And memory conjures feelings up That wine or music need not swell, As high we lift the festal cup To Kemble-fare thee well! His was the spell o'er hearts Which only acting lends, The youngest of the sister Arts, Where all their beauty blends: For ill can Poetry express Full many a tone of thought sublime, And Painting, mute and motionless, Steals but a glance of time. But by the mighty actor brought, Illusion's perfect triumphs come, Verse ceases to be airy thought, And Sculpture to be dumb. Time may again revive, But ne'er eclipse the charm, When Cato spoke in him alive, What soul was not resign'd entire To the deep sorrows of the Moor,— What English heart was not on fire With him at Agincourt? And yet a majesty possess'd 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; F But who forgets that white discrowned head, Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguish'd glare Together at the Muse's side The tragick 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 survey'd the tragick page, And what the actor could effect, The scholar could presage. F 2 |