn thoughtless youth, And call from friendship's breast the bursting sigh.

For such, Cleora's sorrowing sister weeps,

A mother's bleeding bosom knows no rest,