Classic Poem

AS " MACBETH . "

Ambition, like a cancer, rots thy breast,
With furious spasms, while remorseful fear,
Whispers of peril in thy coward ear,
Oh! superstitious thane with dreams opprest.

Thou need'st thy callous lady's hint austere,
To fully crush thy conscience and unrest,
When in thy grave eyes one last pitying tear,
Dries up and scorches hellward at her quest!

The shade of Shakespeare hovers through the gloom
Of vanished centuries, in the vale of Death;
It sees its buds of fancy blossom and bloom
By thy fond art to flowers, and its strong breath,
Calls unto thee in rapture from the tomb,
" Oh, son of mine, thou art my heart's Macbeth! "