Rise, honour'd Poet, from thy hallow'd bed!

Here, Shakespeare, lift thy laurel-crowned head.

See, worthy thine, and worthy Britain's praise,

The tribute Genius to thy merit pays;

Here thy conceptions all to Nature true,

In paintings living colours rise to view:

The airy Beings here, thy Fancy wrought

In all the daring excellence of thought,

Embodied by her magic pencil, claim

"A local habitation, and a name."

 

Let Beaufort first arrest our wond'ring eyes,

Who rack'd with guilt and pain expiring lies.

"See how the pangs of death do make him grin!"

The "busy Fiend" awakes the worm within.

He dies relentless! sad Ambition's fate;

Too oft the portion of the Proud and Great.

Here Reynolds, all his wonted pow'rs displays,

And to the heart, the dreadful scene conveys.

 

But lo! where Fuseli with sportive grace,

Bids his light pencil fairy revels trace:

Pease-blossom[sic], Cobweb, ev'ry Elf and Fay

Throng round their Queen, all eager to obey:

See Bottom's hairy face, and monstrous ears,

What life, what spirit, in the whole appears.

How gay the Mimicry, how free, how well,

No numbers, Shakespeare, but thine own can tell.

 

Yet when bright Fancy's pleasing dream is o'er,

What pencil can, like his, assume the pow'r,

The horror of each tragic scene to show,

And make the heart with varying passions glow?

When "clad in complete steel" the ghost appears,

And in his Reverend Visage Sorrow wears,

"Revisiting the glimpses of the Night;"

We start with Hamlet at the fearful sight;

Like Hamlet wish, yet dread to hear the tale;

Whilst wonder, fear, and doubt, the mind assail.

 

With passion blind, see hapless Lear disclaim

A Father's tenderness, a Father's name:

See where, expos'd to storms, and tempests rude,

He feels the stings of fell Ingratitude:

Or where in anguish o'er Cordelia's bier,

The hoary Monarch drops the bitter tear.

Our praises here let West and Barry claim,

And share with Fuseli the palm of Fame.

 

O! were it mine with elegance and ease

Like thine, engaging Hamilton, to please;

Then should my verse describe each charming Fair,

Thy Rosalinda's lovely face and air;

Or beauteous Hero's sad distress pourtray,

Or France's lively Princess young and gay.

 

Thine, gentle Northcote! is the happy art,

With childhood innocence to melt the heart:

As all unconscious of impending harm,

With smiles that might a Dæmon's wrath disarm,

The Royal Brothers, sunk in sleep are laid,

The Murderers their sacred couch invade;

"O tyrannous and bloody deed!" we cry;

While the tear glistens in the gazing eye.

Not less distress the beating bosom feels,

When to stern Hubert gentle Arthur kneels;

Who that the stamp of human nature bears,

Resists the eloquence of infant tears?

Reluctant Hubert owns their pow'rful sway,

And bids the Villains quit their bloody prey.

 

Nor shall, although unpolish'd be the strain,

Thy classic pow'rs, Rigaud, unsung remain,

Replete with justice, richness, force and grace,

They mark the tale, and all the Errors cease.

 

With Humour's comic scenes to charm the eye,

See Peters, Wheatley, Smirk and Durno vie.

Here lively Beatrice with attentive ears,

List'ning within "the pleached bow'r" appears:

Here Falstaff feels the jealous husband's rage;

There his recruits the mirthful smile engage.

There Dogberry, Verjuice with important air,

Assume of mighty justice-ship the chair;

Petruchio with dissembled anger storms,

And "bonny Kate" may frown but she conforms.

 

The smile of mirth to temper with a sigh,

Behold "the melancholy Jaques" lie:

The "poor sequester'd Stag" the Hunter's prey,

And the wild herd that wanton frisks away.

The native genius of thy forceful mind,

To harsher subjects Opie is inclin'd:

Yet not successless do thy tints appear

In softer scenes; the hapless Juliet here

May well demand the tributary tear.

 

Where, vanishing from our admiring eyes,

The "baseless fabric of the vision" flies,

To Wright, let Justice give applauses due,

And own his pencil to the Poet true.

 

Now cease my lay! yet not before I tell

The unassuming merit of Boydell:

Taught by his speaking canvas we lament

The feuds which once unhappy Britain rent:

Which o'er the Island civil discord spread,

And "dy'd the white rose with a bloody red."

 

But say what praises can for him suffice,

At whose command these pleasing scenes arise?

Patron of Arts, and rising Genius hail!

Thy worth to sing what numbers shall avail?

Compleat thy charming task, and give to Fame

Boydell's with Shakespeare's never-dying name!

A smiling Nation's thanks shall then be paid,

And grateful Commerce, by fair Science led,

Bid all her Sons some pleasing gift bestow,

For streams of wealth thus taught by thee to flow:

Amid the throng these humble lines receive,

The only tribute which a Bard can give;

The meed of praise, from venal flatt'ry free,

Which Britain and her Shakespeare owe to thee.