Classic Poem

Immortal, Shakespeare, would my Muse inspire
My feeble pen with a celestial fire,
Then would I lay it at thy heav'nly shrine,
For ev'ry charm of Poetry was thine;
Each passion form'd by thy prophetic skill,
Storm'd ev'ry heart, and conquer'd ev'ry will;
Ev'n Vice abash'd stood trembling at his feet,
When Shakespeare led sweet Virtue to her seat.
The fiend too conscious of her mighty foe,
Confounded sunk in the abyss below:
While the chaste goddess blushing at her fame,
In fate's fair page wrote down her Shakespeare's name:
But fearful left the theft should e'er be found,
Ask'd his permission, and her fav'rite crown'd
With blooming laurels he had nobly won;
And stealing from him, added, " Nature's Son . "
Ah! my sweet Shakespeare, had but I your art.
Or the soft magnet to subdue the heart;
Then would I tell what joy I have receiv'd,
How oft I've smil'd, how oft with you I've griev'd.
" How bloody Richard has my bosom rag'd,
" How Juliet's love has ev'ry thought engag'd;
" Ev'n now my heart is trembling with my pen,
" At Venice Moor's, " Put out the light, and then:
" Sweet Imogen shall likewise have a tear,
" For Milford Hav'n, " loud methinks I hear.
My charming Hamlet, sure thy constant truth
Demands a sigh, a tribute to thy youth.
" White his shroud as the mountain snow, "
" Sweet Ophelia, was it not so?
" And kind Cordelia, she can best explain
" What love can soothe an aged father's pain,
" Fair Cleopatra beauteous seen in death,
" Whose head thy Shakespeare twin'd with laurel " wreath.
" — Enough of woe, come forth thou smiling train,
" Good king of cats, " Mercutio come again;
" I pr'ythee give me leave to breath awhile, "
Said the fat knight — ah! Falstaff, let me smile.
" O noble, worthy, and most upright judge, "
Old Shylock cry'd, who ow'd the man a grudge.
" A herald, Kate, oh! put me in thy books; "
Petruchio! come, there's taming in thy looks.
" I may command, " nay will, where I adore,
" Malvolio said, nay, so Malvolio swore.
" My pretty Rosalind, you too shall find,
" Orlando lov'd thee for thy gen'rous mind;
" But, ah! methinks I hear the Bard to cry,
" Hold thy rash pen, nor dare with me to vie. "
Chide not my Shakespeare, for in thee we trace
In ev'ry line new beauties and new grace.
How can we then desist when you invite,
Thou envi'd giver of supreme delight?
Yes! when our Shakespeare ceases to engage,
Adieu the pleasures of the moral stage.
Ye feather'd songsters, chaunt your artless lays,
Chaunt the sweet name of Shakespeare in your praise.
While tell-tale echo vibrates loud the same,
Ye gentle zephyrs, waft afar his fame;
For while the gods protect the Bard on high,
His works shall live, and Shakespeare never die!