Fabien dei Franchi

The silent room, the heavy creeping shade,The dead that travel fast, the opening door,The murdered brother rising through the floor,The ghost's white fingers on thy shoulders laid,And then the lonely duel in the glade,The broken swords, the stifled scream, the gore,Thy grand revengeful eyes when all is o'er,—These things are well enough,—but thou wert madeFor more august creation! frenzied LearShould at thy bidding wander on the heathWith the shrill fool to mock him, RomeoFor thee should lure his love, and desperate fearPluck Richard's recreant dagger from its sheath—Thou trumpet set for Shakespeare's lips to blow!