C-n-^^^XL^.^,.-^^- , ~-^^ REESE LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA Deceived WAR 15 1893 , , 8 g . Tributes to SHAKESPEARE COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY MARY R. SILSBY NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS PRINTERS 6- PUBLISHERS MDCCCXCII Copyright, 1892, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. S3 TO WILLIAM J. ROLFE, LiTT.D. IN RECOGNITION OF HIS SERVICES TO STUDENTS OF SHAKESPEARE THIS VOLUME IS Gratefully It is really curious . . . that almost all the poets who have touched Shakespeare seem to become in- spired above themselves. The poem that Ben Jonson wrote in his memory has a splendor of movement about it that is uncommon with him, a sort of rapture ; and Dryden wrote nothing finer than what he wrote of the greatest of poets. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (Shakespeare's Richard the Third). PREFACE. FOR several years, while engaged in the study of Shakespeare in connection with a Shakespeare Society, the editor preserved in her note-books every poem addressed to the dramatist, or inspired by his genius or per- sonality, which fell under her notice. These ranged in date from 1595 to 1891, and filled many pages. It was merely a labor of love, with an interest in observing the variety of styles in which the great theme was treated, and she entertained no idea of ever making any further use of the material thus gath- ered. But the suggestion was made by friends that if these poems were issued in a volume it would form an interesting collec- Vlll PREFACE. tion, and such she trusts it will prove to the lovers of Shakespeare. As no single volume could include all the poetical tributes to the great dramatist, an effort has been made to select the best that have been printed during three centuries. The contemporary poems have been chron- ologically arranged in the opening pages of the book, and with the modern poems an effort at chronological arrangement has also been attempted. Where it has not been possible to obtain the exact date of a poem, the date of the publication of the volume in which it appeared has been used. Brief explanatory notes have been added to the poems when deemed necessary. The collection of " Brief Tributes," at the end of the volume, was not intended to be ex- haustive, but merely to include short refer- ences to the poet that came under the editor's eye while gathering the longer pieces. The editor cannot too strongly express her obligations to those who have kindly aided her in making the volume complete. Every PREFACE. IX publisher and author to whom she appealed for permission to use copyrighted poems most graciously assented; and the interest they evinced in the plan, and the encouragement she has thus received, have made the under- taking a pleasure rather than a task. The editor also desires to express her ob- ligations to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., by whose kind permission she was allowed to incorporate the poems by Holmes, Longfel- low, Emerson, Bayard Taylor, and Mrs. Piatt, and to draw from the pages of the Atlantic ; to the Century Company, who added their consent to that of the authors for the poems quoted from the Century; to the publishers of the Literary World ; to Mr. William Winter and his publishers, the Messrs. Macmillan & Co.; to Messrs. Stoddard, Gilder, Aldrich, C. C. Buel, and the many other American poets whose poems enrich the pages of her book. Dr. William J. Rolfe, to whom the editor has the pleasure of dedicating the volume, writes as follows of its plan : X PREFACE. CAMBRIDGE, Jan. 5, 1892. DEAR MRS. SILSBY, Many thanks for the proof- sheets of your book, the plan of which you kindly ex- plained to me some months ago. It was a happy thought to gather up these tributes to Shakespeare, and it is remarkable that it was not done by some lover of the poet long ere this. In Dr. Ingleby's " Centurie of Prayse " (which you tell me you had not seen until I called your attention to it when your book was just go- ing to press, and which, as you say, would have saved you much labor in verifying the text of certain pieces), the allusions to the dramatist, whether in prose or in verse, in print or in manuscript, between 1591 and 1693, have been collected ; but there are comparatively few of these which would properly come within the scope of your volume. Many of them merely mention the name of Shakespeare or refer to him in a casual way, and many others are in no sense "tributes" to his genius or his memory. The present century has been far richer in these tributes than the one to which Dr. Ingleby re- stricted himself. The intervening century, the earlier half of it in particular, as might be expected, furnishes few poems for your list. The chronology of the poems is, indeed, very interesting and suggestive to the student of Shakespeare and of literature. Allow one such student to congratulate you heartily on both the plan and the execution of your book, and to subscribe himself Most gratefully and cordially yours, W. J. ROLFE. CONTENTS. Author. Page Ad Gulielmum Shakespeare . . . John Weever. i To Shakespeare Richard Barnefield. 3 Shakespeare Wm. Barkstead. 4 To Our English Terence, Mr. Will Shakespeare . 5 John Davies of Hereford. To Master William Shakespeare . Thomas Freeman. 6 To Shakespeare .... Christopher Brooke. 8 Inscription over Shakespeare's Grave 9 Inscription under Shakespeare's Bust 10 On Mr. William Shakespeare . . William Basse, n Lines on the Portrait of Shakespeare. Ben Jonson. 12 To the Memory of My Beloved . . Ben Jonson. 13 Upon the Lines and Life of the Famous Scenicke Poet, Master William Shakespeare .... 17 Hugh Holland. To the Memorie of the Deceased Authour Mais- ter W. Shakespeare .... L. Digges. 19 To the Memorie of M. W. Shakespeare . I. M. 21 Epitaph upon Mr. William Shakespeare .... 22 Shakespeare. . . . . . . Michael Drayton. 22 Xll CONTENTS. Author. Page On Worthy Master Shakespeare and His Poems . 23 I. M. S. Upon the Effigies of my Worthy Friend . . . . 29 Anonymous. An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramaticke Poet, W. Shakespeare ..... John Milton. 30 Extract from ' ' The Hierarchic of the Blessed Angells" Thomas Hey wood. 31 In Remembrance of Master William Shakespere . 33 Sir William Davenant. Extract from ' ' Jonsonus Virbius ". Owen Feltham. 35 To Shakespeare 36 To the Same Thomas Bancroft. 36 To Mr. William Shakespeare. . . Anonymous. 37 Upon Master William Shakespeare 37 Leonard Digges. An Elegy, on the Death of that Famous Writer and Actor, Mr. William Shakespeare. Anonymous. 42 To Shakespeare. .... Samuel Sheppard. 44 Elegiac Verses on Shakespeare. Samuel Sheppard. 44 To Mr. Clement Fisher of Wincott 47 Sir Aston Cokaine. Shakespeare ........ John Dryden. 48 Shakespeare John Dryden. 50 Shakespeare Sir Carr Scrope. 52 Shakespeare John Dryden. 53 Shakespeare Thomas Otway. 54 To Shakespeare J. Crown. 56 Shakespeare John Sheffield. 57 Shakespeare Nahum Tate. 58 CONTENTS. xili Author. Page Shakespeare John Dryden. 59 Shakespeare John Dryden. 59 Shakespeare's Mulberry Tree . . David Garrick. 60 Warwickshire A Song. . . . David Garrick. 65 Ode to Shakespeare David Garrick. 69 Sweet Willy O David Garrick. 71 The Birth of Shakspeare J. Ogden. 72 From "The Rosciad" . . . Charles Churchill. 76 Shakespeare Robert Lloyd. 78 Shakespeare Anonymous. 79 Sonnet Anonymous. 80 The Tomb of Shakespeare. John Gilbert Cooper. 81 To Shakespeare Thomas Gray. 92 Monody Thomas Warton. 92 Shakespeare's Monument .... Anonymous. 94 Inscription for a Monument to Shakespeare ... 95 Mark Akenside. An Epistle Addressed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakespeare's Works .... 97 William Collins. Shakespeare < Alexander Pope. 102 To the Idol of my Eye, and Delight of my Heart, Ann Hathaway 103 The Bust of Shakespeare 105 Written in the Visitors' Book at Stratford . . . 106 Prince Lucien Bonaparte. Written before Re-reading " King Lear " . . . 107 John Keats. Written in the Visitors' Book at Stratford . . . 108 Washington Irving. XIV CONTENTS. Author. Page Shakespeare Ode Charles Sprague. 109 To Shakespeare . . . Walter Savage Landor. 120 Written in a Volume of Shakespeare 121 Thomas Hood. Shakespeare Hartley Coleridge. 122 Stratford-upon-Avon Henry Alford. 123 Shakespeare John Sterling. 124 To Shakespeare . . . Frances Anne Kemble. 126 To Shakespeare. . . . Frances Anne Kemble. 127 Written in the Visitors' Book at Stratford . . .128 Daniel Maclise. Shakespeare Matthew Arnold. 129 On Mrs. Kemble's Readings from Shakespeare . .130 H. W. Longfellow. Stratford-on-Avon Robert Leighton. 131 Poetry Immortal . . . Henry T. Tuckerman. 132 Shakespeare in Italy W. S. Landor. 133 William Shakespeare . . . . R. H. Stoddard. 134 Shakespeare 140 Shakespeare O. W. Holmes. 142 Ode on Shakespeare's Birthday. J. H. Sheppard. 146 Shakespeare Henry Ames Blood. 150 The Stratford Jubilee . . . Martin F. Tupper. 155 The Two Poets. . 156 Shakespeare R. W. Emerson. 157 Shakespeare R. W. Emerson. 157 In the Old Churchyard at Fredericksburg . . .158 Frederick Wadsworth Loring. Shakespeare Simeon Tucker Clark. 161 Shakespeare's Statue .... Bayard Taylor. 162 CONTENTS. XV Author. Page Shakespeare John Brougham. 168 Anne Hathaway 169 Scott's Shakespeare 17 Shakespeare . . . Mary H. Welles Pumpelly. 171 Shakespeare H. W. Longfellow. 176 William Shakespeare 177 Algernon Charles Swinburne. Sonnet. To England . . Algernon C. Swinburne. 178 To Edmund Clarence Stedman 179 Richard Henry Stoddard. With " Shakespeare's Sonnets" 180 Richard Henry Stoddard. Written on a Fly- Leaf of "Shakespeare's Son- nets" Richard Watson Gilder. 181 At Stratford-upon-Avon . Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 182 Shakespeare J. M. Rogers. 183 Hiram Hayes in Stratford 184 Shakespeare Charlotte Fiske Bates. 185 To the Avon H. W. Longfellow. 186 A Word for Shakespeare . . Benj. F. Leggett. 187 Shakespeare .... Kate Brownlee Sherwood. 191 Shakespeare Minna Irving. 