Strange as the sigh of ocean’s rosy shell,
No less belong the triumph-throb, the pride
To mind-ennobling sympathies allied,
The deep emotion, and the rapture free;
And these, O Forrest, we behold in thee!
Who e’er has marked thine eye, thy matchless mien,
While, all forgetful of the mimic scene,
Spurning the formal, manner-taught control,
Thou bar’st the fire that lightens in the soul,
Has deemed there moved the form that Shakspeare drew