Billeder på siden

He gives the awful word

And they, all foaming, trembling, own him for their lord.

With these his flaves--- he can control

Or charm the foul.

So realiz'd are all his golden dreams
Of terror, pity, love, and grief,
Tho' confcious that the vifion only feems,
The woe-ftruck mind finds no relief.
Ingratitude would drop the tear;
Cold-blooded age take fire;

To fee the thanklefs children of old Lear,
Spurn at their king and fire;
With his, our reafon, too, grows wild :
What nature had disjoin'd,
The poet's power combin'd-
Madness and age-ingratitude and child.

Ye guilty, lawless tribe,

Efcap'd from punishment by art or bribe!
At SHAKESPEARE's bar appear.
No bribing, fhuffling, there

His genius, like a rushing flood,
Cannot be withstood':

Out bursts the penitential tear ;
The look appall'd the crime reveals;
The marble-hearted monfter feels---
Whofe hand is ftain'd with blood.

BUT foon thefe horrors pass away
Through ftorms and night, breaks forth the day.
He fmiles they vanish into air!
The bufkin'd warriors difappear!
Mute the trumpets, mute the drums
The scene is chang'd-Thalia comes,,


Leading the nymph Euphrofyne,
Goddess of joy and liberty!
She and her fifters, hand in hand
Link'd to a num'rous frolic band,
With rofes and with myrtle crown'd,
O'er the green velvet lightly bound,
Circling the monarch of th' inchanted land.

Wild, frantic, with pleasure,
They trip it in measure,

To bring him their treasure,
The treasure of joy.

How gay is the measure!
How fweet is the pleasure !
How great is the treasure!
The treasure of joy.

Like rofes fresh blowing,
Their dimpled cheeks glowing,
His mind is o'erflowing,

A treasure of joy.

His rapture perceiving,

They fmile while they're giving,

He smiles at receiving,
A treasure of joy.

WITH kindling cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
Surrounded thus, the Bard, in transport dies.
The little Loves, like bees,

Cluft'ring and climbing up his knees,
His brows with roses bind;

While Fancy, Wit, and Humour, spread
Their wings and hover round his head,
Impregnating his mind :


Which, teaming foon, as foon brought forth,

Not a tiny spurious birth,

But out of mountain came
A mountain of delight!
Laughter roar'd out to see the fight-
And Falfalff was his name!

With fword and fhield, he puffing strides;
The joyous revel rout

Receive him with a fhout;

And modeft nature holds her fides.
No fingle pow'r the deed had done,
But great and fmall;

Wit, Fancy, Humour, Whim, and Jeft,
The huge mishapen heap, imprefs'd;
And lo-Sir John!

A compound of 'em all;

A comic world in one.

A world where all pleasures abound,

So fruitful the earth,

So quick to bring forth

And the world, too, is wicked and round.

As the well-teaming earth,

With rivers and show'rs, Will, fmiling, bring forth Her fruits and her flow'rs; So Falftaff will never decline:

Still fruitful and gay,

He moistens his clay;

And his rain, and his rivers are wine.
Of the World he has all, but its care:
No load, but of flesh, will he bear:
He laughs off his pack;

Takes a cup of old fack

And away with all forrow and care:


THOU foft-flowing Avon! by thy filver ftream,

Of Things more than mortal fweet SHAKESPEARE would dream;

The fairies, by moon-light dance round his green bedFor hallow'd the turf is, that pillow'd his head.

The love-ftriken maiden, the foft-fighing fwain,
Here rove without danger, and figh without pain;
The fweet bud of beauty, no blight fhall here dread-
For hallow'd the turf is, that pillow'd his head.

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

Flow, on, filver Avon! in fong ever flow ;

Be the fwans on thy bofom ftill whiter than fnow:
Ever full be thy ftream, like his fame may it spread-.-
And the turf ever hallow'd, that pillow'd his head.

THOUGH bards, with envy-aching eyes,
Behold a tow'ring eagle rife,

And would his flight retard;

Yet, each to SHAKESPEARE'S genius bows;
Each waves a garland for his brows,

To crown the heav'n distinguish'd Bard.

Nature had form'd him on her nobleft plan;
And, to the genius---join'd the feeling man.

CAN British gratitude delay,

To him the glory of this ifle,

To give the feftive day,

The fong, the ftatue, and devoted pile ?



Shall the hero laurels gain,

For ravag'd fields, and thousands slain ?
And shall his brows no laurels bind,
Who charms to virtue human-kind ?

We will his brows with laurel bind,
Who charms to virtue human-kind.-
Raise the pile, the statue raise;

The fong will ceafe, the ftone decay;
But his name,

And undiminish'd fame,
Shall never--- never pass away.

[merged small][ocr errors]
« ForrigeFortsæt »