Great Homer’s birth sev’n rival cities claim, Too mighty such monopoly of Fame; Yet not to birth alone did Homer owe His wondrous worth; what Egypt could bestow, With all the schools of Greece and Asia join’d, Enlarg’d th’ immense expansion of his mind. Nor yet unrival’d the Mæonian strain, The British Eagle and the Mantuan Swan Tow’r equal heights. But happier Stratford, thou With incontested laurels deck thy brow: Thy bard was thine _unschool’d_, and from thee brought More than all Egypt, Greece, or Asia taught. Not Homer’s self such matchless honours won; The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakespeare none. Dodsley’s _Collection of Poems by Several Hands_. 1782, ii. p. 315. “The British Eagle,” _i.e._ Milton. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, 1794 (1762-1850) “_On Shakespeare._” O sovereign master, who with lovely state Dost rule as in some isle’s enchanted land, On whom soft airs and shadowy spirits wait, Whilst scenes of faerie bloom at thy command! On thy wild shores forgetful could I lie, And list, till earth dissolved, to thy sweet minstrelsy! Called by thy magic from the hoary deep, Aërial forms should in bright troops ascend, And then a wondrous masque before me sweep; While sounds _that the earth owned not_, seem to blend Their stealing melodies, that when the strain Ceased, _I should weep, and would so dream again_! The charm is wound: I see an aged form, In white robes, on the winding sea-shore stand; O’er the careering surge he waves his wand: Upon the black rock bursts the bidden storm. Now from bright opening clouds I hear a lay, _Come to these yellow sands, fair stranger, come away_. Saw ye pass by the weird sisters pale? Marked ye the lowering castle on the heath? Hark! hark! is the deed done? the deed of death! The deed is done—hail, king of Scotland, hail! I see no more;—to many a fearful sound The bloody cauldron sinks, and all is dark around. Pity! touch the trembling strings, A maid, a beauteous maniac, wildly sings: “They laid him in the ground so cold, Upon his breast the earth is thrown; High is heaped the grassy mould, _Oh! he is dead and gone_. The winds of the winter blow o’er his cold breast, But pleasant shall be his rest.” The song is ceased. Ah! who, pale shade, art thou, Sad raving to the rude tempestuous night? Sure thou hast had much wrong, so stern thy brow; So piteous thou dost tear thy tresses white; So wildly thou dost cry, “_Blow, bitter wind, Ye elements, I call not _you_ unkind_.”