When Shakespeare bears the soul along
In all the native majesty of song,
Now fires with rage, now chills with fear,
Now melts the icy breast with pity’s tear:
Alike in all, oh, bard sublime!
Above the rankling rage of death and time.
But ah! what hideous forms around thee throng!
Can these instill the moral song?
See Virtue sinks beneath the villain’s hand!
Successful Murder hails his bloody band!