 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
25
XX.
While wrapt in wonder of these various shewsThe sovereign shade of Shakespeare awful rose,
His many-colour'd wand he wav'd,
And soon the mournful train again were grav'd.
(Now was His genius even more divine,)
And all alone he stood before his Garrick's shrine.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirits, then, he said,
To me belongs th' inestimable dead;
To each 'tis given to breathe, to fall;
'Tis the fix'd lot of all that soar or crawl.
For Thee, much honour'd friend,
What glories mark'd thy end!
Applauding nations own thy fame,
And, blend their Garrick's, with their Shakespeare's name:
Together then we mount on high,
'Tis our's to triumph, 'tis the World's to sigh.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |