When on the stage fam'd Garrick trod,
And shook the benches by a nod,
His author's genius all his own,
O, how he shone!

As from his lips the words expir'd,
With animation fir'd,
A twofold language from conception broke;
He personated what he spoke,
And gazing auditors admir'd.

His looks were at his own command;
Through vaulted roofs his words expand;
While from their seats spectators lean
With greedy ears to hear;
Their passions, at his will, are seen,
Revenge, or hate, or love, or fear.

Now o'er his visage pity creeps;
Feign'd grief seems real as he weeps;
Now mov'd by love, he charms, he charms;
His ardour every bosom warms;
Hard hearts he melts to passion's tide,
And wakes desires which Nature had deny'd.

But, stung by angry passions now,
He shakes live scorpions from his brow.
Madness was in his look—
Vengeance, and scorn, and hate,
Brew'd, in his frown, the downfall of the state.
The vaulted mansion shook;
In wild despair,
Fear seiz'd the monarch's hair;—
He started from his seat:—
With gaping mouths, as op'd by fate,
Like statues of dumb wood,
Spectators stood
With fury in their ire,
With horror in their stare;
For Garrick's was a soul of fire,
And the grim spectre of the play was there.