To Shakespeare (II)

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Oft, when my lips I open to rehearse
  Thy wondrous spells of wisdom and of power,
  And that my voice and thy immortal verse
  On listening ears and hearts I mingled pour,
  I shrink dismayed—and awful doth appear
  The vain presumption of my own weak deed;
  Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near,
  That suddenly I tremble as I read—
  Thee an invisible auditor I fear :
  Oh, if it might be so, my master dear!
  With what beseeching would I pray to thee,
  To make me equal to my noble task,
  Succour from thee, how humbly would I ask,
  Thy worthiest works to utter worthily.

© Frances Anne Kemble