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Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
FOR A MONUMENT AT RUNNYMEDE.
Thou, who the verdant plain doth traverse here,
FOR A STATUE OF SHAKESPEARE.
O youths and virgins: O declining eld: O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell Unknown with humble quiet; ye who wait In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings: O sons of sport and pleasure: 0 thou wretch That weepest for jealous love, or the sore wounds Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam In exile; ye who through the embattled field Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms Contend, the leaders of a public cause; Approach, behold this marble. Know ye not The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue Told you the fashion of your own estate, The secrets of your bosom? Here then, round His monument with reverence while ye stand, Say to each other, this was Shakespeare's form; Who walked in every path of human life; Felt every passion: and to all mankind Doth now, will ever, that experience yield, Which his own genius only could acquire.'
WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Even at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed; his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings:
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on echo still, through all the song, And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hai And longer had she sung: but, with a frown,
Revenge impatient rose:
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down And, with a withering look,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
And ever and anon, he beat,
The doubling drum, with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity, at his side,
Her soul subduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed,
Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;
With eyes up-raised, as one inspired,
And from her wild sequestered seat,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole: Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing,
Love of peace, and lonely musing,
But O! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
id thicket rung,