606 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1817. 



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 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 t'was reality he felt — 



Had Shakspeare's self amidst you been. 

 Friends, he had seen you melt ! 



And triumph'd to have seen. 



And there was many an hour 



Of blended kindred fame. 

 When Siddons's auxiliar power, 



And sister magic came. 



Together at the Muse's side 



Her tragic Paragons had grown — 



They were the children of lier pride. 

 The columns of her throne. 



And undivid-ed 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 grac'd. 

 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 tiagic page. 



And what the actor could effect. 

 The scholar could presage. 



These were liis traits of worth — 



And must we lose them now ? 

 And shall the scene no more show forth 



His sternly pleasing brow ? 



Alas ! 



