Classic Poem

DROP lightly, footfall mine:
A king lies sleeping in the chancel dim,
And every atom of this sacred shrine
Is telling me of him.

I know not how I feel:
A tide of thought comes rushing, music-driven,
And, but for eyes around, O, I could kneel
In prayer to bounteous Heaven!

He gives, He takes away;
He thrusts the lofty from the uplifted seat:
He lifts the lowly, like to him whose clay
Is resting 'neath my feet.

Is it some dreamy spell
Which morn will break illusive, though now dear?
O, no! this music is the old church bell,
And Shakspere's tomb is here.

On ev'ry fresh wind-wave
Encircling Stratford like a gale of song,
From mead and moor, and bush and coppice-cave,
His great name rolls along.

With folded hands I wait,
Resting my feet upon the blue, flat stone;
And in this span of silence years of weight
Seem mystically thrown.

Flows by the Avon clear,
As murmuring for the sleeper evermore,
Whose name is written on each flow'ret dear
That shines upon its shore.

In the bright book of Fame,
With leaves graved over now by labouring men,
Foremost of all is our dear Shakspere's name,
Who won it with his pen.

He bore no battle-brand,
But in the realm of Fancy stalk'd alone,
Swaying the passions with a princely hand,
Who sleeps beneath this stone.

I feel it much to meet
In shades so solemn. Tears are on my face;
The dust of Shakspere is beneath my feet:
O, what an honoured place!