192 Poet and Actress . . . Clarence Clough Buel. 193 Shakespeare William Leighton. 194 Mankind's Highest . . . Wm. Roscoe Thayer. 195 The Poet's Month .... William Leighton. 196 Shakespeare .... James Newton Matthews. 200 A Vision of Loss M. L. Henry. 202 Shakespeare .... Alice Williams Brotherton. 204 The Dead Lion William Leighton. 205 XVI CONTENTS, Author. Page The Names Robert Browning. 206 The Modern Rhymer . Richard Watson Gilder. 208 To Modjeska as Rosalind . . Oscar Fay Adams. 210 Epigram William Watson. 21 1 Shakespeare's Sonnets . . Charlotte Fiske Bates. 212 With a Copy of Shakespeare 212 Charles Goodrich Whiting. The Sermon of a Statue . . . S. M. B. Piatt. 213 Written in a Volume of Shakespeare 216 Charles H. Crandall. After Reading Shakespeare . . C. E. Markham. 217 The Childs Fountain at Stratford-on-Avon . . .218 Oliver Wendell Holmes. Hamlet at the Boston . . . Julia Ward Howe. 223 Since Cleopatra Died 227 Thomas Went worth Higginson. Across the Fields to Anne . Richard E. Burton. 228 Ashes William Winter. 231 Guilielmus Rex .... Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 232 The Passing Bell at Stratford . William Winter. 233 A Bar to Originality . . John Kendrick Bangs. 235 After Reading " Tamburlaine the Great " . . . 235 William Watson. The Twenty-third of April . . . R. W. Gilder. 236 The Thought of Shakespeare 237 Richard Edwin Day. BRIEF TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE 238 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. AD GULIELMUM SHAKESPEARE. Honie-tongued Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue, I swore Apollo got them, and none other ; Their rosie-tinted features clothed in tissue, Some heaven -borne goddesse said to be their mother ; Rose-cheekt Adonis with his amber tresses ; Faire fire-hot Venus charming him to love her; Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses ; Proud lust-stung Tarquine seeking still to prove her ; 2 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Romeo ; Richard ; more whose names I know not, Their sugred tongues, and power-attractive beauty, Say they are saints, although that saints they show not ; For thousand vowes to them subjective dutie. They burn in love, thy children, Shakespeare. Let them ; Go woo thy Muse ! More nymphish brood beget them ! JOHN WEEVER (1576-1632). [Weaver composed his book, entitled " Epi- grammes in the oldest cut and newest Fashion," in 1595, when he was nineteen years old. This is the 22d Epigram of the Fourth Weeke, and is valuable as an early contemporary reference to Shakespeare.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. TO SHAKESPEARE. And Shakespeare, thou whose hony- flowing Vaine, (Pleasing the World), thy Praises doth obtaine, Whose Venus and whose Lucrece (sweete and chaste), Thy Name in Fame's immortall Booke have plac't, Live ever you ; at least, in Fame live ever ! Well may the Bodye die, but Fame dies never. RICHARD BARNEFIELD (1574-1605). [These lines form the fourth stanza in a poem entitled "A Remembrance of Some English Poets," in Barnefield's " Poems in Divers Hu- mors," published in 1598. The first stanza is on Spenser, the second on Daniell, and the third on Drayton. Barnefield's " Ode to the Nightingale," " As it fell upon a day," etc., had the honor of being attributed to Shakespeare.] 4 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. But stay my muse ! in thine owne confines keepe, & wage not warre with so deere lov'd a neighbor. But having sung thy day song rest and sleepe preserve thy small fame and his greater favor ; His song was worthie merrit (Shakespeare hee) sung the faire blossome, thou the withered tree. Laurell is due to him, his art and wit hath purchast it, Cypress thy brow will fit. WM. BARKSTEAD (1607). [From " Myrrha, the Mother of Adonis, or Lust's Prodigies, a Poem," 1607. William Bark- stead was an actor and dramatist in the reign of James I.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 5 TO OUR ENGLISH TERENCE, MR. WILL SHAKESPEARE. Some say, good Will, which I in sport do sing, Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in sport, Thou hadst bin a companion for a king ; And bin a king among the meaner sort. Some others raile ; but, raile as they thinke fit, Thou hast no railing, but a reigning wit, And honesty, thou sow'st which they do reape, So to increase their stocke, which they do keepe. JOHN DAVIES of Hereford. ("Scourge of Folly," 1607.) [John Davies, the epigrammatist, the author of the above, was a native of Hereford, and was educated at Oxford ; he was famous as a poet and writing-master, and became one of the in- structors of Prince Henry at the Court of James I. He was not related to Sir John Davies. " The 6 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Scourge of Folly " consisted of " Epigrams and others in her many noble and worthy Persons of our Land." The book is now very rare and costly ; the verses scarcely rise above doggerel. Davies lived among great scholars and wits : with Beau- mont, Fletcher, Jonson, Marston, Bacon, Dray- ton, Sidney, Sir Thomas Lucy, and, greatest of all, Shakespeare ; to all of whom he addressed epigrams. This one to Shakespeare implies a singular, and otherwise unknown, circumstance of Shakespeare's life, and leads us to suppose that he had given offence to King James by performing the character of a king, and that this stood in the way of his rising in favor at court. We cannot term the comparison of Shakespeare to Terence an especially felicitous one.] TO MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare, that nimble Mercury, thy braine, Lulls many hundred Argus'- eyes asleepe ; So fit for all thou fashionest thy vein, At th' horse -foot fountain thou hast drunk full deepe, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 7 Virtue's or vice's theme to thee all one is ; Who loves chaste life, there's Lucreece for a teacher; Who lists read lust, there's Venus and Adonis, True model of a most lascivious lecher; Besides, in plays thy wit winds like Meander, Whence needy new composers borrow more Than Terence doth from Plautus or Menander, But to praise thee aright I want thy store. Then let thine owne works thine owne worth upraise, And help f adorn thee with deserved Baies. THOMAS FREEMAN. (" Rub and a Great Cast," 1614.) [The book from which this tribute to Shake- speare is taken is now extremely rare ; only two or three copies are known to be extant. It con- tained two hundred epigrams, and was published in 1614, when the author was about twenty-three years of age. It is said that he was the friend of Shakespeare, Donne, Chapman, and Heywood, to some of whose judgments he submitted his epigrams.] 8 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. TO SHAKESPEARE. To him that impt my fame with Clio's quill, Whose magick rais'd me from Oblivion's den ; That writ my story on the Muses' hill, And with my actions dignified his pen ; He that from Helicon sends many a rill, Whose nectar'd veins are drunk by thirsty men, Crown'd be his style with fame, his head with baies, And none detract, but gratulate his praise. Yet if his scenes have not engrost all grace, The much famed actor could extend on stage, If Time or Memory have left a place For me to fill t' enform this ignorant age ; In that intent I show my horrid face, Imprest with fear and characters of rage, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 9 Nor acts nor chronicles could e'er contain The hell-deep reaches of my soundless brain. C. B. (Christopher Brooke). ("The Ghost of Richard the Third," 1614.) [These lines are from Christopher Brooke's poems, published in 1614 with the following title : " The Ghost of Richard the Third, Expressing himself in these three Parts: i. His Character. 2. His Legend. 3. His Tragedie. Containing more of him than hath been heretofore shewed ; either in Chronicles, Playes or Poems." It is in- teresting not only from its reference to Shake- speare's " Richard the Third," but that it con- tains also several lines quoted from Shakespeare's play.] INSCRIPTION ON THE TABLET OVER SHAKESPEARE'S GRAVE. APRIL 25. 1616. Good frend for Jesus sake forbeare, To digg the dust encloased heare : Bleste be y e man y* spares these stones, And curst be he y* moves my bones. 10 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. INSCRIPTION UPON THE TABLET UNDER SHAKE- SPEARE'S BUST. In the Chancel North Wall of Stratford Church. Ivdicio Pylivm, genio Socratem, arte Maronem, Terra tegit, popvlys maeret, Olympvs habet. Stay Passenger, why goest thou by so fast ? Read if thou canst, whom envious Death hath plast, With in this monvment Shakspeare with whome Qvick Nature dide : whose name doth deck y s Tombe Far more then cost : sieh all, y* He hath writt, Leaves living art, bvt page, to serve his Witt. Obiit Ano Do' 1616. JEtatis, 53, Die 23 Ap. (1617-1622.) TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. II ON MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Beaumont, and rare Beaumont lie A little nearer Chaucer, to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb. To lodge all four in one bed make a shift Until Domes day, for hardly will a fifth Betwixt this day and that, by fate bee slaine, For whom the curtains shal bee drawne againe. But if Precedencie in death doe barre, A fourth place in your sacred Sepulcher ; In this uncarved marble of thy owne, Sleep, brave Tragedian, Shakespeare ! sleepe alone ; Thy unmolested rest, thy unshared cave, Possess as lord, not tenant, to thy grave, That unto others, it may counted bee Honour hereafter to bee layed by thee. WILLIAM BASSE, 1622. 