 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
III.
The dead—ah, me!—what dead?—Here it beganThe florid Poet felt himself a Man.
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So often tone, and touch'd, and tun'd the heart?
Whose piercing eye intelligence could give,
And bid long-buried beings look and live?
Whose voice enrich'd the verse his Shakespeare writ,
And gave to every word its weight of wit;
No sentence blemish'd, marr'd no golden line,
But polish'd, as he drew it from the mine;
Whose tongue grew wanton in his Shakespeare's cause,
And gave to crowded Theatres their laws;
Whose powerful accents, soften'd or sublime,
Free from all frippery, false pause, false chime,
Chain'd, as to th' attracting centre, every ear;
And, all commanding, sway'd the smile and tear:
Is it to Him the Muse must pay
Her tributary lay?
For him, must aching Memory pour the strain,
Must she her honour'd Garrick's loss complain?
| Miscellanies (1785) | |