A FRAGMENT. 263 



the resemblance to the person imitated, exclaimed, " that is !" 



(naming the London actor imitated), and shouts of applause followed. 

 A second imitation was successfully made, and followed by similar 

 applause ; another to another still succeeded, and the whole series 

 was completed with the same success, till the curtain dropped; and 

 Wilkinson bowed to his audience, for the first time in his life, in the 

 character of a successful and favourite actor. 



Invitations, in the Irish fashion of that time, came in showers; so 

 that all his time was occupied. This entertainment had a long run, 

 and, when that diminished, he became in succession the favourite 

 Macbeth, Richard, Hamlet, - &c. of the season, was well received in 

 all, and, with full pockets, returned to London to take his station, as 

 a person of consequence, among those performers, who would scarcely 

 notice him when he went away. 



A FRAGMENT. 



'Tis midnight, and the broad full moon 



Pours on the earth her silver noon : 



Sheeted in white, like spirits of fear, 



Their ghostly forms the towers uprear; 



And their long dark shadows behind them are cast, 



Like the frown of the cloud when the lightning- hath past. 



The warder sleeps on the battlement ; 



And there is not a breeze to curl the Trent ; 



The leaf is at rest, and the owl is mute 



But list ! awaked is the woodland lute 



'Tis the nightingale warbles her omen sweet 



On the hour when the maid shall her faithful knight meet. 



She waves her hand from the loop-hole high, 



And, stifling her bosom's struggling sigh, 



She listens and looks in paleness and fear, 



Yet tremblingly trusts her lover is near; 



And there skims o'er the river or doth her heart doat ? 



As with wing of the night-hawk, her true lover's boat. 



'Tis his noble form : he hath gained the strand : 

 And she waves again her small white hand ; 

 And breathing to heaven in haste a prayer, 

 Softly glides down the lonely stair ; 

 And there stands at the portal, all watchful and still, 

 Her own faithful damsel awaiting her will. 



T. C. 