12 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. [There are many versions of this epitaph, which was written in 1622, and attributed to William Basse; it is claimed to be the first writ- ten on Shakespeare. There are six manuscript copies of it known to be extant, in which the form is altered, as it is also in the printed versions in Donne's Poems, and appended to Shakespeare's Poems.] LINES ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKESPEARE. This Figure that thou here seest put, It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; Wherein the Graver had a strife With Nature to out-doo the life; O, could he but have drawne his wit As well in brasse as he hath hit His face ; the Print would then surpasse, All that was ever writ in brasse, But since he cannot, Reader, looke Not at his Picture, but his Booke. BEN JONSON. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 13 [These lines "To the Reader" face the Droeshout portrait of Shakespeare, prefixed to the first folio edition of his Works (1623), and are also found in the second (1632), third (1664), and fourth (1685) folios.] To THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, THE AUTHOR MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy Booke and Fame ; While I confesse thy writings to be such, As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. . . . Soule of the Age ! The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our Stage ! My Shakespeare, rise ; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye A little further to make thee a roome ; Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, 14 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And art alive still, while thy Booke doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses ; I mean with great, but disproportion^ muses : For, if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell, how farre thou didst our Lyly out- shine, Or sporting Kid, or Marlowe's mighty line, And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek, From thence to honour thee, I would not seek For names; but call forth thundering ys- chylus, Euripides, and Sophocles to us, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To live again, to .hear thy buskin tread And shake a stage ; or, when thy socks were on, Leave thee alone, for the comparison Of all, that insolent Greece or haughty Rome Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 15 Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show, To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of an age, but for all time ! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warme Our ears, or like a Mercury to charme ! Nature herself was proud of his designs, And joy'd to weare the dressing of his lines ! Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; But antiquated and deserted lie, As they were not of Nature's family. Yet must I not give Nature all ; thy art, My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part ; For though the poet's matter nature be, His art doth give the fashion ; and that he Who casts to write a living line, must sweat (Such as thine are), and strike the second heat 1 6 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Upon the muses' anvil ; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn, For a good poet's made as well as born ; And such wert thou. Look, how the father's face Lives in his issue ; even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners, brightly shines In his well-turned and true-filed lines ; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were To see thee in our waters yet appeare And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, That so did take, Eliza and our James ! But stay ! I see thee in the Hemisphere Advanced, and made a Constellation there ! Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheere the drooping Stage ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 17 Which, since thy flight fro' hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despaires day, but for thy Volume's light. BEN JONSON. [This eulogy was prefixed to the first folio, 1623.] UPON THE LINES AND LIFE OF THE FAMOUS SCENICKE POET, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Those hands, which you so clapt, go now, and wring You Britaine's brave; for done are Shake- speare's dayes ; His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes Which made the Globe of heav'n and earth to ring. Dry'de is that veine, dry'd is the Thespian Spring, 1 8 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Turn'd all to teares, and Phoebus cloudes his rayes ; That corp's, that coffin now besticke those bayes, Which crown'd him Poet first, then Poets' King. If Tragedies might any Prologue have, All those he made, would scarce make one to this ; Where Fame, now that he gone is to the grave (Death's publique tyring-house) the Nuncius is. For though his line of life went soon about, The life yet of his lines shall never out. HUGH HOLLAND. [Prefixed to the first folio edition of Shake- speare's works, 1623.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 19 TO THE MEMORIE OF THE DECEASED AUTHOUR MAISTER W. SHAKESPEARE. Shake-speare, at length thy pious followes give The world thy Workes ; thy Workes, by which, outlive Thy Tombe thy name must ; when that stone is rent, And Time dissolves thy Stratford Moni- ment, Here we alive shall view thee still. This Booke, When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee looke Fresh to all Ages : when Posterite Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodigie That is not Shake-speare's : ev'ry Line, each Verse Here shall revive, redeeme thee from thy Herse. 20 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Nor Fire, nor cankring Age, as Naso said, Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke shall once in- vade. Nor shall I e're beleeve, or thinke thee dead (Though mist) untill our bankrout Stage be sped (Impossible) with some new straine t' out-do Passions of Juliet and her Romeo ; Or till I heare a Scene more nobly take, Then when thy half-Sword parlying Romans spake. Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest Shall with more fire, more feeling be exprest, Be sure, our Shake-speare, thou canst never dye, But crown'd with Lawrell, live eternally. L. DIGGES. [Prolegomena to the folio of 1623.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 21 TO THE MEMORIE OF M. W. SHAKE- SPEARE. Wee wondred (Shake-speare) that thou went'st so soone, From the Worlds- Stage, to the Graves-Tyr- ing-roome. Wee thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, Tels thy Spectators, that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause. An Actor's Art, Can dye, and live to acte a second part. That's but an Exit of Mortalitie; This, a Re-entrance to a Plaudite. I. M. (1623). [Prolegomena to the first folio of 1623. The lines have been attributed to John Marston, Jas- per Mayne, and James Mabbe.] 22 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. EPITAPH UPON MR. WILLIAM SHAKE- SPEARE. Loord Shakespeare lyes whom none but death could shake And heere shall ly till judgement all awake, When the last trumpet doth unclose his eyes The wittiest poet in the world shall rise. [This epitaph, together with slightly altered ver- sions of the two inscriptions on the tablets over the grave and under the bust, was on a fly-leaf at the end of a copy of Shakespeare's plays, first folio edition of 1623, and written in a handwrit- ing of the time. The book was offered for sale by the Messrs. Christie, in England, in 1888.] SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare thou hadst as smooth a Comicke vaine, Fitting the socke, and in thy natural braine, As strong conception, and as Cleere a rage, As any one that trafiqu'd with the stage. MICHAEL DRAYTON (1627). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 23 [From " Elegies appended to the Battle of Agincourt." 1627.] ON WORTHY MASTER SHAKESPEARE AND HIS POEMS. A mind reflecting ages past, whose cleere And equall surface can make things appeare Distant a Thousand years, and represent Them in their lively colours, just extent. To outrun hasty time, retrieve the fates, Rowle backe the heavens, blow ope the iron gates Of death and Lethe, where (confused) lye Great heapes of ruinous mortalitie In that deepe duskie dungeon to discerne A royall Ghost from Churles : By Art to learne The Physiognomie of shades, and give Them suddaine birth, wondring how oft they live. What story coldly tells, what Poets faine At second hand, and picture without braine 24 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Senseless and souleless showes. To give a Stage (Ample and true with life) voyce, action, age, As Plato's yeare and new Scene of the world Them unto us, or us to them had hurld. To raise our auncient Soveraignes from their herse, Make Kings his subjects, by exchanging Verse Enlive their pale trunkes, that the present age Joys in their joy, and trembles at their rage : Yet so to temper passion, that our eares Take pleasure in their paine ; And eyes in teares Both weepe and smile ; fearefull at plots so sad, Then laughing at our feare ; abus'd, and glad To be abus'd, affected with that truth Which we perceive is false ; pleas'd in that ruth At which we start ; and by elaborate play Tortur'd and tickled ; by a crab-like way, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 25 Time past iflade pastime, and in ugly sort Disgorging up his ravaine for our sport while the Plebeian Impe from lofty throne, Creates and rules a world, and workes upon Mankind by secret engines ; Now to move A chilling pitty, then a rigorous love ; To strike up and stroake down, both joy and ire, To steere th' affections ; and by heavenly fire Mould us anew. Stolne from ourselves This and much more which cannot bee ex- prest, But by himself, his tongue and his owne brest, Was Shakespeare's freehold, which his cun- ning braine Improv'd by favour of the nine fold traine. The buskind Muse, the Commicke Queene, the graund And lowder tone of Clio ; nimble hand, And nimbler foote of the melodious paire, The Silver voyced Lady ; the most faire 26 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Calliope, whose speaking silence daunts. And she whose prayse the heavenly body chants. These joyntly woo'd him, envying one an- other (Obey'd by all as Spouse, but lov'd as brother) And wrought a curious robe of sable grave Fresh greene, and pleasant yellow, red most brave, And constant blew, rich purple, guiltless white, The lowly Russet, and the Scarlet bright; Branch'd and embroydred like the painted Spring Each leafe match'd with a flower, and each string Of golden wire, each line of silke ; there run Italian workes whose thred the Sisters spun ; And there did sing, or seeme to sing, the choyce Birdes of a forraine note and various voyce. