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But who forgets that white discrowned head,
Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt?
Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been,
And triumph'd to have seen !
And there was many an hour
Of blended kindred fame,
The tragick paragons had grown
They were the children of her pride,
The columns of her throne,
And undivided favour ran
From heart to heart in their applause,
Save for the gallantry of man,
In lovelier woman's cause.
Fair as some classic dome,
Robust and richly graced, Your KEMBLE's spirit was the home
Of genius and of taste :— Taste like the silent dial's power,
That when supernal light is given, Can measure inspiration's hour,
And tell its height in heaven.
At once ennobled and correct,
His mind survey'd the tragick page,
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.
These were his traits of worth:
And must we lose them now!
And shall the scene no more shew forth
His sternly pleasing brow! Alas, the moral brings a tear !
"Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here,
Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review :
Pride of the British stage,
BRITONS! although our task is but to shew
LINES SPOKEN ON THE DEATH
For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust,
Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow,
Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high,
But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn,
There, where the happiest of the happy dwelt,
Torn from an agonized husband's side,