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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
To fee the thanklefs children of old Lear,
Ye guilty, lawless tribe,
Efcap'd from punishment by art or bribe!
His genius, like a rushing flood,
Out bursts the penitential tear ;
BUT foon thefe horrors pass away
Leading the nymph Euphrofyne,
Wild, frantic, with pleasure,
To bring him their treasure,
How gay is the measure!
Like rofes fresh blowing,
A treasure of joy.
His rapture perceiving,
They fmile while they're giving,
He smiles at receiving,
WITH kindling cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
Cluft'ring and climbing up his knees,
While Fancy, Wit, and Humour, spread
Which, teaming foon, as foon brought forth,
Not a tiny spurious birth,
But out of mountain came
With fword and fhield, he puffing strides;
Receive him with a fhout;
And modeft nature holds her fides.
Wit, Fancy, Humour, Whim, and Jeft,
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.
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 youth fhall be fam'd for their love and their truth,
Flow, on, filver Avon! in fong ever flow ;
Be the fwans on thy bofom ftill whiter than fnow:
THOUGH bards, with envy-aching eyes,
And would his flight retard;
Yet, each to SHAKESPEARE'S genius bows;
To crown the heav'n distinguish'd Bard.
Nature had form'd him on her nobleft plan;
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 ?
We will his brows with laurel bind,
Sing IMMORTAL SHAKESPEARE'S praife !--
And undiminish'd fame,