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 27 Here hangs a mossey rocke ; there plays a faire But chiding foimtaine purled : Not the ayre Nor cloudes nor thunder, but were living drawne Not out of common Tiffany or Lawne. But fine materialls, which the Muses know And onely know the countries where they grow. Now, when they could no longer him en- joy In mortall garments pent ; death may de- stroy They say his body, but his verse shall live And more than nature takes, our hands shall give. In a lesse volumne, but more strongly bound Shakespeare shall breathe and speake, with Laurell crown'd Which never fades. Fed with Ambrosian meate In a well-lyned vesture rich and neate. 28 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. So with this robe they cloath him, bid him weare it For time shall never staine, nor envy teare it. The friendly admirer of his Endowments. I. M. S. (1632). [Shakespearian editors and scholars have usual- ly treated the letters I. M. S. as the initials of the author's name, and many have been the con- jectures in regard to the identity of the " friend- ly admirer." The poem has been attributed to Jasper Mayne (Student), John Marston (Student, or Satirist), John Milton (Senior, or Student), John Chapman, and Dr. John Donne ; and each has had able advocates to support his claims. Dr. Clement M. Ingleby advanced a most plausi- ble theory : that the letters I. M. S. signify " In Memoriam Scriptoris (decessi) ;" and that this fine poem, prefixed to the second folio (1632), is a kind of rival to Ben Jonson's, which adorned the first folio (1623), and which Jonson declared to be " In Memory of the (deceased) Author," etc. In Dr. Ingleby 's opinion, the author was a very great poet, a distinguished rival of Shake- speare's, who bore him no envy.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 29 UPON THE EFFIGIES OF MY WORTHY FRIEND, THE AUTHOR, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND HIS WORKES. Spectator, this Life's shaddow is ; To see The truer image and a livelier he Turne Reader. But, observe his Comicke vaine, Laugh, and proceed next to a Tragicke straine, Then weepe ; So when thou find'st two con- traries, Two different passions from thy rapt soul rise, Say, (who alone effect such wonders could) Rare Shake-speare to the life thou dost be- hold. (Anonymous.) [Prefixed to the second folio edition, 1632.] 30 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATICKE POET, W. SHAKESPEARE. What neede my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, The labour of an Age, in piled stones ? Or that his hallow'd Reliques should be hid Under a starre-y-pointing Pyramid ? Deare Sonne of Memory, great Heire of Fame, What needst thou such dull witnesse of thy Name ? Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thy selfe a lasting Monument : For whil'st to th' shame of slow-endevouring Art Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued Booke, Those Delphicke Lines with deepe Impres- sion tooke; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 31 Then thou, our fancy of her selfe bereaving, Dost make us Marble, with too much con- ceiving ; And so sepulcher'd, in such pompe dost lie, That kings, for a such a Tombe, would wish to die. JOHN MILTON. [This epitaph of sixteen lines was prefixed to the second Shakespeare folio (1632), according to a custom then prevailing. It was printed anonymously, and is our first specimen of Mil- ton's poetry; and was written by him in 1630, at the age of twenty-two.] EXTRACT FROM "THE HIERARCHIE OF THE BLESSED ANGELLS." Our moderne Poets to that passe are driven, Those names are curtal'd which they first had given ; And, as we wisht to have their memories drown'd, We scarcely can afford them halfe their sound. 32 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Greene, who had in both Academies t'ane Degree of Master, yet could never gaine To be calPd more than Robin ; who had he Profest aught save the Muse, Serv'd, and been Free After a seven yeares Prentiseship ; might have (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. Mario, renown'd for his rare art and wit, Could ne're attaine beyond the name of Kit ; Although his Hero and Leander did Merit addition rather. Famous Kid Was call'd but Tom, Tom Watson, though he wrote Able to make Apollo's selfe to dote Upon his Muse ; for all that he could strive, Yet never could to his full name arrive. Tom Nash (in his time of no small esteeme) Could not a second syllable redeeme. Excellent Bewmont, in the foremost ranke Of the rar'st Wits, was never more than Franck. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 33 Mellifluous Shakespeare, whose inchanting Quill Commanded Mirth or Passion, was but Will. And famous Jonson, though his learned Pen Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben. Fletcher and Webster, of that learned packe None of the mean'st, yet neither was but Jacke. Deckers but Tom ; nor May, nor Middleton. And hee's now but Jacke Foord, that once was John. THOMAS HEYWOOD (1635). IN REMEMBRANCE OF MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. ODE. i. Beware (delighted poets !) when you sing, To welcome Nature in the early Spring ; 3 34 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Your numerous feet not tread The banks of Avon ; for each flowre (As it nere knew a Sun or showre) Hangs there, the pensive head. n. Each tree, whose thick and spreading growth hath made, Rather a night beneath the boughs than shade, (Unwilling now to grow,) Looks like the plume a captain weares, Whose rifled falls are steep't i' th' teares Which from his last rage flow. in. The pitious river wept it self away, Long since (alas !) to such a swift decay, That reach the map, and look If you a river there can spie : And for a river your mock'd eye Will finde a shallow brooke. SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT (1638). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 35 [Sir William Davenant (1605-1668), Shake- speare's reputed godson, claims our grateful ac- knowledgment for his untiring efforts to restore Shakespeare to the English stage. While not a great poet, this dirge on Shakespeare, says Prof. Saintsbury, "is of the best stamp of the older school." He succeeded Ben Jonson as poet- laureate in 1637, and was knighted by Charles I. in 1643. His career was a most romantic one.] EXTRACT FROM "JONSONUS VIRBIUS." So in our Halcyon dayes, we have had now Wits, to which, all that after come, must bow. And should the Stage compose her self a Crowne Of all those wits, which hitherto sh'as knowne ; Though there be many that about her brow Like sparkling stones, might a quick lustre throw ; Yet Shakespeare, Beaumont, Jonson, these three shall Make up the Jem in the point verticall. 36 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And now since Jonsons gone, we well may say, The Stage hath seene her glory and decay. OWEN FELTHAM (1638). [" Jonsonus Virbius" (Jonson Revived) a col- lection of verses in praise of Ben Jonson, pub- lished the year after his death.] TO SHAKESPEARE. Thy Muses sugred dainties seeme to us Like the fam'd Apples of old Tantalus : For we (admiring) see and heare thy straines, But none I see or heare, those sweets attaines. TO THE SAME. Thou hast so us'd thy Pen (or shooke thy Spear e) That Poets startle, nor thy wit come neare. THOMAS BANCROFT (1639). [From " Two Bookes of Epigrammes and Epitaphs" (1639). "Shooke thy Speare " is an TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 37 allusion to Shakespeare's crest, which was a fal- con supporting a spear.] TO MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare, we must be silent in thy praise, 'Cause our encomion's will but blast thy Bayes, Which envy could not, that thou didst so well; Let thine own histories prove thy Chronicle. (Anonymous, 1640.) ["Witts Recreations Selected from the finest Fancies of Moderne Muses. With a Thousand outlandish Proverbs." Epigram 25.] UPON MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE DECEASED AUTHOUR, AND HIS POEMS. Poets are borne not made, when I would prove This truth, the glad rememberance I must love Of never dying Shakespeare, who alone, Is argument enough to make that one. First, that he was a Poet none would doubt That heard th' applause of what he sees set out 38 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Imprinted ; where thou hast (I will not say Reader his Workes, for to contrive a Play ; For him twas none) the patterne of all wit, Art without Art unparaleld as yet. Next Nature onely heipt him, for looke thorow This whole Booke, thou shalt find he doth not borrow, One phrase from Greekes, nor Latines imitate Nor once from vulgar Languages Translate, Nor Plagiari-like from others gleane, Nor begges he from each witty friend a Scene To piece his Acts with, all that he doth write Is pure his owne plot, language exquisite, But oh ! what praise more powerfull can we give The dead, then that by him the Kings men live, His Players, which should they but have shar'd the Fate, All else expir'd within the short Termes date ; How could the Globe have prospered, since through want Of change, the Plaies and Poems have growne scant, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 39 But happy verse thou shalt be sung and heard, When hungry quills shall be such honour barr'd. Then vanish upstart Writers to each Stage, You need Poetasters of this Age, Where Shakespeare liv'd or spake, Vermine