Where, all unrivall’d, all alone,
Bold Shakespeare sat, and look’d creation through,
The minstrel monarch of the worlds he drew?
That throne is cold—that lyre in death unstrung,
On whose proud note delighted Wonder hung.
Yet old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps,
One spot shall spare—the grave where Shakespeare sleeps.
Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie,
But Nature’s laureate bards shall never die.
Art’s chisell’d boast and glory’s trophied shore