From

"An Ode upon dedicating a Building, and erecting a Statue to Shakspeare; at Stratford upon Avon."

To what blest Genius of the isle
Shall Gratitude her tribute pay,
Decree the festive day,

Erect the Statue, and devote the Pile?

Do not your sympathetick hearts accord,
To own the "bosom's lord?"
"Tis he! 'tis he! - that demi-god!
Who Avon's flowery margin trod,

While sportive Fancy round him flew,
Where Nature led him by the hand,
Instructed him in all she knew,'

And

gave him absolute command!

'Tis he! 'tis he!

"The God of our idolatry!"

To him the song, the edifice we raise,
He merits all our wonder, all our praise!
Yet ere impatient joy break forth,

In sounds that lift the soul from earth;

And to our spell-bound minds impart
Some faint idea of his magick art;

Let awful silence still the air!
From the dark cloud, the hidden light
Burst ten-fold bright!

Prepare prepare! prepare!

Now swell at once the choral song, Roll the full tide of harmony along Let Rapture sweep the trembling strings, And Fame expanding all her wings, With all her trumpet-tongues proclaim The loved, revered, immortal name! Shakspeare! Shakspeare! Shakspeare! Let the enchanting sonnd

From Avon's shores rebound;

Thro' the air

Let it bear

The precious freight the envious nations round!

CHORUS.

SWELL the choral song,

Roll the tide of harmony along,
Let Rapture sweep the strings,
Fame expand her wings,

With her trumpet-tongues proclaim The loved, revered, immortal name, Shakspeare! Shakspeare! Shakspeare!

AIR.

SWEETEST bard that ever sung,
Nature's glory, Fancy's child;
Never sure did witching tongue

Warble forth such wood-notes wild!

Come each Muse, and sister Grace,
Loves and Pleasureshither come;
Well you know this happy place,
Avon's banks were once your home.

Bring the laurel, bring the flowers,
Songs of triumph to him raise;
He united all your powers,
All uniting, sing his praise!

Tho' Philip's famed unconquer'd son,
Had every blood-stain'd laurel won
He sigh'd-that his creative word
(Like that which rules the skies)
Could not bid other nations rise,
To glut his yet unsated sword:

But when our Shakspeare's matchless pen, Like Alexander's sword had done with men; He heaved no sigh, he made no moan, Not limited to human kind,

He fired his wonder-teaming mind,
Raised other worlds, and beings of his own!

PROLOGUE TO TASTE.

Spoken by Mr. Garrick, in the Character of an
Auctioneer.

BEFORE this court I Peter Puff appear,
A Briton born, and bred an Auctioneer;
Who for myself, and eke a hundred others,
My useful, honest, learned, bawling brothers,
With much humility and fear implore ye,
To lay our present desperate case before ye,→→→

"Tis said this night a certain wag intends
To laugh at us, our calling, and our friends;
If lords and ladies, and such dainty folks,
Are cured of auction-hunting by his jokes;

Should this odd doctrine spread throughout the

land,

Before you buy be sure to understand,

Oh think on us what various ills will flow,

When great ones only purchase-what they know,
What! laugh at Taste? It is a harmless fashion,
And quite subdues each detrimental passion;
The fair one's hearts will ne'er incline to man,
While thus they rage for-china and japan.
The virtuoso too, and connoisseur,

Are ever decent, delicate, and pure;

The smallest hair their looser thoughts might hold,
Just warm when single-and when married cold;
Their blood at sight of beauty gently flows;
Their Venus must be old, and want a nose!

No amourous passion with deep knowledge

thrives;

'Tis the complaint indeed of all our wives!
"Tis said Virtû to such a height is grown,
All artists are encouraged-but our own.
Be not deceived, I here declare on oath,
I never yet sold goods of foreign growth:
Ne'er sent commissions out to Greece or Rome
My best antiquities are made at home.
I've Romans, Greeks, Italians, near at hand,
Free Britons all-and living in the Strand.