TO MR. GARRICK,

ON SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTH DAY.

-Kings for such a name would wish to die.”

Daughters of harmony, a lay
Deign to your darling's natal day,
Bred on the soil of Warwick;
Who Nature at his service had-
To his vast merit who can add?

To Shakspeare's, who but Garrick ?

United we, his worth to praise,
All strive a pyramid to raise,
Which singly he has done;
As well might we on tip-toe try
To touch the lofty vaulted sky,
Or light the mid-day sun.

Alone in native majesty,

He stands confess'd, like that fam'd tree
Of knowledge, Eden pluming:
With florid branches waving high,
His leaves present apparently

Unfading blossoms blooming.

The glances of his mental eye
Were fleet, (as vivid flashes fly,)

Dame Nature round surveying;
He saw her naked, and he dress'd
Her grand, though in the simplest vest,
His taste supreme displaying.

Thus clad, she gratefully declar'd
To prompt in after times some bard,

A fav'rite next to thee,

Whom tell-tale time should Garrick name,
The author he, (reserv'd by fame,)

Of Shakspeare's jubilee.

Milton.

Untouch'd and sacred be thy shrine,
Avonian Willy, bard divine!
In studious posture leaning;
From ev'ry field of fancy thou,
Hast reap'd the harvest,—only now
Remains to us the gleaning.

Th' alchymic tonch, enquiry vain,
Fond search of many a curious brain,
Was never found, but when
When first our master's hand each thought,
In highly finish'd models wrought,
With his auriferous pen.

His golden lines at once could gain
Their sterling price; but since, tis plain,
The art with him is gone:

A truth which each succeeding scribe
Can for himself, and all his tribe

Swear,

as I may for one.

THOU SOFT FLOWING AVON.

By Mr. Garrick.

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream,
Of things more than mortal our Shakspeare would dream ;
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillows his head.

The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain,
Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain ;
The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their truth.
And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth;
For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread,
For hallowd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

Flow on, silver Avon! in song ever flow,

Be the swans on thy bosom still whiter than snow, Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

A SONG.

To arms! ye brave mortals, to arms!
The road to renown lies before you ;
The name of King Shakspeare has charms
To rouse you to actions of glory.

Away! ye brave mortals, away!

'Tis Nature calls on you to save her; What man but would Nature obey,

And fight for her Shakspeare for ever!

SONG.

Thrice happy the nation that Shakspeare has charm'd,
More happy the bosoms his genius has warm'd!
Ye children of Nature, of Fashion, and Whim,
He painted ye all, all join to praise him.
Come away ! come away!
-you must obey!

His Genius calls

From highest to lowest, from old to the young,
All states and conditions by him have been sung;
All passions and humours were rais'd by his pen ;
He could soar with the eagle, and sink with the wren.
Come away, &c.

To praise him ye fairies and genii repair,

He knew where ye haunted, in earth and in air:
No phantom so subtle could glide from his view,
The wings of his fancy were swifter than you;
Come away, &c.

STRATFORD FESTIVAL,

1830.

SCHEME

OF THE

GRAND CONCERT,

TO BE PERFORMED AT THE

SHAKSPEARE HALL,

ON

SATURDAY MORNING,

APRIL 24, 1830.

Tickets of Admission, price 5s.

Doors opened at Half-past One o'Clock; Concert to commence at Two precisely.

PRINTED BY J. SHARP, COURIER-OFFICE, LEAMINGTON.

CHR

"His heart, dear Mars,
My gracious stars!

We must have that between us:
My darlings all

Have courage

tall

I can't deny its meetness!
But here, my friend,
I'll with it blend,

E'en female love and sweetness."

Oh, Sweet Shakspeare, &c.

Then Wisdom's maid,
(Of aspect staid,

But ever fresh and charming.)
Prepar'd the brain
With wondrous pain,

And energy alarming;

That so in debt

None else should get,

Protesting as she shut it in,
Unless he brought
(Preposterous thought)

As fine a head to put it in.

Oh, sweet Shakspeare, &c.

The god of Wit
Imparted it

To dissipate Spleen's tumour.
Mnemosyne
Gave Memory,

And Momus added Humour :

Jove shook his head,
And smiling said,

"Superior power is needing;
My gift though last
Has all surpast,

I've doubled each preceding."
Oh, sweet Shakspeare !

Immortal Willy Shakspeare!
Thus the Gods

In spite of odds

Contriv'd to make a Shakspeare.