I.—CHAUCER.
Yea! lovely are the hues still floating o'er
Thy rural visions, bard of olden time,
The form of purest Poesy flits before
My mental gaze, while bending o'er thy rhyme.
No lofty flight, bold, brilliant and sublime—
But tender beauty, and endearing grace,
And touching pathos in these lines I trace,
Oh! gentle poet of the northern clime.
And oft when dazzled by the gorgeous glow
And gilded luxury of modern rhymes,
Grateful I turn to the clear, quiet flow
Of thy sweet thoughts, which fall like pleasant chimes
From the "pure wells of English undefiled."
Thou wert inspired, thou, Poetry's true child.
II.—SPENCER.
What forms of grace and glory glided through
The royal palace of thy lofty mind!
Rare shapes of beauty thy sweet fancy drew,
In the brave knights, and peerless dames enshrined
Within thy magic book, The Faerie Queene,
Bright Gloriana robed in dazzling sheen—
Hapless Irene—angelic Una—and
The noble Arthur all before me pass,
As summoned by the enchanter rod and glass.
And glorious still thy pure creations stand,
Leaving their golden footprints on the sand
Of Time indelible! All thanks to thee,
Oh! beauty-breathing bard of Poesy,
That thou hast charmed a weary hour for me.
III.—SHAKSPEARE.
Oh! minstrel monarch! the most glorious throne
Of Intellect thy Genius doth inherit.
Compeer, or perfect rival thou hast none—
O Soul of Song!—O mind of royal merit.
Is not this high, imperishable fame
The tribute of a grateful world to thee?
A recognizing glory in thy name
From a great nation to thy memory.
Lord of Dramatic Art—the splendid scenes
Of thy rich fancy are around us still;
All shapes of Thought to make the bosom thrill
Are thine supreme! Many long years have sped,
And dimmed in dust the crowned and laureled head,
But thou—thou speakest still, though numbered with the dead.