 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
208
Written on a blank Leaf of SHAKESPEARE.
Oh, Shakespeare! Shakespeare! How thy Magic charms!
Now wakes to rage, and now as quick disarms;
Sooths, pierces, melts;—hurries our souls away,
Leaving untenanted our shells of clay.
Those worlds which Alexander wish'd in vain
With murd'ring lawless conquest to obtain,
Thy more victorious Pen (that magic wand!)
Charms from their Spheres to hail thy great command:
Elves, Witches, Demons start up at thy call;
You naturalize, what was unnatural.
Now wakes to rage, and now as quick disarms;
Sooths, pierces, melts;—hurries our souls away,
Leaving untenanted our shells of clay.
Those worlds which Alexander wish'd in vain
With murd'ring lawless conquest to obtain,
Thy more victorious Pen (that magic wand!)
Charms from their Spheres to hail thy great command:
Elves, Witches, Demons start up at thy call;
You naturalize, what was unnatural.
A single Page of thine delineates more
Than Volumes from a modern Play-wright's store:
Our language is too weak to make thee known,
You form a richer language of your own,
Shakesperian all!—You charm us, whilst around
We tread Parnassian consecrated ground.
Than Volumes from a modern Play-wright's store:
Our language is too weak to make thee known,
You form a richer language of your own,
Shakesperian all!—You charm us, whilst around
We tread Parnassian consecrated ground.
In a fine phrenzy rolling, your keen eye
Pierces the depth of vast profundity;
Quicker than Jove's own lightning rapid flies,
And at your plastic touch new Beings rise:
What worlds are by thy wond'rous Fiat made!
Thou Great Creator! I had almost said.
Pierces the depth of vast profundity;
Quicker than Jove's own lightning rapid flies,
And at your plastic touch new Beings rise:
What worlds are by thy wond'rous Fiat made!
Thou Great Creator! I had almost said.
The Critic's pigmy basis you despise,
All Nature is the Base on which you rise;
To others as superior your Quill,
As Atlas to the Mole-constructed hill:
Like Larks at best They skim our nether skies,
Whilst Eagle Shakespeare to Heav'n's Summit flies,
Perches Jove's Sceptre, waits his awful Nod,
Or grasps the dreadful Thunder of the God.
All Nature is the Base on which you rise;
To others as superior your Quill,
As Atlas to the Mole-constructed hill:
209
Whilst Eagle Shakespeare to Heav'n's Summit flies,
Perches Jove's Sceptre, waits his awful Nod,
Or grasps the dreadful Thunder of the God.
If it be true what Critics oft have said,
That Admiration is of Folly bred,
Grant Heav'n, that Folly's paths I still attend,
And wear her Liv'ry to my Being's end.
That Admiration is of Folly bred,
Grant Heav'n, that Folly's paths I still attend,
And wear her Liv'ry to my Being's end.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |