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. 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, He gave them all-the daughters of his love ;- 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. In agony the father shakes; Grief's choking note Swells in his throat, 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. Down! trembling wing-shall insect weakness keep The sun-defying eagle's sweep? A mortal strike celestial strings, And feebly echo what a seraph sings? Who now shall grace the glowing throne, Where, all unrivalled, all alone, Bold Shakspeare sat, and looked creation through, That throne is cold-that lyre in death unstrung, On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung. Yet Old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps, 159 One spot shall spare-the grave where Shakspeare sleeps. Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, But Nature's laureate bards shall never die. Art's chiselled boast, and Glory's trophied shore, Must live in numbers, or can live no more. While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim, |