EPITAPH ON MRS ERSKINE.'

[1819.]

Plain, as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resigned;
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.-
But, Oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried, with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear,

By which thine urn, EUPHEMIA, claims the tear!
Yet taught, by thy meek suffrance, to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow,
And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

1 [Mrs Euphemia Robison, wife of William Erskine, Esq. (afterwards Lord Kinedder,) died September, 1819, and was buried at Saline in the county of Fife, where these lines are inscribed on the tombstone.]

MR KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS,'

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE.

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the groundDisdains the ease his generous lord assigns,

And longs to rush on the embattled lines,

1 [These lines first appeared, April 5, 1817, in a weekly sheet, called "The Sale Room," conducted and published by Messrs Ballantyne and Co., at Edinburgh. In a note prefixed, Mr James Ballantyne says, "The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for Kemble's closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yielded to the energy of his mind.-' He was,' he said, in the green-room immediately before the curtain rose, 'determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shown; and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged; they ceased-were resumed-rose again-were reiterated-and again

So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,

And that those valued plaudits are my last.
Why should we part, while still some powers remain
That in your service strive not yet in vain?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,
And sense of duty fire the fading eye;
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past.
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! It were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,

were hushed. In a few minutes the curtain ascended, and Mr Kemble came forward in the dress of Macbeth, (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him,) to deliver his farewell." .... "Mr Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his farewell was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length, he finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional life for ever."]

To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy;
Till every sneering youth around enquires,

"Is this the man who once could please our sires?'
And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.
This must not be ;-and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and the grave,
That, like the Roman in the Capitol,

I may adjust my mantle ere I fall :

My life's brief act in public service flown,

The last, the closing scene, must be my own.

Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts
May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if
your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-
O, how forget!—how oft I hither came

In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame!
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures,
Those hours must live-and all their charms are

yours.

O favoured Land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL.