England :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Wings have we,—and, as far as we can go,
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean, and mere sky supply that mood,
Which, with the lofty, sanctifies the low:
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good.
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There do I find a never-failing source
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter, wherein right voluble I am:
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
The gentle lady married to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.”
—Wordsworth.

“Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new.”
—Johnson.

One of those giant minds, who, from the mass
Of millions, soar aloft and spurn control;
Who, like a mountain, doth serenely pass
Beyond his fellows, whilst the thunders roll,
Unheeded, o'er his head, and the storms call,
Like maniacs, to its echos! He was one
Born to ascend superior over all!
A monument of greatness, and—alone!
An intellectual monarch, with the mind his throne!

228

He, like a rainbow bas'd upon a hill,
And spanning the green vallies in its stride,
Scatter'd all gorgeous hues with profuse will,
And, with the sun, did sovrantie divide.
He was a beacon-light, and shone in pride
To distant people. He did tower ōn high,
Even as some monarch's palace, that doth hide
Its blazing front within the evening sky,
And gathers the rich hues that o'er the cloud-groves fly.

His youth was spent in peace and solitude
Beneath the oak-tree boughs. At early morn
He wander'd forth into the shaded wood,
And saw the dew-drops on the grass unshorn;
And, like a merry huntsman, blew his horn
Among the silver echos; whilst the deer
Swept by him, to his caves, in royal scorn;
And every bird did warble loud and clear;
Whilst winds and waters came and murmur'd in his ear!

At noon he laid him down beneath the trees,
And, shelter'd 'neath their shadow from the sun,
Felt in his hair the flutter of the breeze,
And brooded on deep thoughts from silence won.
Yea, resting on the grass, and all alone,
Sweet vision fill'd his slumbers, and he heard
Language angelic, and a heavenly tone,
That, like the hymnings of a midnight bird,
Told him of glorious hopes that should not be deferr'd.

229

Full many a gorgeous evening, when the sky
Was rob'd in purple splendour, like a queen—
An eastern queen, when all her court are nigh:—
And when the waves, like heaps of gold, were seen,
And the red sun illumin'd every scene;
Then did the poet wander, and recal
Luxuriant dreams that in his soul had been;
Deeming that unknown spiritual tongues did call
Aloud, that he would come into their golden hall!

And oh, at night, when o'er the fields of blue,
The cold enchantress moon climbs on her way,
Clothing with lustrous halos, and rich hue
Of crystal light, the woods that met her ray;
And, when the stars in sportiveness did pay
Homage to glittering waves, and, each a bride,
Embosom'd in the mountain-springs, did lay;
Still did the bard, entranc'd in soul, divide
His visions with the night, and bent his knees in pride.

'Twas thus, in his unbridled youth, he won
Those mighty fires that fill'd the world with flame:
Freedom walk'd with him; he was chosen son
To Nature; Nature gave him house and name;
And Nature clad him with her choicest fame.
The caves, the woods, the mountain-tops, the sea
Sent thoughts and feelings nought could ever tame;
And what high halls and festal revelry
Could never bring, O, Shakspeare, Nature brought to thee!

230

In the wide woods was passion all unfurl'd;
And in the wild-deer's track; away, away,
Over the heath and crags, where far lie hurl'd
The drifted snows and storms!—where, in the ray
Of the keen sun, the eagle bends his way;
And where the gorcock shrieks aloud; and where
The lonely heron seeks each solemn bay—
The mighty poet wander'd proudly there,
And sung entrancing hymns unto the listening air!

By sides of lovely lakes, where the white moon
Beholds her image in the crystal wave,
And every ancient mountain glideth down,
So that they may their barren foreheads lave:—
By shores enchanted, and romantic cave,
And in far nooks, his splendid visions came;
And now he is the conqueror of the grave!
And every land knows Shakspeare's lofty name,
And bows in humble awe before his giant fame!

There is a freshness in the misty morn;
Colours of every kind are on the dew;
The leaves are fluttering, as if freshly born,
And the far hills take on an azure hue.
Nature with wondrous feelings can imbue
All living things. The grass is bright and green;
The birds are trilling sweet; and, ever new,
The voices of the woods refresh the scene;
Such was sweet Shakspeare's joy, his books, his life, I ween!

231

His soul was as a prism that did reflect
All lights and gorgeous hues. A cataract,
That, when the summer rays its mists affect,
Glitters with rainbow lustre. He could act
King, patriot, lover, friend: o'er every fact
Imagination's halo's spread around,
And did his lovely vagaries enact;
His mighty soul was able to surround
All things with living light: all things his greatness own'd.

