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ROYAL CIRCUS AND JUNE 18. Mr. Dibdin seizes every opportunity that offers to pay a compliment to the glory of the British Arms. On the anniversary of the ever memorable battle of Waterloo, he produced a new occasional Burletta Spectacle, under the title of "Waterloo; or, the Bridge and the Battle." The scenery is beautiful: and the panorama view of the field of battle is magnificent. The effect of this last scene is rendered peculiarly interesting by the introduction of musicians on the stage, mingled, as it were, with the troops. This novelty was highly applauded.

JUNE 23. "Constantine and Valeria; or, the last of the Cæsars." This grand Melo Drama has been in preparation for three months; and is founded on Miss Joanna Baillie's Tragedy of "Constantine Paleologus." A more magnificent or interesting exhibition has never been presented. The acting of Miss Taylor would have established her fame in the first walk of the drama at any theatre and Mr. Huntley increases in attraction. The military banquet in the first act is superb; and the grandeur of the concluding scene afforded a display of brilliancy which drew down long and reiterated plaudits. The dresses and decorations are unusually appropriate and splendid.

Don Giovanni increases in attraction.

"Poor Vulcan" has been produced, with the assistance of Mrs. Orger and Mr. Gattie, from the Theatre Royal,

try-and we saw him with pleasure, at the Regency Theatre, in many characters more suited to his abilities than that of Shylock. We shall be happy to see him again-and still happier if we can conscientiously give him our meed of praise, as we understand he is a gentleman, who has devoted a great portion of his time to classic attainments. Mrs. Glover's Portia was excellent.

July 15. Wild Oats-Critic.

16. Such Things Are-Quaker.

17. Exit by Mistake-Day after the Wedding -Sleep Walker.

18. Bold Stroke for a Husband-How to die for Love.

19. Who Wants a Guine.-Darkness Visible. 21. Exit by Mistake-Wedding Day-Killing

no Murder.

2. Wild Oats-Megul Tale.

23. Travellers Benighted-Exit by Mistake-A Chip of the Old Block. 24. Wild Oats-Agreeable Surprise,

SURREY THEATRE. Drury-lane. They were welcomed with great cordiality, and contributed their best aid to the success of the piece.

This elegant Theatre was honoured with a visit by Monsieur Talma, accompanied by a select party of friends, where he was received by Mr. and Mrs. Dibdin, Mr. Rorauer, &c. &c. and expressed the highest gratification, together with no small degree of surprise at the splendour and appointments of what is termed a Minor Theatre. At the close of the exhibition of Waterloo, Mr. Talma was conducted to the Green Room; and we cannot better describe the sensation created in the Green Room, than by quoting the address of Mr. Dibdin on this occasion. On introducing M. Talma, Mr. Dibdin said:

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"Ladies and Gentlemen,

Among the pumerous distinguished personages your able and zealous exertions have attracted, the presence of ne visitor has given me more heartfelt gratification than the favour done us by M. Talma, whom I have now the honour of presenting to you, and whose name, though a synonym for first-rate genius and talent, is still more endeared to us by the hospitality and kindness he has ever afforded to those of our professional brethren who have had the happiness to be introduced to him at Paris.-Mons. Talma, in having the pleasure to present the collected artists of this house, I am happy to say, you see an assemblage of Ladies and Gentlemen, whose warmth in the cause they so

powerfully serve, has raised this theatre to unprecedented respectability. Mr. Sheridan has said, "where actors do agree, their unanimity is wonderful; and the harmony which exists here gives me reason to stile this less a company than a family-a family who are as proud as myself to see you within these walls; who all regret, the shortness of your stay will not allow you to witDess a greater variety of those efforts which have obtained us the sanction of the public, who will appreciate us still more for the honour your notice has conferred on us."

To which M. Talma replied,

1817.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

"I cannot find words in my con fused knowledge of the English language to express my gratitude for the way in which I have been here and every where received in this country. I only. wish I might have the pleasure of meeting you in Paris, to shew my sense of feeling for your kindness."

M. Talma then proceeded to view the stage and its arrangements, was afterwards reconducted to his box, and at his departure repeated his extreme satisfaction at the whole of his evening's entertainments.

PERFORMANCES.

June 2 to 8. Don Giovanni-Silver Swan--Waggery

June

in Wapping.

9 to 14. Waggery in Wapping-Who's the Murderer-Don Giovanni.

16. Waggery in Wapping-The Silver Swan Don Giovanni.

23. Waterloo, or the Bridge and the Battle Constantine and Valeria-Don Giovanni.

From the extensive circulation of the EUROPEAN MAGAZINE, we are obliged to restrict our comments on Theatrical Exhibitions to the 20th of each month: and, although we deviated in the last Number from this rule, at considerable expense, that we might give our readers every particular we could collect respecting Mr. KEMBLE's retirement from the stage, we are obliged to postpone, till our next publication, observations

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POETRY,

A RELIC FROM WATERLOO,* AREWELL!-the blow that ends the strife

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Dooms but a ruin to decayOne-but one link of less than life

Remains to end in nameless clay.

