Classic Poem

SUGGESTED AT THE GRAVE OF SHAKESPEARE.


Once mortal here, but now Immortal One,
Thou great and glorious favourite of Fame,
Thoughtful I stand upon thy grave alone,
Tranced by the mighty magic of thy name;
Filled with a slender portion of thy flame,
Hither, a pilgrim, I have proudly sped,
To linger for a brief but happy space
About the genius-hallowed resting-place
Of England's honoured Dead.

King of the poet's fair, ideal land!
Thou of my country's stars the brightest, best!
I scarce believe me that I waking stand
Where thy far-worshipped relics calmly rest;
But yet this stone, these graven words, attest
That he whose voice hath charmed me, slumbers near;
And truly I rejoice that I am come,
A lonely wanderer from my northern home,
To pay my homage here.

When I was yet a simple-hearted boy,
I heard men whisper of thy wondrous powers;
And it became with me a cherished joy
To ponder o'er thy page in after hours, —
To bathe my spirit in the genial showers
Of splendour shaken from thy meteor pen;
To fly with thee on Fancy's vagrant wings,
Beyond the reach, the stain of earthly things,
And earthly-minded men.

I've laughed and mused, I've talked and wept with thee,
Drunk with the kindling essence of thy lore,
Until my inmost heart hath seemed to be
With every happier feeling gushing o'er;
And thoughts which slumbered in my soul before
Have sprung to blessed being fast and bright;
And visions wild, tumultuous, and strange,
With constant beauty and with constant change,
Have thrilled me with delight.

Thy worldly wisdom hath great lessons taught;
Thy playful wit hath cleared the brow of care;
Thy stormy grief hath many a wonder wrought;
Thy joy hath conquered e'en the fiend Despair;
Thy power hath laid the hidden secrets bare
Of every human passion, good or ill,
And mingled thousands in thy presence placed,
Who feel by thy gigantic arm embraced,
Are creatures of thy will.

Some look for glory in the fields of strife,
The fools and followers of unholy war,
And some get foremost in the march of life,
Because self-chained to Mammon's golden car;
But thou art higher, greater, nobler far
Than all who seek such false and vain renown;
Thy name shall brighten on from age to age,
But theirs shall keep no place on Memory's page,
For Time will tread them down.

Thou shouldst be sleeping on that lonely isle
Where banished Prospero was wizard king;
Where sweet Miranda gently did beguile
Her father's sorrows, like some holy thing;
There, through the sunny hours should Ariel sing
Melodious requiems above thy tomb;
And troops of midnight fays should gather round,
To brush the dews from off the moonlit ground,
And scatter buds of bloom.

No gaudy temple, reared by mortal might,
Should rise around that sacred dust of thine;
No arch, save that which God hath filled with light,
With suns that burn, and stars that coldly shine.
The simple sod should be thine only shrine;
And proud green trees which whisper as they wave —
But argosies from every land should sweep
Athwart the silvery bosom of the deep,
With pilgrims to thy grave.

I leave thee to thy slumbers; I must go
Back to the struggles of my adverse lot,
To feel the nameless agonies that flow
From a cold world which understands me not.
Greater than I may linger on this spot,
Of many a language, and of many a shore;
Some other bard of loftier mind may raise
A song more sweet, more lasting, in thy praise, —
But none can love thee more!