forbeare, Least with your froth you spot them, come not neere ; But if you needs must write, if poverty So pinch, that otherwise you starve and die, On Gods name may the Bull or Cockpit have Your lame blancke Verse, to k-eepe you from the grave : Or let new Fortunes younger brethren see, What they can picke from your leane industry. I doe not wonder when you offer at Blacke-Friers, that you suffer : tis the fate Of richer veines, prime judgments that have far'd The worse, with this deceased man compar'd. So have I seene, when Cesar would appeare, And on the Stage at half-sword parley were, 40 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Brutus and Cassius : oh how the Audience Were ravish'd, with what wonder they went thence, When some new day they would not brooke a line, Of tedious (though well laboured) Catiline ; Sejanus too was irksome, they priz'de more Honest lago, or the jealous Moore. And though the Fox and subtill Alchimist, Long intermitted could not quite be mist, Though these have sham'd all the Ancients, and might raise, Their Authours merit with a crowne of Bayes. Yet these sometimes, even at a friends de- sire Acted, have scarce defrai'd the Seacole fire And doore-keepers : when let but Falstaffe come, Hall, Poines, the rest you scarce shall have a roome All is so pester'd : let but Beatrice And Benedicke be seene, loe in a trice TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 41 The Cockpit Galleries, Boxes, all are full To hear Malvoglio, that crosse garter'd Gull. Briefe, there is nothing in his wit fraught Booke, Whose sound we would not heare, on whose worth looke Like old coynd gold, whose lines in every page, Shall passe true currant to succeeding age : But why doe I dead Shakespeare's praise recite, Some second Shakespeare, must of Shake- speare write ; For me tis needlesse, since an host of men, Will pay to clap his praise, to free my Pen. LEONARD DIGGES (1640). [Prefixed to Shakespeare's Poems, 1640.] 42 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. AN ELEGY, ON THE DEATH OF THAT FAMOUS WRITER AND ACTOR, MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. I dare not doe thy Memory that wrong, Unto our larger grief es to give a tongue ; He onely sigh in earnest, and let fall My solemne teares at thy great Funerall ; For every eye that raines a showre for thee, Laments thy losse in a sad Elegie. Nor is it fit each humble Muse should have, Thy worth his subject, now th' art laid in grave ; No its a flight beyond the pitch of those, Whose worthless Pamphlets are not sence in Prose. Let learned Jonson sing a Dirge for thee, And fill our Orbe with mournefull harmony ; But we neede no Remembrancer, thy Fame Shall still accompany thy honoured Name, To all posterity ; and make us be, Sensible of what we lost in losing thee ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 43 Being the Ages wonder whose smooth Rhimes, Did more reforme than lash the looser Times. Nature her selfe did her owne selfe admire, As oft as thou wert pleased to attire Her in her native lusture, and confesse, Thy dressing was her chiefest comelinesse. How can we then forget thee, when the age Her chiefest Tutor, and the widdowed Stage Her onely favorite in thee hath lost, And Natures selfe, what she did bragge of most. Sleepe then rich soule of numbers, whilst poor we, Enjoy the profits of thy Legacie ; And thinke it happinesse enough we have, So much of thee redeemed from the grave, As may suffice to enlighten future times, With the bright lustre of thy matchlesse Rhimes. (Anonymous.) [Appended to Shakespeare's Poems, 1640.] 44 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. TO SHAKESPEARE. See him whose Tragic scenes Euripides Doth equal, and with Sophocles we may Compare great Shakespeare Aristophanes Never like him, his Fancy could display ; Witness the Prince of Tyre, his Pericles, His sweet and his to be admired lay He wrote of lustful Tarquins rape, shews he Did understand the depth of Poesie. SAMUEL SHEPPARD. [" The Times Displayed in Six Sestyads," 1646.] ELEGIAC VERSES ON SHAKESPEARE. In Memory of our Famous Shakespeare. Sacred Spirit, while thy Lyre Ecchoed o're the Arcadian Plaines, Even Apollo did admire, Orpheus wondered at thy straines. Plautus sigh'd, Sophocles wept Teares of anger, for to heare TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 45 After they so long had slept So bright a Genius should appeare ; Who wrote his Lines with a Sunne-beame More durable than Time or Fate, Others boldly do blaspheme, Like those that seeme to Preach, but prate. Thou wert truely Priest-elect, Chosen darling to the Nine, Such a Trophy to erect (By thy wit and skill Divine). That were all their other Glories (Thine excepted) torn away By thy admirable Stories, Their garments ever shall be gay. Where thy honoured bones do lie (As Statius once to Maro's urne) Thither every year will I Slowly tread, and sadly mourn. SAMUEL SHEPPARD. [The preceding verses are in an exceedingly rare volume entitled "Epigrams, Theological, 46 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Philosophical, and Romantick, Six Bookes ; with some Select Poems, by S. Sheppard," printed by G. D., and are to be sold by Thomas Bucknall, at the Golden Lion, in Duck Lane, 1651 ; these verses are on page 150. In the Third Pastoral, at p. 249, he again speaks of Shakespeare, after a eulogy on Ben Jonson, thus : " With him contemporary then (As Naso, and fam'd Maro, when Our sole Redeemer took his birth) Shakespeare trod on English earth, His Muse doth merit more rewards Than all the Greek, or Latine Bards, What flow'd from him was purely rare, As born to blesse the Theater, He first refin'd the Commick Lyre His wit all do, and shall admire The chiefest glory of the Stage, Or when he sung of War and strage Melpomene soon viewed the Globe, Invelop'd in her sanguine Robe, He that his worth would truely sing, Must quaffe the whole Pierian spring." In this rare book Spenser, Sidney, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Suckling are mentioned in the Third Pastoral. The twenty-eighth epigram in the Fourth Book is in high praise of Edmund Spenser.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 47 TO MR. CLEMENT FISHER OF WINCOTT. Shakespeare your Wincot Ale hath much re- nownd, That fox'd a Beggar so (by chance was found Sleeping) that there needed not many a word To make him to believe he was a Lord : But you affirm (and in it seem most eager) 'Twill make a Lord as drunk as any Beggar. Bid Norton brew such Ale as Shakespeare fancies Did put Kit Sly into such Lordly trances : And let us meet there (for a fit of Gladness) And drink ourselves merry in sober sadness. SIR ASTON COKAINE. (" Small Poems of Divers Sorts," 1658.) [Cokaine's allusion, of course, is to Shake- speare's " Taming of the Shrew ;" and for Kit Sly's reference to Wincot and its famous ale, see " Induction Taming of the Shrew," scene ii., lines 16-23, Rolfe's edition.] 48 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. As, when a tree's cut down, the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot ; So, from old Shakespeare's honoured dust, this day Springs up and buds a new reviving play. Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart To Fletcher wit, to laboring Jonson art, He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law; And is that Nature that they paint and draw. Fletcher reached that which on his heights did grow, While Jonson crept, and gathered all below. This did his love, and this his mirth digest ; One imitates him most, the other best. If they have since out-writ all other men, 'Tis with the drops that fall from Shakespeare's pen. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 49 The storm which vanish'd on the neighb'ring shore, Was taught by Shakespeare's Tempest first to roar. That innocence and beauty, which did smile In Fletcher, grew on this enchanted isle. But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ; Within that circle, none durst walk but he. I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now That liberty to vulgar wits allow, Which works by magic supernatural things ; But Shakespeare's power is sacred as a king's. Those legends from old priesthood were re- ceiv'd, And he then writ, as people then believ'd. JOHN DRYDEN. (Prologue to "The Tempest, or The Enchanted Island," 1669.) [The plays of Shakespeare could not please the corrupt taste of the time of Charles II., and had to be remodelled by such men as Dryden, Davenant, Tate, Ravenscroft, and others. " The Tempest " was chosen for the first Shakespearian 4 50 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. revival, having been altered by Davenant and Dryden ; and this is Dryden's prologue to it.] SHAKESPEARE. In country beauties as we often see Something that takes in their simplicity, Yet while they charm they know not they are fair, And take without their spreading of the snare Such artless beauty lies in Shakespear's wit ; 'Twas well in spite of him whate'er he writ. His excellencies came, and were not sought, His words like casual atoms made a thought ; Drew up themselves in rank and file, and writ, He wondering how the devil it were, such wit. Thus, like the drunken tinker in his play, He grew a prince, and never knew which way. He did not know what trope or figure meant, But to persuade is to be eloquent ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 51 So in this Caesar which this day you see, Tully ne'er spoke as he makes Anthony. Those then that tax his learning are to blame, He knew the thing, but did not know its name; Great Jonson did that ignorance adore, And though he envied much, admir'd him more. The faultless Jonson equally writ well ; Shakespear made faults but then did more excel. One close at guard like some old fencer lay, T'other more open, but he shew'd more play. In imitation Jonson's wit was shown, Heaven made his men, but Shakespear made his own. Wise Jonson's talent in observing lay, But others' follies still made up his play. He drew the like in each elaborate line, But Shakespear like a master did design. 