A glittering host of starry-lustred names
Shine in our England's annals: men who wrought
To give us golden truths in fairy frames,
Or weave the rich-hued thought.
Great-hearted ones, who changed life's common things
To forms of luminous beauty, and gave forth
Their dream-born splendours on bedazzling wings
To charm the wondering earth:
Investing fleshless phantoms of the brain
With shapes of radiant immortality,
Or threading tender words in some sweet strain
To melt men's hearts for aye.
But as the stars, which deep-eyed lustre throw
When night dreams in the welkin weird and dun,
Grow dim and fade before the full-orbed glow
Of the uprising sun—
So, at a thought of Shakespeare all the throng
Of poet-names that make our records bright,
Are blotted from the firmament of song
By his eclipsing light.
He shines alone in self-created fame—
No brighter for the burnish we would bring—
Drawing our reverence by the three-fold claim
Of prophet, priest, and king.
True prophet he! with calm eyes looking forth
Into the future, and with ears that heard
An echo of the worship of the earth
In farthest ages stirred!
High-priest in Nature's temple! where the walls
Are built of leafy branches, and the hush
Of prayer is broken by the clear low calls
Of linnet, lark, and thrush!
Great king! whose power still sways the minds of men,
Casting o'er all the magic of his might;
Holding the Heaven-dowered sceptre of the pen,
And ruling by its right.
He wrote for every station, age, and mood;
The images and thoughts he lived to weave
Impregnate all our intercourse, and brood
In every air we breathe.
The offsprings of his fancy are our friends;
We clasp their hands at corners of the street;
And some vague motion of his spirit blends
With all things that we meet.
'Mong his creations evermore we move.
We hear Cordelia murmuring sweet and low,
Philosophize with Hamlet, and make love
With rash-brained Romeo.
In the weird twilight of the woodland glade
We see his fairies dancing in a ring;
And where the lone heath lies in baleful shade
We hear his witches sing.
We muse with Jacques among the forest nooks,
While Touchstone's bells come tinkling on the wind;
We linger by the boskage and the brooks
With bright-eyed Rosalind.
We watch rough battle-harnessed warriors rouse
And blow their trumpets in dim wintry dawns;
We hear Venetian lovers breathe their vows
On happy moon-lit lawns.
We listen to Prospero's muttered charms,
Or watch Miranda tripping o'er the green;
We see the Roman dying in the arms
Of Egypt's swarthy queen.
We hear the hoary Cardinal lament
His own ambition and his king's disdain;
We see demented Lear with raiment rent,
And head bared to the rain.
Titania dances lightly through our dreams;
Puck darts a greeting from arch-gleaming eye:
And Ariel loads the breezes with rich streams
Of rapturous melody.
We weep for gentle Desdemona's fate:
We mourn the fatal anguish of belief
That burdened dark Othello with the weight
Of an o'erwhelming grief.
We shudder as we watch the murderous Thane
Creep stealthily to Duncan's chamber door,
Or hear his wife bewail the drops that stain
Her hand for evermore.
From out some gabled hostel, all the night
Pour shouts of drunken mirth, and just before
The cold dawn strikes the world with sudden light
Falstaff reels from the door.
On hoofs of clattering fury dashes past
The fierce-eyed Hotspur panoplied for war,
While clash of arms and many a bugle blast
Ring faintly from afar.
And in all times and places, to our sight
Fair forms and old familiar faces rise—
The smile of tenderest friendship, and the light
Of laughter-brimming eyes.
The name of Shakespeare is a household word;
It passes from our lips with liquid flow,
And causes at our hearts where'er 'tis heard
A freshness and a glow!
And here, there, everywhere—before, behind,
Around us and about us evermore—
His spirit broods and hovers, and we find
Beauty unfound before!
Great master of all moods that sway the mind!
Who poured forth truths all fresh and glittering!
Whose God-like love and tenderness could find
Some ‘good in everything!’
We cannot speak his praises as we ought;
Our eyes are dazzled by excess of light:
And on our faltering tongues each feeble thought
Is frozen by his might!
We can but labour fondly to extend
His influence o'er every land and clime,
Till with our praises distant voices blend
Far heard throughout all time;
And from this little isle, that boasts his birth,
That nursed his genius, and that holds his grave,
Freedom and peace and love across the earth
Roll like a rolling wave,
That, stretching on and upward, in its spread
O'erwhelms all evil things before it driven,
Its foot based on the wide world, and its head
High reaching unto heaven!
