'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster' art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's well-imagin'd woe;
Nor all the frolics of the tuneful tribe,
Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.
Full oft has scorpion fancy to my view,
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Crowded each black idea in my sight,

And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night:
'Behold,' she said, on the damp bed of earth,
Behold th' unhappy man who gave thee birth;
In dust he rolls his sorrow-silver'd hair,
And on each muscle sits intense despair:
See, how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace:
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain-
Now sinks oppress'd-now sudden starts away→→
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day;
And see, thou guilty daughter! see, and mourn
The 'whelming grief that waits the sire's return!
Beneath some black'ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where pensive sorrow seems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold sliades repel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way,
Bent to the ground by mis'ry and by years,
There view thy bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child:"
And oh she cries

Oh, had the fost'ring milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death befriended, on the fatal morn
In which these eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or had th' Eternal seal'd its eyes in night,
Ere it the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Then had these curses ne'er assail'd my head-
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed?"

Now melted, soften'd, gentler, she complains,
'Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
Then how th' affecting tears each other trace,
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss;
Each throbbing hope that caught th' embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;

The beauteous prospect bright'ning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play;-
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,

Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again, more fierce-more mad-she rends her frame,
And loudly brands ALMERIA with her shame!'

Here paus'd and shrunk the vision from my view, But conscience colour'd as the shade withdrew ;Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,

And, all confusion, rose with rising day.

But ah! what hope could morning bring to me,
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
More clearly shone the sun on my disgrace,
And mark'd more plain the blushes on my face.
Then, all enrag'd, I curst th' abandon'd hour,
When honour yielded to the traitor's power,
When, rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:

When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid;
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd

To fix obedience on the plastic mind.

Stung at the thought, each vengeance I design'd, And weary'd Heaven to uncreate mankind;

From room to room distractedly I ran,

The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
Alcanor, curst Alcanor! first I sought,

(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught),
The smiling villain soon my fury found,
Ştruck at his heart and triumph'd in the wound :

A ruin'd woman gives,' I cry'd the stroke;'
He reel'd, he fell, he fainted, as I spoke.
But soon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it gush'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy stream his cheek forsook,
And death sat struggling in his dying look,
Love, and the woman all at once return'd;
I felt his anguish, and my rashness mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the bursting sigh,
And watch'd the changes of his fading eye;
To stop the crimson tide, my hair I tore,
Kiss'd the deep gash, and wash'd with tears the gore.
'Twas love, 'twas pity-call it what you will,
Where the heart feels-we all are women still.
But low I bent my knees to pitying Heaven,
For his recovery to my prayers was given;
He liv'd-to all the rest I was resign'd,

And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
He liv'd-but soon with mean perfidious stealth,
Forsook his prey and rioted in wealth.

Yet think not now arriv'd the days of joy;
Alcanor flatter'd only to destroy;

Alike to blast my body and my mind,

He rob'd me first, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the mask he tore,
The charm was broke and magic was no more;
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he strove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile disguis'd the surfeits of his heart,
And topp'd full well the warm admirer's part,
Till tir'd at last with lab'ring to conceal,
And feigning transports which he did not feel,
He turn'd at once so civilly polite,

Whate'er I said, indiff'rence made so right,
Such coldness mark'd his manners and his mein,
My guilt my ruin-at a glance was seen.

(To be concluded in our next. )

The Life of David Garrick, Esq. by Arthur Murphy, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. 145. boards. Wright.

TH

HE name of Garrick is so interwoven with our, theatrical entertainments, that his life cannot fail of furnishing ample materials for instruction and amusement. Accordingly, soon after the decease of our English Roscius, a Biography of him was presented to the public, by Mr. T. Davies, then a bookseller in Covent Garden. Mr. Murphy, however, has now taken up the pen on the same fertile subject. Garrick it seems was his intimate friend. here he pays a handsome tribute of respect to his memory.

The substance of this piece of biography shall be detailed-whether the reader be or be not a frequenter of the theatres, he must find his curiosity aroused respecting the history of this extraordinary man—and it shall be gratified.

DAVID GARRICK was the son of an officer in the army, and born at Hereford, on the 20th February, 1716. He even at school discovered talents for mimicry, and cherished his love of plays with great assiduity. In 1729, or 1730, he went to Lisbon to an uncle, but soon returned. He then came to town along with Dr. Samuel Johnson, (whose pupil he had been), in order to seek his fortune-he, however, be came a partner with his uncle, in the winc-business, but the partnership was speedily dissolved. He now turned his attention to the stage, where he afterwards so eminently distinguished himself. He made his first appearance at Ipswich, under a feigned name, and,

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encouraged by the success he there received, was emboldened soon after to present himself before a London audience. He opened his career October 19, 1741, at Goodman's Fields, in Richard the 3d. and drew astonishing crowds, even from the west-end of the town-the whole way from Temple-Bar to the theatre being covered with a string of coaches! His fame being thus noised abroad, he went the ensuing summer to Dublin, where crowds so flocked to see him, that a fever was occasioned-called Garrick's fever. On his return, he engaged at Drury-lane with wonderful success. In 1747 Garrick became a patentee of DruryLane, and thus was his ambition highly gratified. He visited France in 1763, and did not return from the Continent till 1765, when he was received with acclamations of joy. He proceeded with astonishing eclat in his profession till the 10th of June, 1776, when he retired from the stage, regretted by all-but he did not long enjoy his retirement, for in 1778 his health declined fast, and on the 20th of January, 1779, he died-by which, to use the words of Dr. Johnson, -the gaiety of nations was eclipsed! He was buried on Monday, Feb. 1st, in Westminster-his funeral was attended by a numerous concourse of all ranksand a monument, in Pocts' Corner, was lately raised to his memory. Such is the history of this great man -for he must be pronounced truly great in his profession. "The conclusion from the whole," says Mr. M." is that our English Roscius was an ornament of the age in which he lived-the restorer of dramatic literature-and the great reformer of the public taste. In his time the theatre engrossed the minds of men to such a degree, that it may be now said, that there existed in England a fourth estate, king, lords, and commons, and Drury-Lane playhouse !”

This Life of Garrick is, of course, the history of the stage from 1741 to 1776-when he quitted it. The several plays acted during this period are specified, and even analyzed with ability. The amateurs of the drama will find, in the volumes before us, a rich source of entertainment. The Appendix, besides