And now, when centuries have flown,
Some shout, “Come, build a monument,
For all arrears of poet-rent,”—
As if he needed brass or stone!
XXII.
O man! how oft thy acts have lied!
Thou crushest those who strive to live,
And makest poor pretence to give
Fame unto him thou can’st not hide.
XXIII.
And some are honoured, being dead,
By those who coldly turned aside,
And gave them, living, but their pride,
When they, perhaps, were needing bread!
XXIV.
Yet not to all such honour comes—
Only a few bright names are known
Of all the “simple, great ones gone”—
The most are only found on tombs.
XXV.
But one shall never pass away—
His, who was born in Stratford town,
When brave Queen Bess wore England’s crown,
Three hundred years ago to-day!