SHAKESPEARE'S MONUMENT AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.
YREAT Homer's birth seven rival cities claim,
Too mighty such monopoly of fame;
Yet not to birth alone did Homer owe
His wondrous worth; what Egypt could bestow,
With all the schools of Greece and Asia joined,
Enlarged the immense expansion of his mind.
Nor yet unrivalled the Mæonian strain,
The British Eagle, and the Mantuan Swan
Tower equal heights. But, happier Stratford, thou
With incontested laurels deck thy brow;
Thy Bard was thine unschooled, and from thee brought
More than all Egypt, Greece, or Asia taught.
Not Homer's self such matchless honors won;
The Greek has rivals, but thy Shakespeare none.
Stratford-on-the-Avon. And we passed
Through aisles and avenues of the princeliest trees That ever eyes beheld. None such with us
Here in the bleaker North. And as we went
Through Lucy's park, the red day dropt i' the west;
A crimson glow, like blood in lovers' cheeks,
Spread up the soft green sky and passed away;
The mazy twilight came down on the lawns,
And all those huge trees seemed to fall asleep;
The deer went past like shadows. All the park
Lay round us like a dream; and one fine thought
Hung over us, and hallowed all. Yea, he,
The pride of England, glistened like a star,
And beckoned us to Stratford.
STRATFORD-ON-AVON AT NIGHT.
WENTY-SEVEN paces in front,
And barely eleven deep,
Lights in every window but it,
Are they dead, or do they sleep?
The merry gossips of Stratford
Gossip in shops all round,—
From that untenanted mansion
There cometh not a sound.
If you knock you will get no answer,
Knock reverently and low,
For the sake of one who was living there
Three hundred years ago.
He was born in the upper chamber,
Had playmates down the street;
They noted at school, when he read the lesson,
That his voice was soft and sweet.
His father, they say, was a glover,
Though that is not so clear;
He married his sweetheart at Shottery,
When he came to his nineteenth year.
And then he left old Stratford,
And nobody missed him much,
For Stratford, a thriving burgh,
Took little account of such.
But somehow it came to be whispered,
When some short years had flown,
That the glover's son was making himself
A credit to that good town.
The best folks scarcely believed it,
And dreamily shook their head,
But the world was owning the archer
Whose arrows of light had sped;
Whose arrows were brightening space
With fire unknown before,
Plucked from a grander quiver
Than Phoebus-Apollo bore.
So his birthplace came to be famous,
And the ground where his bones were laid, And to Stratford, the thriving burgh,
Nations their pilgrimage made.
They saw the tenantless dwelling,
They saw the bare flat stone;
But the soul that had brightened the world
Still lived to brighten their own.
And they learned the sacred lesson,
That he whom the proud eschew,
The simplest and the lowliest,
May have God's best work to do.
STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, JANUARY, 1837.
WE stood upon the tomb of him whose praise
Time, nor oblivious thrift, nor envy chill,
Nor war, nor ocean with her severing space,
Shall hinder from the peopled world to fill;
And thus, in fulness of our heart, we cried :
God's works are wonderful, the circling sky,
The rivers that with noiseless footing glide,
Man's firm-built strength, and woman's liquid eye;
But the high spirit that sleepeth here below,
More than all beautiful and stately things,
Glory to God the mighty Maker brings;
To whom alone 't was given the bounds to know
Of human action, and the secret springs
Whence the deep streams of joy and sorrow flow.
Henry Alford.
HUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read
The words): Good frend for Jesus' sake forbeare (Poor ghost!) To digg the dost enclosed heare, Then came the malediction on the head
Of who so dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the solemn Stratford church the air
Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb
The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.
TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART, ANNE HATHAWAY.
OULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,
To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway!
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,
To breathe delight Anne hath a way.
When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,
And merit to distress betray,
To soothe the heart Anne hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,
Turn foulest night to fairest day.
Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;
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