Of thy fine face, thy genius, Forrest, shines,
And paints the picture in perfection's lines.
With plastic skill Prometheus formed the clay;
Yet soul was wanting in the image cold
Till through its frame was shed life's glorious ray
And fire immortal lit the mindless mould.
Thus, while thy lips the poet's words unfold,
With the rough ore of thought thy fancies play,
And, with a Midas power, turn all they touch to gold!"
On his farewell night he acted Macbeth to a brilliant house. As the drop-scene fell at the close of the last act, deafening shouts re-echoed through the house, with calls for Forrest, which, on his coming in front of the curtain to acknowledge them, were renewed and kept up for a considerable time, the people rising en masse, and paying the most marked tribute of their estimation. On silence being restored, he said,—