Shine in our England's annals: men who wrought
To give us golden truths in fairy frames,
Or weave the rich-hued thought.
Great-hearted ones, who changed life's common things
To forms of luminous beauty, and gave forth
Their dream-born splendours on bedazzling wings
To charm the wondering earth:
Investing fleshless phantoms of the brain
With shapes of radiant immortality,
Or threading tender words in some sweet strain
To melt men's hearts for aye.
But as the stars, which deep-eyed lustre throw
When night dreams in the welkin weird and dun,
Grow dim and fade before the full-orbed glow
Of the uprising sun—
So, at a thought of Shakespeare all the throng
Of poet-names that make our records bright,
Are blotted from the firmament of song
By his eclipsing light.
He shines alone in self-created fame—
No brighter for the burnish we would bring—
Drawing our reverence by the three-fold claim
Of prophet, priest, and king.
True prophet he! with calm eyes looking forth
Into the future, and with ears that heard
An echo of the worship of the earth
In farthest ages stirred!
High-priest in Nature's temple! where the walls
Are built of leafy branches, and the hush
Of prayer is broken by the clear low calls
Of linnet, lark, and thrush!
Great king! whose power still sways the minds of men,
Casting o'er all the magic of his might;
Holding the Heaven-dowered sceptre of the pen,
And ruling by its right.
He wrote for every station, age, and mood;
The images and thoughts he lived to weave
Impregnate all our intercourse, and brood
In every air we breathe.
The offsprings of his fancy are our friends;
We clasp their hands at corners of the street;
And some vague motion of his spirit blends
With all things that we meet.
'Mong his creations evermore we move.
We hear Cordelia murmuring sweet and low,
Philosophize with Hamlet, and make love
With rash-brained Romeo.
In the weird twilight of the woodland glade
We see his fairies dancing in a ring;
And where the lone heath lies in baleful shade
We hear his witches sing.
We muse with Jacques among the forest nooks,
While Touchstone's bells come tinkling on the wind;
We linger by the boskage and the brooks
With bright-eyed Rosalind.
We watch rough battle-harnessed warriors rouse
And blow their trumpets in dim wintry dawns;
We hear Venetian lovers breathe their vows
On happy moon-lit lawns.
We listen to Prospero's muttered charms,
Or watch Miranda tripping o'er the green;
We see the Roman dying in the arms
Of Egypt's swarthy queen.
We hear the hoary Cardinal lament
His own ambition and his king's disdain;
We see demented Lear with raiment rent,
And head bared to the rain.
Titania dances lightly through our dreams;
Puck darts a greeting from arch-gleaming eye:
And Ariel loads the breezes with rich streams
Of rapturous melody.
We weep for gentle Desdemona's fate:
We mourn the fatal anguish of belief
That burdened dark Othello with the weight
Of an o'erwhelming grief.
We shudder as we watch the murderous Thane
Creep stealthily to Duncan's chamber door,
Or hear his wife bewail the drops that stain
Her hand for evermore.
From out some gabled hostel, all the night
Pour shouts of drunken mirth, and just before
The cold dawn strikes the world with sudden light
Falstaff reels from the door.
On hoofs of clattering fury dashes past
The fierce-eyed Hotspur panoplied for war,
While clash of arms and many a bugle blast
Ring faintly from afar.
And in all times and places, to our sight
Fair forms and old familiar faces rise—
The smile of tenderest friendship, and the light
Of laughter-brimming eyes.
The name of Shakespeare is a household word;
It passes from our lips with liquid flow,
And causes at our hearts where'er 'tis heard
A freshness and a glow!
And here, there, everywhere—before, behind,
Around us and about us evermore—
His spirit broods and hovers, and we find
Beauty unfound before!
Great master of all moods that sway the mind!
Who poured forth truths all fresh and glittering!
Whose God-like love and tenderness could find
Some ‘good in everything!’
We cannot speak his praises as we ought;
Our eyes are dazzled by excess of light:
And on our faltering tongues each feeble thought
Is frozen by his might!
We can but labour fondly to extend
His influence o'er every land and clime,
Till with our praises distant voices blend
Far heard throughout all time;
And from this little isle, that boasts his birth,
That nursed his genius, and that holds his grave,
Freedom and peace and love across the earth
Roll like a rolling wave,
That, stretching on and upward, in its spread
O'erwhelms all evil things before it driven,
Its foot based on the wide world, and its head
High reaching unto heaven!