52 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Jonson with skill dissected human kind, And shew'd their faults, that they their faults might find ; But then as all anatomists must do, He to the meanest of mankind did go, And took from gibbets such as he would show. Both are so great, that he must boldly dare Who both of them does judge, and both com- pare; If amongst poets one more bold there be, The man that dare attempt in either way, is he. JOHN DRYDEN. [Prologue to " Julius Csesar," by John Dryden and Sir William D'Avenant "Covent Garden drolery." 1672.] SHAKESPEARE. When Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher, ruled the stage, They took so bold a freedom with the age, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 53 That there was scarce a knave or fool in town Of any note, but had his portrait shown. SIR CARR SCROPE. [" In Defense of Satyr." (Quoted by the Earl of Rochester in " An Allusion to the Tenth Satyr of the First Book of Horace," 1678.) Sir Carr Scrope was the last baronet of the name, and author of translations from Ovid and Horace.] SHAKESPEARE. See my lov'd Britons, see your Shakespeare rise, An awful ghost confessed to human eyes ! Unnam'd, methinks, distinguish^ I had been From other shades, by this eternal green, Above whose wreaths the vulgar poets strive, And with a touch their wither'd bays re- vive. Untaught, unpractis'd, in a barbarous age, I found not, but created first, the stage. And if I drain'd no Greek or Latin store, 'Twas that my own abundance gave me more. 54 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. On foreign trade I needed not rely, Like fruitful Britain, rich without supply. In this my rough-drawn play you shall behold Some master-strokes, so manly and so bold, That he, who meant to alter, found 'em such, He shook ; and thought it sacrilege to touch. Now, where are the successors to my name ? What bring they to fill out a poet's fame ? Weak, short-liv'd issues of a feeble age ; Scarce living to be christen'd on the stage. JOHN DRYDEN. [Prologue to "Troilus and Cressida or Truth found too late," by John Dryden, 1679. Spoken by Betterton as the Ghost of Shakespeare.] SHAKESPEARE. Our Shakespeare wrote, too, in an age as blest, The happiest poet of his time, and best ; A gracious prince's favour cheer'd his muse, A constant favour he ne'er feared to lose, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 55 Therefore he wrote with fancy unconfm'd, And thoughts that were immortal as his mind. And from the crop of his luxuriant pen E'er since succeeding poets humbly glean. Though much the most unworthy of the throng, Our this day's poet fears he's done him wrong. Like greedy beggars that steal sheaves away, You'll find he's rifled him of half a play. Amidst his baser dross you'll see it shine Most beautiful, amazing, and divine. Whilst we both wit's and Caesar's absence mourn Oh ! when will he and poetry return ? When shall we there again behold him sit, Midst shining boxes and a courtly pit, The lord of hearts and president of wit ? THOMAS OTWAY. [Prologue to "Caius Mafius'' (altered from " Romeo and Juliet "), 1680.] 56 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. TO SHAKESPEARE. To day we bring old gather'd Herbs, 'tis true, But such as in sweet Shakspear's Garden grew. And all his Plants' immortal you esteem, Your Mouthes are never out of taste with him. How're to make your Appetites more keen, Not only oily words are sprinkled in ; But what to please you gives us better hope, A little Vineger against the Pope. For by his feeble Skill 'tis built alone, The Divine Shakespeare did not lay one stone. J. CROWN. [Prologues to " Henry the Sixth," by J. Crown, Parts I. and II., 1681. Crown was the author of many successful plays, and was in great favor at the court of Charles II.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 57 SHAKESPEARE. Plato and Lucian are the best Remains Of all the wonders which this art contains; Yet to ourselves we Justice must allow, Shakespear and Fletcher are the wonders now; Consider them, and read them o're and o're, Go see them play'd, then read them as be- fore. For though in many things they grossly fail, Over our Passions still they so prevail, That our own grief by theirs is rockt asleep, The dull are forced to feel, the wise to weep. Their Beauties Imitate, avoid their faults. . . . JOHN SHEFFIELD, Earl of Musgrave. [Extract from "An Essay upon Poetry," 1682.] 58 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. He hopes since in rich Shakespeare's soil it grew 'Twill relish yet, with those whose tastes are true, And his Ambition is to please a Few. If then this Heap of Flow'rs shall chance to wear Fresh beauty in the Order they now bear, E'en this is Shakespeare's praise ; each rus- tick knows 'Mongst plenteous Flow'rs a Garland to Com- pose Which strung by this Coarse Hand may fairer show, But 'twas a Power Divine first made 'em grow. NAHUM TATE. [Prologue to the " History of King Lear," by Nahum Tate, 1689.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 59 SHAKESPEARE. How's this, you cry ? an actor write ? we know it; But Shakespeare was an actor and a poet. Has not great Jonson's learning often fail'd ? While Shakespeare's greater genius still pre- vail'd. JOHN DRYDEN. [Prologue to "The Mistakes," by Joseph Har- ris, 1690.] SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare, thy gift, I place before my sight ; With awe I ask his blessing ere I write ; With reverence look on his majestic face, Proud to be less, but of his godlike race. His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write, And I, like Teucer under Ajax, fight ; 60 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Bids thee, through me, be bold ; with dauntless breast Contemn the bad and emulate the best Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost, When most they rail, know then, they envy most. JOHN DRYDEN. (" Epistle to Sir Godfrey Kneller," 1693.) [On the death of Sir William Davenant, the Chandos portrait of Shakespeare, which he owned, was sold to Betterton, the actor, and while in his possession Sir Godfrey Kneller made a copy of it, which he presented to Dry- den. In return, Dryden sent the great painter these verses.] SHAKESPEARE'S MULBERRY TREE. Behold this fair goblet ! 'Twas carved from the tree Which, O my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 6 1 As a relic I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine, What comes from thy hand must be ever divine. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, Bend to thee, blest mulberry ; Matchless was he who planted thee, And thou, like him, immortal shalt be. Ye trees of the forest so rampant and high, Who spread wide your branches, whose heads sweep the sky, Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here, To root out the natives, at prices so dear. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. The oak so held royal is Britain's great boast, Preserved once our king, and will always our coast, 62 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. But of fir we make ships, we have thousands that fight, While one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. Let Venus delight in gay myrtle bowers, Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers ; The garden of Shakespeare all fancies will suit, With the sweetest of flowers, and the finest of fruit. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. With learning and knowledge the well-lettered birch Supplies law and physic and grace for the church, But law and the Gospel in Shakespeare we find, And he gives the best physic for body and mind. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 63 The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree, From him and his merits this takes a degree ; Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign, Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. The genius of Shakespeare outshines one bright day, More rapture than wine to the heart can convey, So the tree that he planted by making his own Has the laurel and bays and the vine all in one. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. Then each take a relic of this hallow'd tree, From folly and fashion a charm let it be ; Fill, fill to the planter the cup to the brim, To honor the country, do honor to him. All shall yield to the mulberry tree, etc. DAVID GARRICK. 64 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. [James L, hoping that in the raising and man- ufacture of silk England might become indepen- dent of France, began the importation of mul- berry trees, and directed all persons who had means and facilities to experiment in their cult- ure. In 1609, Shakespeare planted the mul- berry tree of which Garrick thus enthusiasti- cally sings, in the garden of New Place ; having brought the tree from London, buying it from a supply ordered by the king. In 17 56,. the Rev. Francis Gastrell became owner of New Place, and soon after, being annoyed by pilgrims who came to see the tree which Shakespeare had planted with his own hands, he had it hewn down, and sold the wood to Sharpe, the turner. The Stratford people were proud of the tree, and were aroused to open violence : a mob collected before New Place and smashed the windows. Finally, to escape the payment of taxes (a house valued or leased at more than forty shillings a year had to be taxed to support the parish), Dr. Gastrell pulled down New Place, and for this crowning act of vandalism he left Stratford, "amid the execrations of its inhabitants." At the first Stratford Jubilee, in 1769, a goblet made from the precious wood was presented to Gar- rick ; it was filled with mulberry wine, of which he drank, and then recited these lines, which he had composed for the occasion. The freedom TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 65 of the Warwickshire borough, enclosed in a handsome casket made out of the trunk of the tree, was also presented to the great tragedian, in acknowledgment of his efforts in behalf of the festival.] WARWICKSHIRE-A SONG. Ye Warwickshire lads and ye lasses, See what at our Jubilee passes ; Come ! revel away ; rejoice and be glad, For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire Lad- Warwickshire Lad, All be glad ! For the lad of all lads was a Warwickshire lad. Be proud of the charms of your county, Where Nature has lavished her bounty, Where much she has given, and some to be spared ; For the bard of all bards was a Warwickshire Bard, 5 66 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Warwickshire Bard, Never paired, For the bard of all bards was a Warwickshire Bard. Each shire has its different pleasures, Each shire has its different treasures ; But to rare Warwickshire all must sub- mit, For the wit of all wits was a Warwickshire Wit- Warwickshire Wit, How he writ ! For the wit of all wits was a Warwickshire Wit. Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden, And half a score more we take pride in, Of famous Will Congreve, we boast, too, the skill ; But the Will of all Wills was Warwickshire Will, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 67 Warwickshire Will, Matchless still, For the Will of all Wills was Warwickshire Will. Our Shakespeare compared is to no man, Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman -, Their swans are all geese to the Avon's Sweet Swan, And the man of all men was a Warwickshire Man. Warwickshire Man, Avon's Swan ! And the man of all men was a Warwickshire Man. As Ven'son is very inviting, To steal it our Bard took delight in ; To make his friends merry he never was lag, For the wag of all wags was a Warwickshire Wag, 68 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Warwickshire Wag, Ever brag ! For the wag of all wags was a Warwickshire Wag. There never was seen such a creature Of all he was worth he robbed Nature ; He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief, And the thief of all thieves was a Warwick- shire Thief, Warwickshire Thief, He's the Chief ! For the thief of all thieves was a Warwickshire Thief. DAVID GARRICK. [This was one of the songs written by Gar- rick for the first great Stratford Jubilee, in 1769, and was sung at the principal banquet, and often during the festival, to music composed by Arne. We may question Garrick's good taste in refer- ring to the venison legend, but cannot omit the sjtanza, as it introduces so well the final one.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 69 ODE TO SHAKESPEARE. Thou, soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream, Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream, The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. The love - stricken maiden, the soft -sighing swain, Here rove without danger and sigh without pain, The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall e'er dread, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth ; 70 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. For the raptures of fancy there poets shall tread, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow, Be the swans on thy waters whiter than snow, Ever full be thy stream, like his name may it spread, And the turf ever-hallow'd which pillow'd his head. DAVID GARRICK. [This song is from the long " Ode " by Garrick, on the occasion of dedicating a building and erecting a statue to Shakespeare at Stratford during the Jubilee (1769) : it is the best of the Ode.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 71 SWEET WILLY O. The pride of all Nature was sweet Willy O, The first of all swains, He gladdened the plains, None ever was like to sweet Willy O. He sung it so rarely, did sweet Willy O, He melted each maid, So skillful he play'd, No Shepherd e'er pip'd like the sweet Willy O. All Nature obey'd him, this sweet Willy O, Wherever he came, Whate'er had a name, Whenever he sung followed sweet Willy O. He would be a soldier,* this sweet Willy O, When arm'd in the field With sword and with shield, The laurel was won by the sweet Willy O. * " A soldier " meaning " writer of tragedy." 72 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. He charm'd em when living, the sweet Willy O, And when Willy dy'd, 'Twas Nature that sigh'd, To part with her all in her sweet W 7 illy O. DAVID GARRICK (1769). THE BIRTH OF SHAKSPEARE. (Air" Thro' Erin's Isle.") In Bess's days, (Which glory's rays Forever shall environ,) The gods made men Much better then, Of mingled gold and iron ; A nobler race No records trace, To handle pen, or break spear. " To perfect man," Said Jove's great clan, " Suppose we try a Shakspeare ?" TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 73 Oh, sweet Shakspeare! Immortal Willy Shakspeare ! Ev'n the gods Allowed it odds, They couldn't make a Shakspeare. Cried Phoebus, " Pray Give me the clay, I'll breathe in 't fire poetical, Which thro' the mass Shall instant pass Exhaustless and prophetical ;" Quoth Mars, " Egad, Well said, dear lad, Or never may I break spear ; For any part I'll inspire his heart ; But still we haven't Shakspeare \" Oh, sweet Shakspeare, etc. With looks that strike, In her we like, 74 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Bespoke then gentle Venus, " His heart, dear Mars, My gracious stars ! We must have that between us, My darlings all Have courage tall, I can't deny its meetness ! But here, my friend, I'll with it blend E'en female love and sweetness." Oh, sweet Shakspeare, etc. Then Wisdom's maid, (Of aspect staid, But ever fresh and charming,) Prepared the brain With wondrous pain And energy alarming ; That so in debt None else should get, Protesting as she shut it in, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 75 Unless he brought (Preposterous thought !) As fine a head to put it in. Oh, sweet Shakspeare, etc. The god of Wit Imparted it, To dissipate spleen's tumour, Mnemosyne Gave Memory, And Momus added Humour ; Jove shook his head, And smiling said, " Superior power is needing ; My gift tho' last, Has all surpast, I've doubled each preceding." Oh, sweet Shakspeare ! Immortal Willy Shakspeare ! Thus the Gods, In spite of odds, Contrived to make a Shakspeare. J. OGDEN. 76 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. [From " Shakspere's Garland," dedicated to the Shakespearian Club established at the Falcon Inn, the ancient resort of the Bard himself, at Stratford.] FROM "THE ROSCIAD." May not some great extensive genius raise The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise ; And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, Make England great in letters as in arms ? There may there hath and Shakespeare's muse aspires Beyond the reach of Greece ; with native fires Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight, Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height. Why should we then abroad for judges roam When abler judges we may find at home ? Happy in tragic and in comic powers, Have we not Shakespeare ? is not Jonson ours ? TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 77 For them, your natural judges, Britons vote, They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote. He said, and conquer'd. Sense resumed her sway And disappointed pedants stalk'd away, Shakespeare and Jonson, with deserved ap- plause, Joint judges were ordain'd to try the cause. # * * # In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, Sat Shakespeare; in one hand a wand he bore, For mighty wonders famed in days of yore; The other held a globe, which to his will Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill. Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And look'd through Nature at a single view. A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll, 78 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Called into being scenes unknown before, And passing nature's bounds, was something more. CHARLES CHURCHILL. [Charles Churchill wrote the " Rosciad " (1761) to satirize the players of the time, of whose merits he called Shakespeare and Jonson to be judges.] SHAKESPEARE. AN EPISTLE TO MR. GARRICK. When Shakespeare leads the mind a dance, From France to England, hence to France, Talk not to me of time and place ; I own I'm happy in the chase. Whether the drama's here or there, 'Tis Nature, Shakespeare, everywhere. # * # # Oh, where's the bard, who at one view Could look the whole creation through, Who travers'd all the human heart, Without recourse to Grecian art ? TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 79 He scorned the modes of imitation, Of altering, pilfering, and translation, Nor painted horror, grief, or rage, From models of a former age ; The bright original he took, And tore the leaf from Nature's book. 