William Mason, 1759 (1724-1797)
How oft I cried, “Oh come, thou tragic queen!
March from thy Greece with firm majestic tread!
Such as when Athens saw thee fill her scene,
When Sophocles thy choral graces led:
Saw thy proud pall its purple length devolve;
Saw thee uplift the glittering dagger high;
Ponder with fixed brow thy deep resolve,
Prepar’d to strike, to triumph, and to die.
Bring then to Britain’s plain that choral throng;
Display thy buskin’d pomp, thy golden lyre;
Give her historic forms the soul of song,
And mingle Attic art with Shakespeare’s fire.”
“Ah, what, fond boy, dost thou presume to claim?”
The Muse replied, “mistaken suppliant, know,
To light in Shakespeare’s breast the dazzling flame
Exhausted all Parnassus could bestow.
True, art remains; and if from his bright page
Thy mimic power one vivid beam can seize,
Proceed; and in that best of tasks engage,
Which tends at once to profit, and to please.”
Caractacus, 1759.