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Thus to the sons of men, who brought to view
What baffled gods, the promised boon was due ;
Which to bestow by lot the powers above
Decreed, obedient to the will of Jove!
The names of nations, living and unborn,
Were forthwith cast into a golden urn;

Whence, as Chance held it, Fate, that owns no lord,
Drew out the lots, and gave the passing word.
The issue, to the gods alone revealed,

For ages in heaven's archives lay concealed;

When, lo! the destined hour rends Time's dark womb, And wrests it from Oblivion's silent tomb

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O happy Albion! blest so much-so soon!-
The lot is thine! and Shakspeare is the boon!

Where Avon, bright, unwinds his glittering zone,
There first the promised poet's birth-star shone:
There, midst the fairy scenes, the inspired one strayed,
And Nature, his sole guide, loved and obeyed;
Nursed on her bosom, cradled in her arms,

And by her lips taught all her spells and charms,
He spoke 'twas her own voice, soul-thrilling, wild—
The mother's self spoke in her darling child!
But when he waved her wand of magick might,
And held her mystick mirror to the sight;
All naked there was seen the human heart,
Despoiled of varnished mask and specious art:

Each hidden, deep recess explored at once,
And all the inward man shown at a glance.
The self-convicted villain trembling stood,
And conscious murther shrunk aghast from blood;
Ambition, that, for wreck of nations toiled,
With horror from the dark abyss recoiled;
Parental, conjugal, and filial love
Exhaled the perfume of Elysian grove;
And monster Jealousy, self-scourged, self-fed,
From its own Gorgon locks in terror fled!

Such is the wizard genius, in whose praise
We dare this night our grateful pageant raise;
Whose glorious triumphs England's Roscius famed,
Ere now, in publick jubilee, proclaimed;

And whom the ancients, worshipping his manes,
Had plied with altars, crowns, and sculptured fanes!
Smile, then, Columbia! Albion's daughter fair!
Smile on our efforts and our homage share!
For, both, the lot, the boon, by grace divine,
And right of heritage, are doubly thine!

XIV.

"Twas at a time Apollo stood in tears! The age of gold had gone

The Muses wandered to their home, No longer from their halls to roam, And e'en the eternal youth seemed pale with years! The nations at his feet

In leaden silence meet,

And mourn and wonder round his tuneless throne! But lo! a form appears,

Borne on the coming years

Wrapt like a vision in his robe of air,
A thousand hues are there!

Yet, 'tis a form of earth;

He treads like one of meaner birth;
And still that splendid brow,

Springs into divinity

The towering mount of poetry!

And now,

He comes! he comes! it is our child, Shakspeare!

The sister choir

On wings of fire,

Oppressed with genius, smite the lyre,

Till every wire

Grows wild with song!

He's here-he's here

Shakspeare !

And long

They would have pæaned round Apollo's throne: But, when the bard

Essayed to put their madness down,

Silent they stood, and gazed and heard,
While all the mortals lost,

Stared at his wildering power!
Within his hand,

Fashioned of subtle thought, a wand

He bare;

He waved it round his revelling hair,
That streamed like banners to the air,
And cried" Appear!"

On inspiration tost
Enchanted Time

Called ages back

From their measureless track,

And past was present, at his word "Appear!"
The wand is waved,

And heroes who were graved

Beneath eternal Rome,

Come in their kingly pomp and kingly crowns, Treading with Cæsar in their helms and gowns ; Till Brutus stabs them down,

Then pass away in gloom!

But lo! another wave,
And from the grave

Comes red-eyed Murder, of himself afraid!
But hold! he seeks a crown-

And on his meteor blade

Conscience has painted hell,

Which none but woman shames him to outbrave!

Again; another thing

That would be England's king-
Intent on prayers and blood!

See how he plucks them down,

Those gentle flowers, just blown,

Making a curst ambition all his god.

He dies and see, a vestal train

To melancholy musick's strain,

Comes mingling with the tents, and casques, and plumes. A stately warrior there,

Stands in the misty air,

And while his boiling heart his country dooms,
See Mercy, Tears, and Love,

Illumined from above,

Kneel down in eloquence of woe,

Until the Bard himself begins to flow: The hero weeps-he turns-the victory's won! The suppliant mother gains her exiled son!

And now the scented air,

Fanned up with pinions fair,

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