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53
April 23.
SHAKESPEARE.
No more this day to England brings
Her famëd champion dearly nigh;
No more with gladsome cheer she rings
Her knightly saint to glorify.
Yet, England, this great feast-day ne'er unmake!
O never leave thy festal robes to wear!
Still on this morn to mighty gladness wake,
As on thy day most famous and most fair!
Enamoured of thy peerless champion tell!
Melodious o'er thy deathless guardian swell!
St. George's fallen crown to thine own Shakespeare bear.
Her famëd champion dearly nigh;
No more with gladsome cheer she rings
Her knightly saint to glorify.
Yet, England, this great feast-day ne'er unmake!
O never leave thy festal robes to wear!
Still on this morn to mighty gladness wake,
As on thy day most famous and most fair!
Enamoured of thy peerless champion tell!
Melodious o'er thy deathless guardian swell!
St. George's fallen crown to thine own Shakespeare bear.
54
Thy heart's best warmth thou need'st not spend
On foreign, fabled man of might;
Thy ravished ear thou need'st not lend
To tale of feignëd marvels bright.
O! o'er this potentate without a peer
Thine own parental ecstasy prolong;
List to those oracles this sovereign Seer
Has made the eternal treasure of thy tongue:
With growth of glorious wonder entertain
The myriad marvels of that mighty brain;
Yes, learn, as ages roll, a joy, an ave more strong!
On foreign, fabled man of might;
Thy ravished ear thou need'st not lend
To tale of feignëd marvels bright.
O! o'er this potentate without a peer
Thine own parental ecstasy prolong;
List to those oracles this sovereign Seer
Has made the eternal treasure of thy tongue:
With growth of glorious wonder entertain
The myriad marvels of that mighty brain;
Yes, learn, as ages roll, a joy, an ave more strong!
What piercing gaze may e'er explore
Those awful deeps he layeth bare?
What feet can wander weary o'er
Those golden realms he spreadeth fair?
What heart has of this sovereign Seer enquired,
And found one wondrous oracle untrue?
What soul has from this presence bright retired,
Nor borne away some splendour glad and new?
O ringing sweetness of those master-spells!
O melody of those deep oracles!
O floods of balmy air! O depths of glowing blue!
Those awful deeps he layeth bare?
What feet can wander weary o'er
Those golden realms he spreadeth fair?
What heart has of this sovereign Seer enquired,
And found one wondrous oracle untrue?
What soul has from this presence bright retired,
Nor borne away some splendour glad and new?
55
O melody of those deep oracles!
O floods of balmy air! O depths of glowing blue!
O English pilgrim! take at home
Thy journey sweet, thy joy divine!
Nor by some orient river roam,
Nor kneel before some distant shrine!
O rapturous rove by thine own Avon sweet,
And blend thine own with Shakespeare's golden hours;
In happy fields pressed by his happy feet,
Pluckwhere he gladsome plucked the April flowers.
The sweetness of thine England's vernal air
Into that travail-room imperial bear,
And bless that sovereign shrine thine England's bloom embowers!
Thy journey sweet, thy joy divine!
Nor by some orient river roam,
Nor kneel before some distant shrine!
O rapturous rove by thine own Avon sweet,
And blend thine own with Shakespeare's golden hours;
In happy fields pressed by his happy feet,
Pluckwhere he gladsome plucked the April flowers.
The sweetness of thine England's vernal air
Into that travail-room imperial bear,
And bless that sovereign shrine thine England's bloom embowers!
Wait, England, wait upon thine own!
Yet room for all the nations make;
Where beats a heart, there stands his throne;
Let every heart thy joy partake!
'Tis well, young Spring, to put thy sweetness forth,
And through this pilgrimage thy lustre twine:
Yet it can spare thee, this peculiar earth;
Avon can charm without one smile of thine.
O! not these vernal airs, this April bloom
Drop glory on that chamber and that tomb,
In every season fair, through every age divine.
Yet room for all the nations make;
56
Let every heart thy joy partake!
'Tis well, young Spring, to put thy sweetness forth,
And through this pilgrimage thy lustre twine:
Yet it can spare thee, this peculiar earth;
Avon can charm without one smile of thine.
O! not these vernal airs, this April bloom
Drop glory on that chamber and that tomb,
In every season fair, through every age divine.
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