Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/131

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His was the spell o'er heartsWhich only Acting lends,—The youngest of the sister Arts,Where all their beauty blends:For ill can Poetry expressFull many a tone of thought sublime,And Painting, mute and motionless,Steals but a glance of time.But by the mighty actor brought,Illusion's perfect triumphs come,—Verse ceases to be airy thought,And Sculpture to be dumb.
Time may again revive,But ne'er eclipse the charm,When Cato spoke in him alive,Or Hotspur kindled warm.What soul was not resigned entireTo the deep sorrows of the Moor,—What English heart was not on fireWith him at Agincourt?And yet a majesty possessedHis transport's most impetuous tone,And to each passion of the breastThe Graces gave their zone.
High were the task—too high,Ye conscious bosoms here!In words to paint your memoryOf Kemble and of Lear;But who forgets that white discrowned head,Those bursts of Reason's half-extinguished glare—
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