Let him who treads the death-field, spare
This relic lov'd too late and long-
Ah!-leave it in my dust to share

The home a miser dare not wrong.
And if to greet thy proud return

My father lifts his hoary head,
He will not start nor shrink to learn
How low I rest in Honour's bed.
But shun the deep blue melting eye
That fondly looks and glistens near;
Nor tell what lonely sepulchre

Thy pity gave the Cuirassier.

Collected from fragments found near a dead cuirassier, with a broken picture."

My mother!-Fancy's earliest flow'r
Was by thy tender fost'ring nurst;
Thine was my noon tide's brightest hour,
And thine the thought that warm'd it
first-

Receive the last!-thy glory's stem
Has fallen, and its pride is past;
But thou wilt treasure as a gem
The blighted leaf that linger'd last.
Thou wast the eyelid of my soul,
Preserver of its purest sense;
And once beneath thy bland controul
It slept in holy innocence.

Oft to the brink of ruin's flood

Thou cam'st a wand rer to arrest; And smiling in thy bounty shew'd

The softness of a matrou's breast. Then by thy mild-thy pleading look, Light of my erring life!--I vow'd To write my name in Glory's book, Or moulder in an early shroud.

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BRIGHT are the Muses' gifts, they say,
In Glory's field and Summer's day,
Tho' brief must be the verse I put on
So small a subject as a Button:
Yet, Stella!-to thyself I prove
This button is a type of love.

It forms attachments near and strong-
Its brightens oft by wearing long;
Thro narrow chinks it wins a way,
And holds when other loops decay:
Here often like thy beauty's charm,
It kept a soldier's bosom warm.

We praise not circles that abound
In grandeur, but the perfect round—
And in this button's humble size
How true a cycle charms our eyes!
Thus in a little ring enshrin'd
Love's amphitheatre we find.
This relic, fresh from holy earth,

Is more than modern honour's worth:
Fame, wealth, and wisdom, do for man
No more than simple buttons can-
While Glory's sparks fly off like rockets,
They grace his coat and guard his pockets.
This sparkled once on Brunswick's breast,
And lay with noble hearts at rest—
From precious dust it rises now
To loop the hat on Stella's brow-
There join'd to beauty, wit, and science,
It serves again a Belle Alliance.

June 2d.

V.

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On board a ship

T'inbale the sea's salubrious air,
And drive away corroding care,

To none can come amiss.

The thing indeed were well,-discreetly us'd,

But Margate trips are apt to be abus'd; For what with getting drunk, and getting loo'd,

Numbers ere they come back to town, With swimming heads and faces brown, Empty their pockets, and derive no good. - Not so with Stop:

He, like a man of sense, Look'd to his health, and sav'd bis pence ; And though he lov'd a little pleasure, Would always take it at his leisure,

And then, knew where to stop. It should indeed be said, none thought him fool,

Though he'd some queerish notions in his

head,

And different doctrines held, from every school,

Where your true, sapient M.D.'s all are bred.

From College rules turn'd renegado, He bore the nickname of Sangrado; For like that sage (though seldom he imbib'd it),

"AQUA" his motto was, and he pre scrib'd it.

The Spanish Doctor, 'tis well known,
Like many others of our own,
Still holding fast his fav'rite thesis,
Would pull another man's to pieces;
So SLOP, with anger and ill-nature,
Reviling every thing but water,
Would rail at wine in terms severe,
And even cry down common beer,
His fav'rite dose t'exalt.

But while Sangrado's tribe, I wot,
Prescribe their waters fresh, and hot,
He gave his cold, and salt.
-In short, sea-water was a theme
On which he'd run to an extreme,
That reason far outstripp'd-
A patient's case, though gout, lumbago,
Tenesmus, cramp, or quartian ague,
His practice not a jot would alter,
For still he drench'd them with salt water,
Or, sent them to be dipp'd!

Now gliding down the stream in state, Far from the fumes of Billingsgate, Our Doctor heard the Cockney crew "Vish for a Vind"—he wish'd one too; But no wind came, which prov'd a serious

matter:

And had the calm much longer lasted, All their sea stores had been exhausted; For long ere CRAVESEND stood in sight, Some found a dev`lish appetite

T'attack the platter:

They muster'd every knife and fork, Lugg'd out the prog, and fell to work, Whilst giblet-pie, and tongue, and German sausage,

Nice savory bits, prepar'd to last the pas sage,

Went all to wreck !-
Others, who felt more qualms than they,
Found themselves moved a different way,
And, some were sick upon the deck!
A happy time 'twas now for SLOP,
T'enlarge upon his fav`rite drop,
Who strait resolving not to miss
A scene so apropos as this,
Uprais'd upon a coil of rope,
Soon thus began his mouth to ope,
By way of lecture.

