THE WINTER THEATRES.

THE present season may be considered as a kind of era in theatrical history. It has proclaimed the dissolution, for a time at least, of that managerial compact by which the interests of the two winter houses were supposed, in a certain measure, to be united. There has been an interchange of performers without mutual privity. Each theatre has made an effort to circumvent its rival, and the courtesy which prevailed respecting the acting of particular plays, has been less strictly observed; but what forms the principal feature of this revolution, is the abduction of Mr. Kemble and Mrs. Siddons from Drury-Lane theatre, after an uninterrupted reign there, of almost twenty years. Mr. Kemble is now a joint proprietor of CoventGarden; and as property without a power over it, is held by a precarious tenure, he is also invested with the management of the stage concerns. Mr. Lewis has resigned to him an office which, from the year 1782, he has discharged with the most indefatigable and zealous diligence, and with a popularity which nothing but very polished manners, and a well-regulated temper, could so long have ensured to him, in so arduous a situation. Mr. Lewis, however, though retired from this irksome duty, does not quit the stage. He will still continue to gratify the public with his exquisite talents in genteel and lively comedy, a walk in which he has never yet met with a competitor, and, if we may judge from present appearances, will leave, at his retirement, no tolerable successor.

The alterations we have noticed must necessarily produce a considerable change in the system at both houses. This will be felt as the season advances. Hitherto nothing very remarkable has occurred to attract the notice of the theatrical amateur, unless it be that, in the play-bills of Covent-Garden, the same order is observed as in those of Drury-Lane; the characters being now arranged according to the degrees of society, and not, as before, correspondently with the rank of the part, or the reputation and consequence of the performer. The actor who plays the part of a knight or a baronet must give way to a candle-snuffer, should he happen to represent a member of the peerage. There is this difficulty attending Mr. Kemble's plan. Unless the manager be an able Master of the Ceremonies, he may chance to infringe the laws of precedency. In one respect the measure is certainly proper: it prevents the possibility of contention upon the subject, and any invidious comment or sensation among the performers. Mr. Kemble having taken the tide at the flood, (the three last seasons having been the most profitable that were ever known) he must be a very unskilful navigator indeed, if it do not lead on to fortune.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

Written on returning from Mildenhall in a very tempestuous Night, Friday, 7th Oct. with my Brother-in-Law, Mr. C. F. by assistance of a Guide and Warren Lantern over a great Extent of Heath.

SONNET.

O PILOT, not o'er sea, but sea-like land,
Whether forlorn a Dame* o'er Brandon stray,
Sans Charioteer, or Errant Wights their way
O'er Barrow's Wilds and Hills, Falls, Gulphs of Sand,
Wind dubious without Moon, or faintest Ray
Of Star, while Winds such as torment the Strand
Of Lapland while the midnight Hag her Lay
Chaunts to Night's ebon Throne, howl, and the Hand

II.

Hopes not to guide the Rein, and Torrents pour,
Doubling the Gloom-Thou keepest not the Door

Of selfish Ease barr'd to the Wanderer's Quest;
Thy little Light, thine eye, through Tempest's Roar,
To Levermeret conducts: Hill, Pit, nor Moor

Deters thee, nor the Love of short and much wisht Rest.
8 Oct. 1803.
C. L.

The same Guide drove a Lady home about twelve or fourteen years back, the Driver of her Chaise having left it.

+ The way thence to Troston is easy,

Rude were their arms, but firm their hearts

Unskill'd in military arts

Their blessings few, but dear.

By their heroic deeds inspir'd,
Shall not their prouder sons be fir'd,
And death or victory chuse ?
When now a more rapacious foe
Aims at your isle a deadlier blow,
Think what you have to lose!

All that is dear in polish'd life,
All that is worth the martial strife,

Which ne'er your fathers knew:

O rouse! and guard your best delights :Your country's hopes--your country's rightsYour country looks to you!

By Virtue's prayers, by Age's fears,
By Childhood's charms, by Beauty's tears,
Unsheath the vengeful sword!

O spurn a faithless tyrant's yoke;
With spirits unsubdued---unbroke---
Nor trust his treach'rous word!

Will HE, whose desolating bands
Pour'd horror over other lands,
Respect your nation's rights?
Believe it not--Ambition knows
Compunction ne'er for human woes,
When wealth or pow'r invites.

When duty calls--when Heav'n inspires--
While lives th' example of your sires,

And Freedom's name endures,

Britons, united, dare oppose

Your breasts to all invading foes,

And victory shall be yours?

SONNET,

TO MR. HENRY KIRKE WHITE,

On his Poems lately published,

BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.

HAIL! gifted youth, whose passion-breathing lay
Portrays a mind, attun'd to noblest themes,

A mind, which wrapt in fancy's high-wrought dreams, To nature's veriest bounds its daring way

Can wing: what charms throughout thy pages shine
To win with fairy thrill the melting soul!
For though along impassion'd grandeur roll,
Yet in full power simplicity is thine.

Proceed, sweet bard; and the heaven-granted fire
Of pity, glowing in thy feeling breast,

May nought destroy, may nought thy soul divest
Of joy of rapture in the living lyre

Thou tun'st so magically; but may fame
Each passing year add honours to thy name.
Richmond.

CANZONET:

" &c.

BY MR. H. K. WHITE, AUTHOR OF CLIFTON GROVE,"

ELEGY.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.

No breath disturbs the lake's pure, placid breast;
The vale is wrapt in soft oblivious sleep;

All, all within are sunk to balmy rest;
All, all but me, who only wake to weep.

I sigh, I weep,-but what avails the tear

That Memory sheds o'er dear departed joys?
Or what the sigh that Mis'ry breathes sincere,
When her last hope and her last pleasure dies.

Yet still she weeps, and still, when ev'ning falls,
Seeks the lone shade, all mournful to complain;
Sighs o'er each scene that Memory recals,

And "weeps the more because she weeps in vain."

Widow'd of joy, when day's bright beams depart,
Amid these glooms I wander to lament;

For gloom and silence suit the sad of heart,
And here the morning of my life was spent.

'Twas here I bow'd to Love's resistless sway;

From Laura's eyes the dart, unerring, came: These shades have heard the fond, impassion'd lay, These bowers have witness'd scenes of bliss supreme.

Ah me! how fleeting and how short the date
Of all our pleasures, all our joys beneath;

The sun of all my happiness is set,

And welcome now the long dark night of death.

I bless its soft approach-I think it slow

Fain would I prove the slumber of the dead; Fain would I try, where yonder yew trees grow, To lay this aching, this devoted head.

Let other swains, beneath the leafy shade,

Breathe the light flute, and weave the garland fair,

Or lead the walk along the painted mead,

And breathe the tender vow in Daphne's ear.

Be mine, while wearied Nature strength supplies,
O'er thy lone grave, dear, lovely maid, to weep,
And when life's flame evaporates and dies,
Within thy clay-cold bosom may I sleep.

D.

M M-VOL. XVI