Classic Poem

TO JOHN P. KEMBLE, ESQ., COMPOSED FOR A PUBLIC MEETING, HELD JUNE 27, 1817

Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!
Whose image brought the heroic age
Revived to Fancy's view.
Like fields refreshed with dewy light
When the sun smiles his last,
Thy parting presence makes more bright
Our memory of the past;
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,
Or Hotspur kindled warm.
What soul was not resigned entire
To the deep sorrows of the Moor?
What English heart was not on fire
With him at Agincourt?
And yet a majesty possessed
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;
But who forgets that white discrowned head,
Those bursts of reason's half-extinguished glare,
Those tears upon Cordelia's bosom shed,
In doubt, more touching than despair,
If 'twas reality he felt?
Had Shakespeare's self amidst you been,
Friends, he had seen you melt,
And triumphed 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
The tragic 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 surveyed the tragic page,
And what the actor could effect
The scholar could presage.

These were his traits of worth:
And must we lose them now?
And shall the scene no more show forth
His sternly pleasing brow?
Alas, the moral brings a tear!
'Tis all a transient hour below;
And we that would detain thee here
Ourselves as fleetly go!
Yet shall our latest age
This parting scene review:
Pride of the British stage,
A long and last adieu!