The poetical works of George Keate

What visionary Form on yonder Heaps
Of Earth, sits hov'ring o'er a new-made Grave,
In this dim Cloister painful Vigils keeps,
And wild with frantic Sorrow seems to rave?

The Sexton's Lamp still glimmers: On the ground
Each instrument of Sepulture is thrown,
And near her many a Bone lies scatter'd round,
The mingled Reliques of a Race unknown!

100

Long flows the Veil, whose Shade conceals her Face;
Now high as yon proud Roof her Groan ascends;
Now bursting Tears her silent Sorrows grace,
Now low in Dust the heart-struck Mourner bends.

“Say, Grief's sequester'd Victim, whence thy Woe?
“Why heaves thy Breast beneath this Load of Care?
“Why thus the haunts of cheerful Life forego?
“And in these lonely Mansions seek Despair?

“It is the Cause,—It is the Cause,” she cries,
“Will not this Scene the fatal Story tell?
“Learn from yon Train the Tale my voice denies,
“Or ask the Summons of that pausing Bell?

“It calls my Cibber to her House of Clay,
“Who now no more our Passions will engage;
“Rich in Theatric Glory, snatch'd away,
“The darling Daughter of the British Stage.

101

“She comes, my Juliet comes—O cruel Force!—
“Torn from my Arms by Heav'n's relentless Doom.—
“Now chang'd indeed!—An undissembled Corse!
“Too soon to fill an undissembled Tomb!”

I turn,—My eye the length'ning Cloister roves,
Thick flaring Tapers pour upon my Sight;
With solemn Pace the black Procession moves,
And wrapt in tenfold Darkness frowns the Night.

Sorrowing, I see the holy Rites begin;
Resign'd, the sad sepulchral office hear:
A thousand soft ideas stir within,
And ask once more the tributary Tear.

But when (the sable Robe of Death remov'd)
In Earth's cold Womb the sad Remains were laid;
Let those whose eyes have stream'd o'er all they lov'd,
Conceive the anguish of this nameless Maid!

102

Eager she sought to catch a parting Look,
Fix'd in expressive Silence o'er the Dead:
Then sighing deep, the drear Abode forsook,
And thro' the monumental Region fled.

“Might I, thou gen'rous Friend, that Face behold!
“Can'st thou a Partner in thy Tears refuse?
“Can'st thou—” but while her Robe I strove to hold,
Her falling Veil disclos'd the Tragic Muse.

“Divine Melpomene! art thou,” I cry'd,
“From Fancy's Regions drawn, this Train to join?
“Tut'ress of virtuous Grief, why seek to hide
“Sorrows, which claim Preeminence o'er mine?

“Yes,” she reply'd, “from happier Realms I came,
“To see my Cibber laid in hallow'd Rest;
“By her, to noblest Heights I rais'd my Fame,
“By her, enlarg'd my Empire in the Breast.

103

“My Thoughts must still the plaintive Theme pursue,
“Her fond Remembrance ever there remain;
“E'en now her wond'rous Pow'rs rise fresh to View,
“And point Reflection's Dart with keener Pain!

“Clos'd are those Eyes which knew each vary'd Art,
“And all my Meaning with such Force inspir'd;
“Call'd Tears of Pity from the melting Heart,
“Froze with wild Horror, or with Rapture fir'd!

“By Death's cold hand those Features now are bound,
“That once could ev'ry change of Passion wear!
“Mute is that Voice, whose more than magic Sound
“Stole like soft Music on the ravish'd ear!

“Those Limbs are fix'd, in funeral weeds array'd,
“Which boasted once each Elegance of Dress,
“And all those captivating Charms display'd,
“That grace the Sculptures of exulting Greece!—

104

“What Suppliant now shall haughty Pyrrhus bend?
“What tender Wife of faithless Jaffier melt?
“What Daughter Softness to Cordelia lend?
“What Mother feel the Pangs that Constance felt?

“What false Calista shall bewail her Fate?
“What poor, deceiv'd Monimia now complain?
“Who, Isabella, can thy Woes relate?
“Or heat to giddy Whirls Alicia's Brain?—

“O gentle Cibber! long thy Loss I'll mourn;
“And oft at night, by strong Affection led,
“To this lone Place with grateful Tears return,
“And o'er thy Dust ambrosial Odours shed!—

“Yet am I not of ev'ry Hope bereft;
“Nor stifled in the Tomb my Taper dies;
“Still to relume the Blaze a Pritchard's left,
“Whose Breath shall send it flaming to the Skies.

105

“From Judgment's aid its value Genius reaps,
“Correct as Nature, hence her Scenes engage;
“Whether Cresphontes' humbled Queen she weeps,
“Or rolls the Thunders of a Zara's Rage.

“But yet while fondly thus her Pow'rs I praise,
“In these she bids a happy Rival share;
“Too frequent from my Cypress Groves she strays,
“Nor scorns Thalia's humbler Wreaths to wear!—

“O may she long retain her wonted Fire!—
“Nor Shakespear Garrick's Aid in vain implore!
“For ah!—When these content with Fame, retire,
“The Tragic Muse, like Cibber, is no more!”

University of Virginia Library

A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF THE CELEBRATED Mrs. CIBBER.