Time may again revive, But ne’er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, Or Hotspur kindled warm. What soul was not resigned entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor,— What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt? And yet a Majesty possessed His transport’s most impetuous tone, And to each passion of his breast The Graces gave their zone. High were the task—too high, Ye conscious bosoms here! In words to paint your memory Of Kemble and of Lear; But who forgets that white discrownèd head, Those bursts of Reason’s half-extinguished glare— Those tears upon Cordelia’s bosom shed, In doubt more touching than despair, If ’twas reality he felt? Had Shakespeare’s self amidst you been, Friends, he had seen you melt, And triumphed to have seen! And there was many an hour Of blended kindred fame, When Siddons’ auxiliar power And sister magic came. Together at the Muse’s side The tragic 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 surveyed the tragic 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 show 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, A long and last adieu! A DREAM. Well may sleep present us fictions, Since our waking moments teem With such fanciful convictions As make life itself a dream. Half our daylight faith’s a fable; Sleep disports with shadows too Seeming in their turn as stable As the world we wake to view. Ne’er by day did Reason’s mint Give my thoughts a clearer print Of assured reality, Than was left by Phantasy, Stamped and coloured on my sprite, In a dream of yesternight. In a bark, methought, lone steering, I was cast on Ocean’s strife; This, ’twas whispered in my hearing, Meant the sea of life. Sad regrets from past existence Came, like gales of chilling breath; Shadowed in the forward distance Lay the land of Death. Now seeming more, now less remote, On that dim-seen shore, methought, I beheld two hands a space Slow unshroud a spectre’s face; And my flesh’s hair upstood,— ’Twas mine own similitude.