On Shakespeare.
[Composed on the occasion of “The Shakespeare Tercentenary Festival,” 1864.]
Note.—The reader is requested to observe that lines 1-5, 2-6, 3-7, 4-8 (and so in every eight consecutive lines), have rhythmical terminations, though the quantity of feet do not agree; but the number of feet in lines 1-9, 2-10, 3-11, 4-12, 5-13, 6-14, 7-15, and 8-16 (and so in each successive 16 lines), will be found to correspond, with but slight variation.
He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n,
Without a title save that his parents gave him,—
A proud yet simple one indeed,—
Such as almost a very babe might utter.
Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n,
He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam,
On which our memories love to feed.
His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature:
Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain:
And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame
With his enchanting pen:—the food,
The fondest food of history, and the stage:
’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain
The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name—
Those volumes so well understood.
O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!
* * * * *
“The tempest” of life he did begin to fare
One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four)
Not “much ado about nothing.”
“Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not!
In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare,
Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r:
In literature he ’came a king.
To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote.
* * * * *
Whilst but a youth, at Stratford-upon-Avon,
He stole, poor lad! away from one Sir Thomas Lucy.
A lucky day was that for “Will,”—
When he began his “comedy of errors,”—
Startling, withal, men’s minds for ever and anon!
Erst chalking satire on the knighted-man’s own gateway.
“Measure for measure,” penn’d his quill,
And left poor Lucy, first to taste his terrors.
* * * * *
O thou bright charmer of the inmost spark!
Why revell’d thou so soon in death’s grim holiday—
Ere time had run its ’lotted space?
In peace thy work began was finished well.
Like as the stars which shine throughout the dreary dark
Thy feather’d instruments made letters and words say
That thou didst live—didst live to chase
Gods to their heav’n; and devils to their hell.
* * * * *
(Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit,
And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul
To render unto the great dead
A worthy tribute of their country’s love.
With all the modern implements of learning writ
They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll:
“Not as you like it,” be it said,—
He wrote a play while they their plans approve.)
“Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose!
(God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye)
With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty
On high-born kings and lowly peasantry
In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose:
Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh,
Or laugh, or cry, and timidly
Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.—
Behold his genius! look ye to the skies;
For like a planet, known by its respective sign,
So was he—good William Shakespeare—
Occupying the golden throne of history;
Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries—
Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design—
Are lasting monuments, so dear,
That he shall ne’er escape from memory.
The Banquet.[65]
The summer crept from May to June,
When flow’rs yield most their perfumes sweet,
And add their charms to the saloon,
To make the banquet-room complete.
See: there they are, of every hue,
Of every cast, in aspect rare;
All greeting all who deign to view,
And smiling on the happy pair.
Their meet companions all attend—
Those crownèd giants of the pine,—
And in their place, beneath them, bend
The goodly tenants of the vine.
Those purple cisterns,[66] fill’d to brim,
(And those green beauties by their side,)
Enrich the little seas that swim
In goblets, through the eventide.
’Round golden pedestals they cling,
Among th’ elect of every fruit:
Hear they, as ’twere, the glasses ting;
Burst they with joy, yet they are mute.
Their turn is come—O, happy fate!—
A kindly hand assists them down;
They garnish well the polish’d plate,
Until their fairy-life is flown.
Now listen to the harmony—
Those compliments of courteous love:
Observe how wondrous loyally
And royally the things do move!
The banquet-board bore on its face
Profusion’s burden of choice store:
The hostess loan’d her wonted grace—
Enhanc’d by the gay garb she wore:
And by her side, on her right hand,
The son of England’s cherish’d Queen,—
Prince Edward, of all Britain’s land:
None fairer of his sex are seen.
Glance o’er the board—behold the host,
(Whom this fair Prince doth honour well,)
Though years he numbereth the most,
In wit and wisdom none excel:
On his right hand, eyes sparkling bright,
Sat Alexandra, England’s own.—
She saw, was seen, and spell’d the night:
Yet there were other stars that shone,
Whose smiling countenances glowed
With love, and hope, and charity;
Within whose bosoms freely flowed
The stream which mark’d their ancestry,—
Of ancestors who scared the foe
With swords and bucklers, armour bent,
Swift arrows from well-bended bow,
Or matchlock leaden bullets sent;
Whose loyalty unto the crown,
When dangers frown’d at home, abroad,
Brought kingly gratulations down,
And blessings from Almighty God.
Have ceased those feudal wars of yore,—
When heritages were purloin’d,
Or purchas’d with death’s clotted gore,
To satisfy th’ insatiate mind.
Now peace, triumphant, fill’d each heart;
The rosy wine-cup teem’d with pride;
The banquetees[67] had met to part:—
Gone, gone is this blithe eventide!
[65] This poem was composed on the occasion of the Banquet given by Lord and Lady Palmerston, June 22nd, 1864, in honour of their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.
[66] Grapes.
[67] The guests.
