And Virginius speaks her downfall in a father’s tortured breast;
Once again far Albion’s genius from sweet Avon leans to view,
As he was, her thoughtful Hamlet, and the very Lear she drew.
Nor alone does Europe glory in the Actor’s perfect art,—
From Columbia’s leafy mountains see the native hero start!
Not in depths of mere romances can you Nature’s Indian find;
See him there, as God hath made him, in the Metamora shrined.
Where hast thou, O noble Artist,—crowned by Fame’s immortal flower,—
Grasped the lightnings of thy genius? caught the magic of thy power?
Not, I know, in foreign regions,—for thou art too true and bold: