In order to give it a dramatic form, Garrick invented a comic fable, in which the inferior people of Stratford and the visitors were represented with great pleasantry. As it was never published, an exact account is not to be expected. We remember a scene in an inn-yard, with a post-chaise standing at the remote end. When a crowd, after much diverting talk, withdrew from the place, a voice was heard from the inside of the chaise, Moody was within; he let down the blind, and, in the character of an Irishman, complained, that, not being able to get a lodging, he was obliged to sleep in his chaise. He then came forward amidst bursts of applause King soon joined him, and they two were the life of the piece. The dialogue throughout was carried on in a vein of humour. The songs, that had been heard at Stratford, were occasionally intermixed, and the whole concluded with a grand procession, in which Shakespeare's plays were exhibited in succession, with a banner displayed before each of them, and a scene painted on the canvas to mark the play intended. A train of performers, dressed in character, followed the colours, all in dumb show acting their respective parts. Mrs. Abington, at last, in a triumphal carr, represented the comic muse. Dr. Arne's music, the magnificence of the scenery and decorations, and the abilities of the actors, conspired to establish the entertainment in the public opinion in so powerful a manner, that we are assured by a gentleman, who has a collection of the play-bills, that it was repeated no less than a hundred times in the course of the season. During the run of the piece, Garrick, on several intermediate nights, as cended a pulpit raised on the stage, and there spoke the following ode to the memory of Shake speare, in a style of graceful elocution,

ODE

On dedicating a Building---and erecting a Statue to
SHAKESPEARE,

AT STRATFORD UPON AVON.

I.

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 sympathetic hearts accord,
To own the bosom's Lord?

'Tis he! 'tis he !-that demi-god!
Who Avon's flow'ry 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 c're impatient joy breaks forth
In sounds that lift the soul from earth;
And to our spell-bound minds impart
Some faint idea of his magic art;

Let awful silence still the air;

From the dark cloud, the hidden light
Bursts tenfold 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 lov'd, rever'd, immortal name

Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Shakespeare!

III.

Let the enchanting sound
From Avon's shores resound;

Through the air

Let it bear

The precious freight the envious nations round!
Though Philip's fam'd immortal son,
Had ev'ry 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 Shakespeare's matchless pen,
Like Alexander's sword had done with men,
He heav'd no sigh, he made no moan;
Not limited to human kind,

He fir'd his wonder-teeming mind,
Rais❜d other worlds and beings of his own!

IV.".

Oh! from his muse of fire

Could but one spark be caught,

Then might these humble strains aspire, To tell the wonders he has wrought; To tell,-how sitting on his magic throne, Unaided and alone,

In dreadful state

The subject passions round him wait;
Whom, tho' unchain'd, and raging there,
He checks, inflames, or turns their mad career;
With that superior skill,

Which winds the fiery steed at will;

He gives the awful word,

And they all foaming, trembling, own him for their Lord.

V.

With these his slaves he can controul,

Or charm the soul;

So realiz❜d are all his golden dreams
Of terror, pity, love, and grief;

Tho' conscious that the vision only seems,
The woe-struck mind finds no relief:
Ingratitude would drop the tear,

Cold-blooded age take fire,

To see the thankless children of old Lear
Spurn at their king and sire!

With his our reason too grows wild!
What nature had disjoin'd,
1 The poet's pow'r combin'd,
Madness and age, ingratitude and child!
VI.

Ye guilty lawless tribe,

Escap'd from punishment by art or bribe,
At Shakespeare's bar appear;

No bribing, and no shuffling there!
His genius, like a rushing flood,
Cannot be withstood;

Out bursts the penitential tear;
The look appall'd the crime reveals;
The marble-hearted monster feels,
Whose hand is stain'd with blood.

VII.

When our magician, more inspir'd,
By charms, and spells, and incantations fir'd,
Exerts his most tremendous pow'r,

The thunder growls, the heav'ns lour,

And to his darken'd throne repair

The dæmons of the deep, and spirits of the air.
VIII.

But soon these horrors pass away,
Thro' storms and night breaks forth the day;
He smiles :-They vanish into air!
The buskin'd warriors disappear!
Mute the trumpets, mute the drums;
The scene is chang'd; Thalia comes !
Leading the nymph Euphrosyne,
Goddess of joy and liberty!

She and her sisters hand in hand,

Link'd to a numerous frolic band,

With roses and with myrtle crown'd,

O'er the green velvet lightly bound,

Circling the monarch of th' enchanted land.

IX.

With kindling cheeks, and sparkling eyes,
Surrounded thus, the bard-in transport lies;
The little loves, like bees

Clustring and climbing up his knees

His brows with roses bind;

While fancy, wit, and humour, spread
Their wings, and hover round his head,
Impregnating his mind;

Which turning soon, as soon brought forth
Not a tiny spurious birth,

But out a mountain came
A moutain of delight!

Laughter roar'd to see the sight,
And Falstaff was his name.

With sword and shield he puffing strides,
The joyous revel out

Receive him with a shout,

And modest nature holds her sides;
No single pow'r the deed had done,
But great and small,

"Wit, fancy, humour, whim, and jest,
The huge mis-shapen heap impress'd,
And, lo!-Sir John!

A compound of 'em all,

A comic world in one ;

X.

Sweet swan of Avon! ever may thy stream
Of tuneful numbers be the darling theme;
Not Thames himself, who in his silver course
Triumphant rolls along

Britannia's riches, and his force,

Shall more harmonious flow in song.

Oh! had those bards, who charm the list'ning shore
Of Cam and Isis, tun'd their classic lays,
And from their full and precious store

Vouchsaf'd to fairy-haunted Avon praise:
Nor Greek nor Roman strains would flow along
More sweetly clear, or more sublimely strong;
Nor thus a shepherd's feeble notes reveal
The weakest numbers, and the warmest zeal.

XI.

Look down, blest spirit! from above,

With all thy wonted gentleness and love;