"Right gentle friends,-this circling flood
Is the best thing to do you good.
The Hygeian stream then freely swill-
-Against all Æsculapian skill,

'Tis my director.

Whate'er the modern schools may say,
Extolling nauseous drugs and oils,
And poison brought ten thousand miles,
Let those that will, their rules obey,
I'll hold this simple maxim mine,
That Health is found in streams saline;
And this, my friends, I would advise,
If life, and health, you duly prize,
When dire contagion, fever, gout,
Rheumatic pain, scurvy, or phthisic,
Begins to maul your frames about,
Be this your physic."-

-More had he said, when lo!
A sudden squall came on to blow,
Which soon a tempest roar'd;
When, as the boom swept 'cross the deck,
"It catch'd our Doctor in the neck,
And, knock'd him overboard.
A wanton wag that sat abaft,

I ween from London City, Instead of shewing Christian pity, Held both his sides, and laugh'd. And when reprov'd by all around For this demeanor so unsound, Dryly exclaim'd,-" Why all this pother,

When each to save a drowning brother
Should try his best."

In this I thought you'd all agree
-Do as you please,-and so let me→
I'll have my laugh, and where's the sin?
—To see a Dortor wallowing in
His MEDICINE CHEST!"

Islington, May 15, 1817,

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A long and last adieu !
Whose image brought th' heroic age
Reviv'd to Fancy's view.

Like fields refresh'd with dewy light,
When the sun smiles his last,

Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past.

And Memory conjures feelings up
That wine or music need not swell,
As high we lift the festal cup

To"

KEMBLE, Fare thee well!"
His was the spell over our hearts
Which only Acting lends-
The youngest of the Sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends,
For ill can Poetry express

Full many a tone of thought sublime;
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Steals but one glance from Time.
But, by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion's wedded triumphs come→
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,

But ne'er efface the charm,
When Cato spoke in him alive,

Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resign'd entire

To the deep sorrows of the Moor What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt?

And yet a majesty possess'd

His transports' most impetuous tone,
And to each passion of his breast
The Graces gave their zone.
High were the task-too high,
Ye conscious bosoms here,
In words to paint your memory
Of KEMBLE and of Lear.

But who forgets that white discrowned head,
Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd

glare,

Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair?
If 'twas reality he felt-

Had SHAKSPEARE's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,

And triumph'd to have seen!

And there was many an hour

Of blended kindred fame,
When SIDDONS's auxiliar power
And Sister Magic came."
Together at the Muse's side

Her Tragic Paragons had grown-
N. They were the Children of her pride,
The Columns of her throne,

And undivided favor ran

From heart to heart in their applauseSave for the gallantry of Man

In lovelier Woman's cause.
Fair as some classic dome,

Robust and richly grac'd,
Your KEMBLE's spirit was the home
Of Genius and of Taste-
Taste, like the silent dial's power,

That, when supernal light is given,
Can measure Inspiration's hour,

And tell its height in Heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,

His mind survey'd the Tragic page,
And what the Actor could effect,
The Scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth

And must we lose them now?

And shall the scene no more shew forth
His sternly pleasing brow?

Alas! the moral brings a tear

'Tis all a transient hour below; And we that would detain thee here Ourselves as fleetly go.

Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review-
Pride of the British Stage,
A long and last adieu!

The following song has, we believe, appeared in one or two London Journals, but we cannot, on that account, withhold it from our readers; there is a gloomy grandeur about some of the thoughts, that reminds one of the best passages of Lord Byron's poetry.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, Who fell at the Battle of Corunna, in 1808. OT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note.

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As his corse to the rampart we hurried: Not a soldier discharged bis farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast;

Nor in sheets, nor in shroud, we bound'
him.

But be lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him
Few and short were the prayers we said;

And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

T

And smooth down his lowly pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread, on his head,

And we far away on the billow.

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CHAN

HANT we the requiem, solemn, sad, and sweet;

And mute awhile, amid the festive throng, Be Joy's inspiring song!

Strew we with cypress boughs the Muses' seat;

For he, the father of the varying lay, Of pain and sickness long the suffering prey,

Sinks to the grave; and leaves unstrung the lyre,

Silent each liquid note-extinct its sacred fire.

List to that plaintive strain!

Was it Thy voice, O Harmony!"* that sung

Anselmo's magic lyre unstrung

Ne'er on th' enraptur'd sense to burst again Those chords, so sweetly wild, so full, so clear?

It was thy" awful sound!"—the distant bell Beats slow, responsive to the anthem's swell That pours the parting tribute o'er his hallow'd bier.

"When winds breathe soft"+ where rests Anselmo's clay,

Round our lamented Minstrel's shrine Shall forms unseen" the deathless wreath intwine,

Soft warbling in the breeze the tributary Jay.

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