III.—SHAKSPEARE.
Oh! minstrel monarch! the most glorious throne
Of Intellect thy Genius doth inherit.
Compeer, or perfect rival thou hast none—
O Soul of Song!—O mind of royal merit.
Is not this high, imperishable fame
The tribute of a grateful world to thee?
A recognizing glory in thy name
From a great nation to thy memory.
Lord of Dramatic Art—the splendid scenes
Of thy rich fancy are around us still;
All shapes of Thought to make the bosom thrill
Are thine supreme! Many long years have sped,
And dimmed in dust the crowned and laureled head,
But thou—thou speakest still, though numbered with the dead.