The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard With a Memoir by Blanchard Jerrold |
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SONG FOR SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTHDAY.
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 | The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard |  |
208
SONG FOR SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTHDAY.
April 23, 1836.
Ever since the dawn of time,
Have poets told their sylvan stories;
Gemming life with truths sublime,
And crowning man with living glories.
Sweet their strains, but far less dear
Than his to whom all shapes were given;
Now a breathing violet here,
And now a streaming star in Heaven.
Oh! the vast, the varied mind,
The all-encircling line of Shakspeare,
Nature yet must feel regret
At losing him—the gentle Shakspeare.
Have poets told their sylvan stories;
Gemming life with truths sublime,
And crowning man with living glories.
Sweet their strains, but far less dear
Than his to whom all shapes were given;
Now a breathing violet here,
And now a streaming star in Heaven.
Oh! the vast, the varied mind,
The all-encircling line of Shakspeare,
Nature yet must feel regret
At losing him—the gentle Shakspeare.
Oh! the brightest flame of life,
It burns in those who most adore him;
Envy, hatred, gloom, and strife,
Like snow melt all away before him.
All his mighty mind was love—
Ah! sure his pen was once a feather
In the wing of Noah's dove,
It brings us so in peace together.
It burns in those who most adore him;
Envy, hatred, gloom, and strife,
Like snow melt all away before him.
209
Ah! sure his pen was once a feather
In the wing of Noah's dove,
It brings us so in peace together.
Oh! the sweetness of his song,
The music and the mirth of Shakspeare;
Golden word was never heard
Like thy all-echoed name, Will Shakspeare!
O'er the mind his magic breathed,
And still it leaves a charm within it,
As Apollo's harp bequeathed
Its music where it lay a minute.
Time shall never still the tone,
Nor e'er of radiant wreaths deprive him,
Nature was his nurse alone,
And Nature only can survive him.
Oh! the green, the glorious page,
The everlasting line of Shakspeare;
Millions meet with praises sweet
Around the sunny shrine of Shakspeare.
The music and the mirth of Shakspeare;
Golden word was never heard
Like thy all-echoed name, Will Shakspeare!
O'er the mind his magic breathed,
And still it leaves a charm within it,
As Apollo's harp bequeathed
Its music where it lay a minute.
Time shall never still the tone,
Nor e'er of radiant wreaths deprive him,
Nature was his nurse alone,
And Nature only can survive him.
Oh! the green, the glorious page,
The everlasting line of Shakspeare;
Millions meet with praises sweet
Around the sunny shrine of Shakspeare.
| The Poetical Works of Laman Blanchard | |