GIFTS FOR THE KING
(H. W. L., February 27th)
What good gifts can we bring to thee, O King, O royal poet, on this day of days? No golden crown, for thou art crowned with bays; No jewelled sceptre, and no signet ring, O’er distant realms far-flashing rays to fling; For well we know thy beckoning finger sways A mightier empire, and the world obeys. No lute, for thou hast only need to sing; No rare perfumes, for thy pure life makes sweet The air about thee, even as when the rose Swings its bright censer down the garden-path. Love drops its fragrant lilies at thy feet; Fame breathes thy name to each sweet wind that blows. What can we bring to him who all things hath?
RECOGNITION
(H. W. L.)
I.
Who was the first to bid thee glad all-hail, O friend and master? Who with wingèd feet Over the heavenly hills flew, fast and fleet, To bring thee welcome from beyond the veil? The mighty bards of old?—Thy Dante, pale With high thoughts even yet, Virgil the sweet, Old Homer, trumpet-tongued, and Chaucer, meet To clasp thy stainless hand? What nightingale Of all that sing in heaven sang first to thee? Through all the hallelujahs didst thou hear Spencer still pouring his melodious lays, Majestic Milton’s clarion, strong and free, Or, golden link between the far and near, Bryant’s clear chanting of the eternal days?
II.
Nay, but not these! not these! Even though apace, Long rank on rank, with swift yet stately tread They came to meet thee—the immortal dead— Yet Love ran faster! All the lofty place, All the wide, luminous, enchanted space Glistened with Shining Ones who thither sped— The countless host thy song had comforted! What light, what love illumed each radiant face! The Rachels thou hadst sung to in the dark, The Davids who for Absaloms had wept, The fainting ones who drank thy balm and wine, High souls that soared with thee as soars the lark, Children who named thee, smiling, ere they slept— These gave thee first the heavenly countersign!
SHAKESPEARE
(April 23, 1664-1889)
Nay, Master, dare we speak? O mighty shade, Sitting enthroned where awful splendors are, Beyond the light of sun, or moon, or star, How shall we breathe thy high name undismayed? Poet, in royal majesty arrayed, Walking with mute gods through the realms afar— Seer, whose wide vision time nor death can bar, We would but kiss thy feet, abashed, afraid! But yet we love thee, and great love is bold. Love, O our master, with his heart of flame And eye of fire, dares even to look on thee, For whom the ages lift their gates of gold; And his glad tongue shall syllable thy name Till time is lost in God’s unsounded sea!