In the midst a form divine,[54]
Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line;
Her light’ning eye, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper’d sweet to ev’ry grace.
What sounds of acclamation fill the air!
What strains of trembling rapture round her play;
Hear from thy grave, immortal Shakespeare, hear;
She breathes a soul to animate thy clay;
Bright nature calls, and, soaring as she sings,
Waves, in the eye of Heaven, her many-colour’d wings.