Analysis of John Kemble

O ! GLORIOUS triumph, thus to sway at will
All feelings in our nature ; thus to work
The springs of sympathy, the mines of thought,
And all the deep emotions of the heart.
To colour the fine paintings of the mind,
And bid them move and breathe. Our island bard,
He who flung human life upon his page,
How much he owes the actor. Kemble once
Made Hamlet, Cato, and the Noble Moor,
Our own familiar friends—they lived, they looked,
And left an actual image on the soul.
I would I could remember them, but he
Who looks yon pale and melancholy prince,
Was past before my time—yet still the stage
Is fancy’s world of poetry to me—
For I have heard the pathos of the Moor
Tremble in broken music, when he bids
His last farewell to Venice, and implores
For charity and rest :—and I have wept
When the stern father slays his only child,
That he may keep her memory a thing
To shelter in his heart. Nor is she least
Amid these haunting shapes—that gentle wife,
Who kept one stainless faith through long, long years,
Of utter hopelessness, and yet loved on ;
Till Mantua ranks within my memory,
With those Italian cities which have been
The visions of my youth.
I know not how it acts on other minds,
But this I know, my most enchanted world
Is hidden when the curtain falls, and leaves
Remembrance only of its gorgeous dreams
And beautiful creations.