From us the gallant hero’s dead,
And Wienholt too has veil’d his head.
The swarms that in the Statesman’s beams were born.
The public taste has laughed to scorn,
And all our efforts overwhelm;
In easy sail their new built vessel goes,
Shakespeare at the prow, and Kemble at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind’s sway,
That, hurl’d in dread repose, has lost its evening prey.
Lo! They fill the tragic bowl,