Thus to the sons of men, who brought to view Whence, as Chance held it, Fate, that owns no lord, 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 O happy Albion! blest so much-so soon!- Where Avon, bright, unwinds his glittering zone, And by her lips taught all her spells and charms, Each hidden, deep recess explored at once, Such is the wizard genius, in whose praise And whom the ancients, worshipping his manes, 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, Yet, 'tis a form of earth; He treads like one of meaner birth; 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, Stared at his wildering power! Fashioned of subtle thought, a wand He bare; He waved it round his revelling hair, On inspiration tost Called ages back From their measureless track, And past was present, at his word "Appear!" 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, Comes red-eyed Murder, of himself afraid! 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- 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, 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, |