Classic Poem

This wild-rose, plucked by Avon's side,
Is not a whit more sweet or fair
Than those which brighten summer-tide
In dear New England's air;

But this is of a noble line
Which held, in yonder century,
A privilege, by right divine,
That now no gold could buy;

A privilege of rarer fame
Than any prince of royal blood,
Or any king on earth can claim;
So is this half-blown bud

Ennobled, not by wealth or wars,
But by the truth that it may trace
Its lineage back to ancestors
Who looked on Shakspeare's face.

For oft by Avon's pleasant stream,
In youth's unspoiled light-heartedness,
Did he, the marvellous, rove and dream,
And pluck a rose like this.

They saw—those eyes which never missed
The smallest flower, the humblest leaf—
These golden anthers, dewdrop-kissed,
Or robbed by wingèd thief.

Such thorns dared wound him with their sting,
Such leaves within his warm hand curled,
Nor recognized the uncrowned king
Whose realm was all the world.

Such petals fell about his feet,
And clung upon them, wet with dew;
They breathed the selfsame airy sweet,
And wore the selfsame hue.

Wild-roses grow by Avon's side
To-day, as then they used to grow,
When Shakspeare watched its rippling tide,
Three hundred years ago.

And softly still the hallowed stream,
Whose murmur, as he roved along,
Commingled with his boyish dream,
Repeats the selfsame song;

While he, whose praise the ages sound,
Who gave its wave a deathless name,
And made his birthplace sacred ground,
Is only dust—and fame.

Thus do earth's mightiest fade and cease;
Even the poor dust within their tombs
Is lost, as centuries increase;
But still the wild-rose blooms.