How much, in ev'ry age, the Poet's thought
Of its perfection from the Actor caught;
What graceful airs, what majesty of woe,
On ancient scenes a R OSCIUS could bestow;
Beyond the plausive impotence of rhyme,
Thy meaning features tell our later time;
While, to thine eye transplanted from thy breast,
The soul of mighty S HAKESPEARE shines confest.
Vain were the toil to mark each varied charm,
Correctly chaste, yet masculinely warm,
That lends thy characters, a truth unknown
To former days, a lustre all thy own!
Oh! when familiar with the forms of death,
That crowd, terrific, on the haunted heath;
While the convulsive start, or dubious gaze,
Ambition's wild uncertainty betrays;
Or, when conflicting agonies of woe,
Now, prompt, and, now, repel the traitor-blow;
She, she alone, whose cold, fix'd, murd'rous eye,
And gory hand, her woman-heart belye;
She, who incites thee to the ruthless deed,
Alone, with thee durst venture to succeed!
For, who, like her can breathe amazement round,
While ev'ry sense in pauseful trance is drown'd?
Who can such thrilling tenderness impart
To these sad shrieks, that agonize the heart?
Nature, for once, her sov'reignty of mind,
To one high-favor'd family confin'd;
Nor could'st thou, K EMBLE , competition fear,
Were not thy rival, in a Sister, near.