 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
24
ON SHAKSPEAR'S POEMS.
Oh when in blank that all-divinest pageLay charactérless, who could have divined
The thoughts that breathe which that creative mind
Set there, in words that burn, with noble rage,
Presaging “all the world should be his stage!”
'Tis as a space of blue, all-undefined,
Shone all with stars one by strange chance might find,
Or, out of hope, a goodly heritage.
And such was thine, my England! Chaucer's star,
Thy morning-star, rose on a lurid sky,
Streaked red for civil war, and clouds that bar
The fuller day; but Shakspear fell on high
And palmy days, which Art's best nurses are:
Nature had rest, on him her hand to try!
| Stones from The Quarry | |