Classic Poem

I STOOD before it with a joy
Almost akin to pain,
Nor can I hope, throughout life's race,
To drink so deep again
As when I pull'd the rude bell-wire,
Which dangled by the door
Of Shakspere's house in Henley Street,
And stepp'd the threshold o'er.

The old walls seem'd to speak to me
With a mysterious sound;
And lyre-chords echoed in mine ears,
As I stood gazing round.
I bared my head, I know not why,
And tears ran down my face;
I felt that I was stealing through
A sacred solemn place.

Strange that the stones about the hearth
Should bring to memory's sight
The home where my grandfather dwelt,
Upon the heathy height:
There first my simple song I sang,
Where ferns and flowerets be;
Enamour'd of my mountain muse,
Under the hawthorn tree.

O, what a tale the chimney told,
Where Mary nursed her boy;
Who grew at last, in strength of song,
To be a nation's joy!
Methought I saw him sitting there,
Beside the blazing log,
In knitted hose and petticoat,
With playful cat and dog.

Then I beheld him gathering flowers,
The sunny knolls among,
And reading lessons on their leaves,
Where Avon flow'd along;
Or seeking birds' nests in the lanes;
Or, velvet cap in hand,
Chasing the pretty butterflies
Over the daisy land.

E'en then the music of the woods
And waters fill'd his soul,
Whose echoes would, in after years,
Through all creation roll.
His teachers were the little birds
That carol'd on the tree;
And the long grass among the ferns,
Where shining fairies be.

Methought I saw him creep to school,
With satchel in his hand,
And then rush home, with lay and shout,
When curfews fill'd the land;
And how his mother, wondering, gazed,
With all a parent's joy;
A tear appearing in each eye,
To hear her loving boy.

When the skylark o'er Avon's banks
Was pouring forth his lay,
He heard it like some angel's voice
From the bright gates of Day;
And when the thunder crash'd, and bolts
Of ruin tore the sod,
Did not the boy adoring bow,
And own the power of God?

With pen and paper next he sat,
Beside the cheerful fire;
Attuning with untold delight
His unexampled lyre.
The notes were simply-sweet at first,
But preludes to the strong,
Which should arouse the universe,
To crown him king of song.

Yes, here he piped, and here he play'd,
Upon this self-same floor;
His hands have often touch'd these walls,
Now widely written o'er.
And here he slept, when moon and stars
In Night's dark mantle came;
Watch'd by the Genii of the Muse,
And the bright form of Fame.

Oft by this same old door he stood,
When ice was in the dell;
Clapping his hands, with thought enrich'd,
As fast the snow-flakes fell.
And when the angry storm was up,
And through the forest roar'd,
To him 't was Nature's poet-hand,
Sweeping her loftiest chord.

O boy, O bard, O house of fame,
O spot to Britain dear!
From every sea, from every land,
The pilgrim journeys here.
How did my thankful heart o'erflow,
When on that blessed morn
I breathed within the written walls
Where Shakspere's self was born!