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after Smith; but, I thought, very unjustly. Smith, I fancy, was more airy, and took the eye with a certain gayety of person. He brought with him no somber recollections of tragedy. He had not to expiate the fault of having pleased beforehand in lofty declamation. He had no sins of Hamlet or of Richard to atone for. His failure in these parts was a passport to success in one of so opposite a tendency. But, as far as I could judge, the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more personal incapacity than he had to answer for. His harshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified in good humor. He made his defects a grace. His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only served to convey the points of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry them deeper. Not one of his sparkling sentences was lost. I remember minutely how he delivered each in succession, and cannot by any effort imagine how any of them could be altered for the better. No man could deliver brilliant dialogue — the dialogue of Congreve or of Wycherley - because none understood it, half so well as John Kemble. His Valentine, in "Love for Love," was to my recollection, faultless. He flagged sometimes in the intervals of tragic passion. He would slumber over the level parts of an heroic character. His Macbeth has been known to nod. But he always seemed to me to be particularly alive to pointed and witty dialogue. The relaxing levities of tragedy have not been touched by any since him; the playful courtbred spirit in which he condescended to the players in Hamlet, the sportive relief which he threw into the darker shades of Richard, disappeared with him. He had his sluggish moods, his torpors; but they were the halting-stones and resting-place of his tragedy-politic savings and fetches of the breathhusbandry of the lungs, where nature pointed him to be an economist — rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. They were, at worst, less painful than the eternal tormenting unappeasable vigilance, the "lidless dragon eyes," of present fashionable tragedy.
THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood: Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother!
For some they have died, and some they have left me,
WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
A month or more hath she been dead,
A springing motion in her gait,
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
ON AN INFant Dying AS SOON AS BORN.
I SAW where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work.
A floweret crushèd in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut
Shall we say that Nature blind
Checked her hand and changed her mind,
Or lacked she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons' long workings sickened)
Life of health, and days mature:
And wisest clerks have missed the mark,
That has his day; while shriveled crones
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
See them laid upon the hearse
IN MY OWN Album.
FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,
A spotless leaf: but thought and care,
And Time with heaviest hand of all,
And error gilding worst designs
Like speckled snake that strays and shines -