On Shakespeare.

He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n, Without a title save that his parents gave him,— A proud yet simple one indeed,— Such as almost a very babe might utter. Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n, He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam, On which our memories love to feed. His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature: Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain: And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame With his enchanting pen:—the food, The fondest food of history, and the stage: ’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name— Those volumes so well understood. O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage! * * * * * “The tempest” of life he did begin to fare One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four) Not “much ado about nothing.” “Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not! In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare, Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r: In literature he ’came a king. To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote. * * * * * Whilst but a youth, at Stratford-upon-Avon, He stole, poor lad! away from one Sir Thomas Lucy. A lucky day was that for “Will,”— When he began his “comedy of errors,”— Startling, withal, men’s minds for ever and anon! Erst chalking satire on the knighted-man’s own gateway. “Measure for measure,” penn’d his quill, And left poor Lucy, first to taste his terrors. * * * * * O thou bright charmer of the inmost spark! Why revell’d thou so soon in death’s grim holiday— Ere time had run its ’lotted space? In peace thy work began was finished well. Like as the stars which shine throughout the dreary dark Thy feather’d instruments made letters and words say That thou didst live—didst live to chase Gods to their heav’n; and devils to their hell. * * * * * (Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit, And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul To render unto the great dead A worthy tribute of their country’s love. With all the modern implements of learning writ They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll: “Not as you like it,” be it said,— He wrote a play while they their plans approve.) “Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose! (God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye) With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty On high-born kings and lowly peasantry In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose: Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh, Or laugh, or cry, and timidly Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.— Behold his genius! look ye to the skies; For like a planet, known by its respective sign, So was he—good William Shakespeare— Occupying the golden throne of history; Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries— Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design— Are lasting monuments, so dear, That he shall ne’er escape from memory.