No more I weep, they do not sleep; In yonder hall, a grisly band I see them sit, they linger yet, And only wait a rallying hand. With me in dreadful harmony to join, And howl destruction to the Kemble line. Peering high, and near the roof, _Pale_ Confusion showed her face; In accents wild, and sharp reproof, Thus addressed her fallen race:―― Mark the hour, and mark the night, When Thames shall echo with delight; And to your ears the dreadful verdict bring: When _Henry’s antique_ towers shall ring With shouts that strike Thames Ditton with affright. The wolf of law, with unrelenting fangs, Tearing the bowels of our mangled mate; Fell conviction, hovering o’er us, hangs; The scourge of Justice, ah! what ills await; Amazement in the van, and fear combined, And poverty and cold imprisonment behind. What tho’ Clifford, daring chief, Has gained, _by chance_, a short lived fame, That will to us bring no relief, Who fed the fire and fann’d the flame; From us the gallant hero’s dead, And Wienholt too has _veil’d his head_. The swarms that in the Statesman’s beams were born. The public taste has laughed to scorn, And all our efforts overwhelm; In easy sail their _new built vessel_ goes, Shakespeare at the prow, and Kemble at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway, That, hurl’d in dread repose, has lost its evening prey. Lo! They fill the tragic bowl, A rich repast prepare; Reason’s feast and flow of soul Again will triumph here; While punishment and vengeance scowl A baleful frown upon our baffled host. Late we heard their battle bray, Arm to arm and force to force; Thro’ hours of havoc urg’d the course, And thro’ all Bow-street squadrons mow’d their way. These hours are gone, and gone our fame, And nearly sunk is O.P.’s name. Judgment suspended o’er their head, Above, below, they deal the blow, And o’er the plain our flying squadrons spread; The _brothers_, smiling at our dismal doom, Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terrors gloom. But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless’d, unaided here to mourn. In yon dark cloud, that skirts the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes; But, ah; what dazzling scenes on Kemble wait! Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll; Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye _crowded houses_, rush not on my soul; No more their long-lost Shakespeare they bewail, The flash of his far-beaming eye they hail, And with him Otway, Southerne, Rowe, Sublime, their starry frontlets rear. And gorgeous dames in gallant show In mimic majesty appear; In the midst a form divine,[54] Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line; Her light’ning eye, her awe-commanding face, Attemper’d sweet to ev’ry grace. What sounds of acclamation fill the air!