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that when Providence restored this august Family to us, she rejoiced in their prosperity, and expressed it in a manner which proved how much her attachment to them was noble and sincere! It was she who sent to a Princess, dear to all France, whose virtues and rare qualities she acknowledged, whose great soul she admired, and whom, in beneficence and nobleness of character, she particularly resembled, a bunch of lilies, as a presage of the restoration of the Bourbons to the throne; as a token of the wish which she formed with all Frenchmen for that event; and to which Heaven has at length, happily for our prosperity, and for the repose of the world, deigned to lend a favourable ear."

The performance at Drury-lane Theatre, on the evening of the 21st, being the first night of opening since the demise of the Princess Charlotte, is entitled to the warmest approbation. It was sanctioned by the Committee of Management, for the benefit of certain individuals connected with the establishment, who had suffered from the shutting up of the theatre on the late melancholy occasion, and whose circumstances were such as to make the loss sustained a serious object to them.

Every care was taken to render the whole business of the evening an appropriate tribute to the memory of her, whose untimely loss the nation is doomed to deplore. All the cushions in front of the boxes were covered with black; the

pillars which sustained the several tiers were also put in mourning, and adorned at the top with bows of white ribands. A funeral escutcheon was suspended on the left side of the audience part of the theatre; and if any thing were wanting to make the sable picture complete, it was supplied by the dresses of the numerous audience, among whom it was hardly possible to point out a single man or woman who was out of mourning,

Mozart's Requiem opened the solemn harmony of the evening, in a manner well suited to the occasion. The chorusses were admirably performed. Miss Byrne, when the first part was about to close, sung Angels ever bright and fair," with infinite sweetness and taste, and was loudly encored.

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At the opening of the second part, the following Monody was spoken by Mrs. Bartley:

Britons! although our task is but to show
The scenes and passions of fictitious woe;
Think not we come, this night, without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which, like a shade, háth darken'd every place,
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face.
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles,
That toll'd a requiem through the solemn aisles
For her, the Royal Flow'r, low laid in dust,
That was your fairest hope--your fondest trust.
Unconscious of the doom-we dreamt-alas!-
That even these walls-ere many months should pass--
(Which but return sad accents for her now)
Perhaps had witnessed her benignant brow,

Cheer'd by the voice ye would have rais'd on high
In burst of British love and loyalty.
But Britain, now thy gen'rous people mourn,
And Claremont's home of love is left forlorn;
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
The 'scutcheon glooms and Royalty hath felt
A wound, that every bosom feels its own-
The blessing of a father's heart o'erthrown-
The best belov'd—and most devoted bride
Torn from an agonized husband's side-

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Who long as memory holds her seat' shall view
The speechless, more than spoken, last adieu!
When the fix'd eye, long looked connubial faith,
And beam'd affection in the trance of death.
Sad was the pomp that yesternight beheld,
As with the mourner's heart the anthem swell'd,
Where torch succeeding torch, illum'd each high
And banner'd arch of England's chivalry;
The high-plum'd canopy, the gorgeous pall,
The sacred march, and sable vested wall;-
These were not rites of inexpressive show,
But hallowed as the types of real woe.—
Daughter of England; for a Nation's sighs,
A Nation's heart, went with thine obsequies:
And oft shall time revert a look of grief,
On thine existence, beautiful and brief.
Fair Spirit, send thy blessing from above,
To realms where thou art canonized by love;
Give to a Father's-Husband's-bleeding mind,
The peace that Angels lend to human kind.-
To us, who in thy lov'd remembrance feel
A sorrowing yet a soul-ennobling zeal-
A loyalty that touches all the best

And loftiest principles of England's breast.
Still may thy name speak concord from the tomb-

Still in the Muse's breath thy memory bloom;

They shall describe thy life, thy form portray;
But all the Love that mourns thee swept away,
"Tis not in language or expressive arts

To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts!

Handel's Funeral Anthem was listened to with sincere admiration. The words were perfectly in unison with the feelings of the audience.

When the ear heard her, then it blessed her; and when the eye saw her, it gave witness of her.

• She delivered the poor that cried; kindness, meekness, and comfort were in her tongue, &c.'

Holy, holy, Lord God Almighty,' was done perfect justice to, by the exquisite melody of Mrs. Salmon, and was most rapturously encored. 'Gentle Airs,' finely sung by Mr. T. Cooke, was also demanded again.

The Anthem composed by the late Rev. Dr. Blake, called for peculiar attention. But eight and forty hours before, the same sounds were heard in St. George's Chapel-the same solemn strains were echoed from the open grave of the beloved and lamented Charlotte. The touching effect of the renewal of a scene, so recent and so sad, may be easier conceived than described. No shouts of boisterous applause marked the feeling which it excited; it was listened to with silent, universal attention-with profound and unaffected sorrow.

The decease of the Princess Charlotte called into action all the poetical talent of the country. Poets and poetasters daily sent their lucubrations to the diurnal prints.

And some now wrote who never wrote before,

And those who often wrote, now wrote the more.

To particularize any individual poem would be invidious, considering that several of them display some of the finest specimens of versification; and the merits of which have been already duly appreciated by a discerning public. We cannot, however, refrain from communicating to our readers the following Funeral Wreath,' which was handsomely handed to us by the author, Thompson, Esq., assistant secretary for charities to his Royal Highness the Duke of Kent:

THE Sun had set,-the Stars were shining,
And not a cloud betoken'd sorrow:
Where youthful Hope her brow was twining,
To hail the promised joy to-morrow.

And fair as Heaven's own holiest light,

Were the visions of bliss that illumined the night;
And pure as Cherubim's golden dreams,

Were the wishes and prayers on that eve ascending;

And soft as a Summer sun's parting beams,

The Rainbow of promise its tints was blending:

All lovely and still,-as if earth and air

Were waiting the birth of an Empire's heir.

For the Rose-bud of England bloom'd bright in its bower, And Happiness smiled on the Princely flower,

Yet a Nation's pride, and a Nation's power,

Were fix'd on the fate of that midnight hour.

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