Classic Poem

By his ingle crooning,
Near the Cornish sea,
Sat a simple bardie
Harping in his glee;
When a holy vision
Rose before his ken,
Where great Shakspere rested,
Shakspere, king of men.

Long'd he to behold it,
Saw it in his dreams,
Talk'd of it, when question'd,
'Mid the flowers and streams,—
Shakspere's tomb at Stratford,
And the chamber dear,
Where his mother bore him,
By the Avon clear.

Sometimes hoping, fearing,
Darkness spanning light;
Then the prospect blacken'd,
Rayless, hopeless quite.
Rose he one clear morning,
Hurried off despair:
Early in November,
Much he wonder'd there.

Saw he then the cottage,
And the chamber small,
Where his mother bore him,
With its written wall.
Saw he, too, the Avon
Flowing through the grass:
O the crystal Avon,
Clear as clearest glass!

Saw he, too, the chancel
Where the poet sleeps,
By his own dear river
Which for ever weeps.
Saw he hill and valley,
Meadow, tree, and plain,
And “sweet Anne's” dear dwelling
By the twisted lane.

Saw he these and wonder'd,
Saw he these and wept,
Holy as a vision
Coming when he slept.
Every little daisy,
Like a hermit then,
Spoke of William Shakspere,
Shakspere, king of men.

Turn'd the Cornish crooner,
Heated as with wine.
Turn'd he dumb with wonder
From great Shakspere's shrine,
Variously the Giver
Giveth gifts to all:
Use them for His glory,
Whether great or small.