154 SHAKSPEARE ODE. There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade, Lighting there and lingering long, Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, And bade him wake and warm the world! Then Shakspeare rose! His daring hand he flings, And lo! a new creation glows! There, clustering round, submissive to his will, Madness, with his frightful scream, Vengeance, leaning on his lance, Avarice, with his blade and beam, Hatred, blasting with a glance; Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars, And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet adores. Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit, Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell. SHAKSPEARE ODE. Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, 155 Beneath the bubbling wave, that shrouds her maniac breast. Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Where they met, but met to die : And now, when crimson buds are sleeping, Where beauty's child, the frowning world forgot, Rapture on her dark lash glistening, While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, Obedient to their Master's song, And lead in willing chain the wondering soul along. The rapt magician of his own wild lay, Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale spectres rise : 156 SHAKSPEARE ODE. Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep, The crime that cursed, the deed that blessed an age, Lo! hand in hand, Hell's juggling sisters stand, To greet their victim from the fight; They tempt him to the work of death, Then melt in air and mock his wondering sight. In midnight's hallowed hour, He seeks the fatal tower, Where the lone raven, perched on high, Pours to the sullen gale Her hoarse prophetic wail, And croaks the dreadful moment nigh. See, by the phantom dagger led, Pale, guilty thing, Slowly he steals with silent tread, And grasps his coward steel to smite his sleeping king. Hark! 'tis the signal bell, SHAKSPEARE ODE. Struck by that bold and unsexed one, Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone; "Tis done! 'tis done! Behold him from the chamber rushing, Where his dead monarch's blood is gushing, Sad gazing there, Life's smoking crimson on his hands, Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering ! For him the living furies burn; For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak, 157 And chides the lagging night, and whets her hungry beak. Echoes round the vale of death. Vengeance! he meets thy dooming blade! 158 SHAKSPEARE ODE. And all his guilty glories fade. Like a crushed reptile in the dust he lies, Behold yon crownless king Yon white-locked, weeping sire :Where heaven's unpillared chambers ring, And burst their streams of flood and fire! He gave them all-the daughters of his love;That recreant pair!—they drive him forth to rove; In such a night of wo, The cubless regent of the wood Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood, And caverns with her foe! Yet one was ever kind, Why lingers she behind? O pity!-view him by her dead form kneeling, To see those curtained orbs unfold, That beauteous bosom heave again,— But all is dark and cold. Each withered heart-string tugs and breaks! Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes, And on her marble lips his last, his death-kiss breathes. |