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Mary Darby Robinson - Elegy to the Memory of David Garrick, Esq.
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DEAR SHADE OF HIM, who grac`d the mimick scene,
  And charm`d attention with resistless pow`r;
Whose wond`rous art, whose fascinating mien,
  Gave glowing rapture to the short-liv`d hour! 

Accept the mournful verse, the ling`ring sigh,
  The tear that faithful Mem`ry stays to shed;
The SACRED TEAR, that from Reflection`s eye,
  Drops on the ashes of the sainted dead. 

Lov`d by the grave, and courted by the young,
  In social comforts eminently blest;
All hearts rever`d the precepts of thy tongue,
  And Envy`s self thy eloquence confess`d. 

Who could like thee the soul`s wild tumults paint,
  Or wake the torpid ear with lenient art?
Touch the nice sense with pity`s dulcet plaint,
  Or soothe the sorrows of the breaking heart? 

Who can forget thy penetrating eye, 
  The sweet bewitching smile, th` empassion`d look?
The clear deep whisper, the persuasive sigh,
  The feeling tear that Nature`s language spoke? 

Rich in each treasure bounteous Heaven could lend,
  For private worth distinguish`d and approv`d,
The pride of WISDOM,­VIRTUE`s darling friend,
  By MANSFIELD honor`d­and by CAMDEN lov`d! 

The courtier`s cringe, the flatt`rer`s abject smile,
  The subtle arts of well-dissembled praise,
Thy soul abhorr`d;­above the gloss of guile,
  Truth lead thy steps, and Friendship crown`d thy days. 

Oft in thy HAMPTON`s dark embow`ring shade
  The POET`s hand shall sweep the trembling string;
While the proud tribute §to thy mem`ry paid,
  The voice of GENIUS on the gale shall fling. 

Yes, SHERIDAN! thy soft melodious verse
  Still vibrates on a nation`s polish`d ear;
Fondly it hover`d o`er the sable hearse,
  Hush`d the loud plaint, and triumph`d in a tear. 

In life united by congenial minds,
  Dear to the MUSE, to sacred friendship true;
Around her darling`s urn a wreath SHE binds,
  A deathless wreath­immortaliz`d by YOU! 

But say, dear shade, is kindred mem`ry flown?
  Has widow`d love at length forgot to weep?
That no kind verse, or monumental stone,
  Marks the lone spot where thy cold relics sleep! 

Dear to a nation, grateful to thy muse,
  That nation`s tears upon thy grave shall flow,
For who the gentle tribute can refuse,
  Which thy fine feeling gave to fancied woe? 

Thou who, by many an anxious toilsome hour,
  Reap`d the bright harvest of luxuriant Fame,
Who snatch`d from dark oblivion`s barb`rous pow`r
  The radiant glories of a SHAKSPERE`s name! 

Rembrance oft shall paint the mournful scene
  Where the slow fun`ral spread its length`ning gloom,
Where the deep murmur, and dejected mien,
  In artless sorrow linger`d round thy tomb. 

And tho` no laurel`d bust, or labour`d line,
  Shall bid the passing stranger stay to weep;
Thy SHAKSPERE`s hand shall point the hallow`d shrine,
  And Britain`s genius with thy ashes sleep.

Then rest in peace, O ever sacred shade!
  Your kindred souls exulting FAME shall join;
And the same wreath thy hand for SHAKSPERE made,
  Gemm`d with her tears about THY GRAVE SHALL TWINE.
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