LINES WRITTEN ON THE FIRST PAGE OF MULBERRY LEAVES A BOOK WHICH the Members OF 'THE MULBERRIES,' A CLUB OF SHAKSPEARIANS-CONTRIBUTED. Like one who stands On the bright verge of some enchanted shore, As if the trancèd listener to invite Into that world of light; Thus stood I here, Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves, Entwin'd the volume-fill'd with grateful lays And songs of rapturous praise. 1 The following additional poems reached the Editor while the volume was passing through the press. No sound I heard, But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakespeare's name, One lingering note of love, link'd word to word, Whose song is still the same: Or each was as a flower, with folded cells For Pucks and Ariels ! And visions grew— Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age Making them more familiar, yet more new— A group of crownèd things-the radiant themes Of crowned things (Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers) Some in the human likeness, some with wings Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs Some shedding piteous showers Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell Here Art had caught The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form, Stood Lear, amid the storm; There Romeo droop'd, or soar'd-while Jacques here, Still watched the weeping deer. And then a throng Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest, Like angel-apparitions, pass'd along ; The rich-lipp'd Rosalind all light and song; Low-voiced Cordelia with her stifled sighs, And Juliet's shrouded eyes. The page, turn'd o'er, Shew'd Kate-or Viola-my 'Lady Tongue '- Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look— With sweet Ann Page The bright thing ended; for, untouch'd by time, And deathless clowns sublime Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop, Like Oberon and his troop. Here sat, entranced, Malvolio, leg-trapp'd :—he who served the Jew Still with the fiend seem'd running ;-then advanced With Bottom and his crew ; Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit, At these, e'er long, Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past: The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit- Oh! who now bent In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind Worthy of him, whose genius, strangely blent, Could kindle 'wonder and astonishment' In Milton's starry mind? Who stood alone, but not as one apart, And saw Man's inmost heart! TRUTH AND RUMOUR. As Truth once passed on her pilgrim way, But Rumour close by as she plucked a reed So wondrous and wild the lore she taught, The sun went down when he rose again, And sleep had becalmed each listener's mind, The voice of Rumour had rung in vain, No echo had left a charm behind. A A |