Thus did the sweet Ophelia win her tears;
Thus Desdemona mingled with his dream;
Thus did old Lear lament his shatter'd years,
And Hamlet give the germs of lofty theme.
Shakspeare, at last, seem'd in his soul supreme—
Winning from solitude, aims, thoughts sublime—
Fancy's, Imagination's, Passion's gleam
And those transcendent lays that, to all time,
Shall fill the world with Shakspeare's, England's prime.

Vast are ambition's toils. We climb and climb,
Higher and higher, over rock and stone,
And idly waste the freshness of our prime
In yearnings wild—in helplessness—alone!
Midnight beholds us weep, and pine, and moan;
And, when at length we gain the mountain height,
Nought is around us but the tempest's tone,
The eagle's scream, black heath, and barren blight;
And nought of joy or gladness animates the sight.

232

The friendship of their kind they scorn:—the ray
Of love is taken from them! On, and on,
They blindly wander through each desert way,
Beholding not the glory of the sun;
Undazzl'd by the gorgeous hues that run
Along the groves. But Shakspeare's beating heart,
Unlike the kind, was good, and easy won;
No selfish cares, no idle woes opprest
His high majestic spirit—it was aye at rest.

He won the untrod heights without a strife;
The cloud-surrounded mountains were his home:
Yea, in most daring dreams he spent his life,
And, like an eagle, from his azure dome
Reclining towards its eyry, nor will roam
Again—so Shakspeare took his place by right;
He struggled not, nor battled, but did come
To his huge fame by his own single might,
And no one dared to walk within his burning light.

Sole, vast, and undivided was his reign:
He was the lion, that doth hunt away
All meaner foes from his remote domain.
Two suns could not exist, for Shakspeare's ray
Illumin'd all. He was the open day,
Where every thought and feeling might arise.
Yet, though as ocean strong, his soul could play,
Even like a lamb that round its mother tries
Its gambols. Thus he made us strong, and glad, and wise!

233

Pure, innocent, and like a child, he spent
His life—and who can like the poet feel?
The summer suns of vanish'd seasons sent
The spirit of their splendour, and did steal
Around him with their blessings, to reveal
The azure depths of heaven. There was a tongue
In every silent flower; a balm to heal
His wearied soul, in every bird that sung;
And music fill'd the streams that wandered along.

The mid-day of his prime, alas, was lost
In crowded courts, and in the marble-hall!
He was a bark—a beauteous vessel, tost
On angry seas, and girt, as with a wall.
But, in his latter age, he heard the call
Of Avon's leafy woods and waters clear;
The visions of his youth he did recal,
And heard his native streams, and dropt a tear
To think that Avon's flowers must bloom but on his bier.

'Mid the dear scenes that he had lov'd, he died!—
Beneath the shadow of the ancient woods,
And where the murmurous waves of Avon glide—
The sweetest swan of all its solitudes!
The nightingale, that in the moonlight broods,
Sung loud his requiem to the listening sky;
The clouds of midnight put on mourning hoods;
The sweetest morning dews above him lie;
The gentlest winds of heaven, like weeping lovers, sigh.

234

And, nightly, when the earth is hush'd in sleep,
The lovely spirits that had felt his spell
Crowd to his grave, and there their vigils keep,
Loving beside their ancient lord to dwell.
Fairies, and gentle sylphs, and naiads swell
The incense of his praise! And well, I deem,
Spirits from heaven do ever ring his knell,
And watch him on the moon's serenest beam;
Warming his senseless clay as with a poet's dream.

Sing ye a dirge for him! Ye poets, come,
And cast your laurels at his sacred feet!
Ye mountains send your echos to his tomb!
Ye clouds come down and be his winding-sheet!
Ye cliffs, that 'mid the tempests have your seat,
Proclaim his name! And thou, eternal sea,
As thy loud waves in stormy thunder beat,
Sing him who lov'd thee, sing with hymnings free!
Nature come forth and shout: he gave his life to thee!

His fame outlives the monument of stone,
The tower, the pyramid, the brazen pile;
He hath his seat as on a monarch's throne;
He dwelleth highest in this glorious isle;
Richer than all the treasures of the Nile
Was he; than Babel he doth stand more high;
O'er all the earthly kingdoms he doth smile;
He rules the vales, the waters, and the sky;
His power, his sway, doth stretch even to eternity!

235

Yea, his gigantic soul doth mock at time—
Eternal with the mountains and the sea!
He soars aloft, majestic and sublime,
In fadeless strength, unconquerable and free.
Fix'd like a star, he shineth visibly
In midnight's crown. The high and mighty dead
Of ages, mighty bard, give way to thee;
And thou mayst proudly raise thy sacred head
When they and all they did are with oblivion wed.