 | Petition to the Deil |  |
73
THE VOICE OF SHAKESPEARE.
A Tercentenary Tribute.
April 22, 1916.
One lately sang
In sweet Victorian verse to vacant days
Of those far-off “melodious bursts that fill'd
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still.” He sang amid
His own sweet music, hearing echoes only
Of grander music, listening to his own.
In sweet Victorian verse to vacant days
Of those far-off “melodious bursts that fill'd
The spacious times of great Elizabeth
With sounds that echo still.” He sang amid
His own sweet music, hearing echoes only
Of grander music, listening to his own.
His own becomes an echo. But the Voice,
That earlier voice, lives on, rings louder; it
Was never dead, but, in such days as these,
Calls with commanding tone, thrilling the land!
It sounds like many waters, many-toned,
Strong, and melodious—filling not alone
A spacious time in England's glorious past,
But living, living still, fresh-rising ever,
Reverberant but passing not away!
No other voice is heard! and the great heart,
The heart of England beats, and her feet march
To Shakespeare's music! He is in the street,
The field, the farm, and on the battle-plain;
He sings on decks; and the high arch of heaven
Widens to spread his music!
He sings to patriots: his song sustains
The sense of righteous rule—still challenging
Chaotic rage in nature and in man.
He sings on decks above the sounding surge
Of storm and battle; on the battle-plain
Drums loudly; in the senate speaks, a guide
And a deliverer from the narrow bonds
Of time and fear; is heard o'er shrieking winds
And the swift crack of replicated thunder;
Yet dallies fondly with the summer grass
Where violets couch, and whispers to the trees
When night-winds gently kiss them.
That earlier voice, lives on, rings louder; it
Was never dead, but, in such days as these,
Calls with commanding tone, thrilling the land!
It sounds like many waters, many-toned,
Strong, and melodious—filling not alone
A spacious time in England's glorious past,
But living, living still, fresh-rising ever,
Reverberant but passing not away!
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The heart of England beats, and her feet march
To Shakespeare's music! He is in the street,
The field, the farm, and on the battle-plain;
He sings on decks; and the high arch of heaven
Widens to spread his music!
He sings to patriots: his song sustains
The sense of righteous rule—still challenging
Chaotic rage in nature and in man.
He sings on decks above the sounding surge
Of storm and battle; on the battle-plain
Drums loudly; in the senate speaks, a guide
And a deliverer from the narrow bonds
Of time and fear; is heard o'er shrieking winds
And the swift crack of replicated thunder;
Yet dallies fondly with the summer grass
Where violets couch, and whispers to the trees
When night-winds gently kiss them.
Simple hearts
Still find in him a comrade and a friend.
To his soft pipe they cross a magic line,
And wondering walk in Elfland! or with him
Along the dusty path of daily life
Jog on beneath their pack, and never tire;
Or rest in Arden, no unhappy exiles,
Where, losing luxury, they find themselves—
Or, losing self, haply find Rosalind!
Still find in him a comrade and a friend.
To his soft pipe they cross a magic line,
And wondering walk in Elfland! or with him
Along the dusty path of daily life
Jog on beneath their pack, and never tire;
75
Where, losing luxury, they find themselves—
Or, losing self, haply find Rosalind!
No ghostly voice is his, fading afar,
Which one may hear if he will pause and hearken;
Nor his the pipings of the passing hour
That die in echoes, having charm'd their day.
He sang when England's hopes were in their prime,
Not of that age alone, but “for all time!”
Which one may hear if he will pause and hearken;
Nor his the pipings of the passing hour
That die in echoes, having charm'd their day.
He sang when England's hopes were in their prime,
Not of that age alone, but “for all time!”
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