'Tis Shakespeare thus, who stands alone But why repeat what you have shown ? How true, how perfect, and how well The feelings of our hearts must tell. ROBERT LLOYD. [In Lloyd's Poetical Works is found " Shake- speare An Epistle to Mr. Garrick, with an Ode to Genius" (1760), from which this extract is taken.] SHAKESPEARE. Centuries have rolled on centuries, years on years, The never-ceasing progress of decay Has swept the mighty and the mean away, Monarchs and multitudes ! but there appears, 8o TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Towering above all tempests and all time, A pyramid more glorious and sublime Than those the imperishable x Memphis rears Over her sandy wilderness ; for theirs Are but unspeaking stories, where lies en- shrined Eternal silence. But peerless Shakespeare pours Forth still from his exhaustless stores of mind, All truth all passion and all poetry ; Mounting, with tireless wings, on every wind, And filling earth with sweetest minstrelsy. (Anonymous.) SONNET. (Written at the tomb of Shakespeare, Stratford-on-Avon.) A humble votary of the tuneful nine, To Shakespeare's tomb a pilgrim I repair, To yield the mind's deep adoration there, And bow the knee at wisdom's proudest shrine ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 8 1 Lo ! where hath lingered, lost in wonder's maze, The ken of princes, and the glance of peers Lo ! where have paused, in reverential gaze, The good and great of other climes and years Bend I, great shade ! submissively to pay The unfeigned homage of one grateful heart, To whom thy magic pages do portray, The boundless realms of nature and of art ! Allow this lowly tribute to the fame Which shall to every age transmit thy honored name. (Anonymous.) THE -TOMB OF SHAKESPEARE. A VISION (1755). What time the jocund rosy-bosom'd hours Led forth the train of Phoebus and the spring, And Zephyr mild profusely scatter'd flowers On earth's green mantle from his musky wing; 82 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The morn unbarr'd the ambrosial gates of light, Westward the raven-pinion'd darkness flew, The landscape smiled in vernal beauty bright, And to their graves the sullen ghosts with- drew. The nightingale no longer swell'd her throat With love-lorn plainings, tremulous and slow; And on the wings of silence ceased to float The gurgling notes of her melodious woe ; The god of sleep, mysterious visions led In gay procession 'fore the mental eye, And my freed soul awhile her mansion fled, To try her plumes for immortality. Through fields of air methought I took my flight, Through every clime, o'er every region pass'd, No paradise or ruin 'scaped my sight, Hesperian garden or Cimmerian waste. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 83 On Avon's banks I lit, whose streams appear To wind with eddies fond round Shake- speare's tomb, The year's first feathery songsters warble near, And violets breathe, and earliest roses bloom. Here Fancy sat (her dewy fingers cold Decking with flowerets fresh the unsullied sod), And bathed with tears the sad sepulchral mould, Her favorite offspring's long and last abode. " Ah ! what avails (she cried) a poet's name ? Ah ! what avails the immortalizing breath To snatch from dumb oblivion others' fame ? My darling child here lies a prey to death ! " Let gentle Otway, white robed Pity's priest, From grief domestic teach the tears to flow ; Or Southern captivate the impassion'd breast, With heartfelt sighs and sympathy of woe. 84 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. " For not to these his genius was confined, Nature and I each tuneful power had given, Poetic transports of the maddening mind, And the wing'd words that waft the soul to heaven. " The fiery glance of the intellectual eye, Piercing all objects of creation's store, Which on this world's extended surface lie ; And plastic thought that still created more." " O grant (with eager rapture I replied), Grant me, great goddess of the changeful eye! To view each being in poetic pride, To whom thy son gave immortality." Sweet Fancy smiled and waved her mystic rod, When straight these visions felt her power- ful arm, And one by one succeeded at her nod, As vassal sprites obey the wizard's charm. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 85 First a celestial fornr* (of azure hue, Whose mantle bound with bride ethereal, flow'd To each soft breeze its balmy breath that drew) Swift down the sunbeams of the noontide rode. Obedient to the necromantic sway Of an old sage, to solitude resigned, With fenny vapours he obscured the day, Launch'd the long lightning, and let loose the wind. He whirl'd the tempest through the howling air, Rattled the dreadful thunder clap on high, And raised a roaring elemental war Betwixt the sea green waves and azure sky ; Then like Heaven's mild ambassador of love To man repentant, bade the turmoil cease ; Smooth'd the blue bosom of the realms above, And hush'd the rebel elements to peace. * Ariel, in " The Tempest." 86 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Unlike to this, in spirit or in mien, Another form * succeeded to my view ; A two-legg'd brute, which nature made in spleen, Or from the loathing womb unfinish'd drew. Scarce could he syllable the curse he thought, Prone were his eyes to earth, his mind to evil, A carnal fiend to imperfection wrought, The mongrel offspring of a witch and devil. Next bloom'd, upon an ancient forest's bound, The flowery margin f of a silent stream, O'erarched by oaks with ivy mantled round, And gilt by silver Cynthia's maiden beam. On the green carpet of the unbended grass, A dapper train of female fairies play'd, And eyed their gambols in the watery glass, That smoothly stole along the shadowy glade. * Caliban, in " The Tempest." f Fairy-land, from " Midsummer-Night's Dream." TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 87 Through these the queen, Titania, pass'd adored, Mounted aloft in her imperial car, Journeying to see great Oberon her lord Wage the mock battles of a sportive war. Arm'd cap-k-pie, forth march'd the fairy king, A stouter warrior never took the field, His threatening lance a hornet's horrid sting, The sharded beetle's scale his sable shield. Around their chief the elfin host appear'd, Each little helmet sparkling like a star, And their sharp spears a pierceless phalanx rear'd, * A grove of thistles glistening in the air. The scene then changed from this romantic land, To a bleak waste by boundary unconfined, Where three swart sisters^ of the weird band, Were muttering curses to the troublous wind. * The Witches in " Macbeth." 88 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Pale want had wither'd every furrowed face, Bowed was each carcass with the weight of years, And each sunk eyeball from its hollow case, DistilPd cold rheum's involuntary tears. Horsed on three staves, they posted to the bourn Of a drear island, where the pendent brow Of a rough rock, shagg'd horribly with thorn, Frown 'd on the boisterous waves, which raged below. Deep in a gloomy grot, remote from day, Where smiling comfort never showed her face, Where light n'er entered, save one rueful ray Discovering all the terrors of the place, They held damn'd mysteries with infernal state, Whilst ghastly goblins glided slowly by, The screech owl scream'd the dying call of fate, And ravens croak'd their horrid augury. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 89 No human footstep cheer'd the dread abode, Nor sign of living creature could be seen, Save where the reptile snake, or sullen toad, The murky floor had soil'd with venom green. Sudden I heard the whirlwind's hollow sound, Each weird sister vanished into smoke ; Now a dire yell of spirits * under ground Through troubled earth's wide yawning sur- face broke. When lo ! each injured apparition rose ; Aghast the murderer started from his bed ; Guilt's trembling breath his heart's real current froze, And horror's dewdrops bathed his frantic head. More had I seen but now the god of day O'er earth's broad breast, his flood of light had spread, When Morpheus call'd his fickle train away, And on their wings each bright illusion fled. * Ghosts in " Macbeth," "Richard the Third," etc. 90 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Yet still the dear enchantress of the brain, My wakeful eyes with wishful wanderings sought, Whose magic will controls the ideal train, The ever restless progeny of thought. " Sweet power ! (said I) for others gild the ray Of wealth, or honour's folly-feather'd crown ; Or lead the madding multitude astray, To grasp at air blown bubbles of renown ; "Me (humbler lot!) let blameless bliss en- gage, Free from the noble mob's ambitious strife, Free from the muckworm miser's lucrous rage, In calm contentment's cottaged vale of life. " If frailties there (for who from them is free ?) Through error's maze, my devious footsteps lead, Let them be frailties of humanity, And my heart plead the pardon of my head. TRIBUTES 10 SHAKESPEARE. 91 " Let not my reason impiously require, What Heaven has placed beyond its narrow span; But teach me to subdue each fierce desire, Which wars within this little empire, man. " Teach me, what all believe, but few possess, That life's best science is ourselves to know ; The first of human blessings is to bless ; And happiest he who feels another's woe. " Thus cheaply wise and innocently great, While time's smooth sand shall regularly pass, Each destined atom's quiet course, I'll wait, Nor rashly break nor wish to stop the glass " And when in death my peaceful ashes lie, If e'er some tongue congenial speaks my name, Friendship shall never blush to breathe a sigh, And great ones envy such an honest fame." JOHN GILBERT COOPER (1755). 92 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. TO SHAKESPEARE. Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray 'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face ; the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms and smiled. " This pencil take " (she said) " whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year; Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy ! This can unlock the gates of joy, Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." THOMAS GRAY. ("The Progress of Poesy," 1755.) MONODY. (Written near Stratford-upon-Avon.) Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild, The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 93 Their boughs entangling with the embattled sedge ; Thy bank with watery foliage quaintly fringed, Thy surface with reflected verdure tinged, Soothe me with many a pensive pleasure mild. But while I muse, that here the bard divine, Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd aisles enclose, Where the tall windows rise in stately rows, Above the embowering shade, Here first, at Fancy's fairy-circled shrine, Of daisies pied, his infant offering made ; Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe, Framed of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe, Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled ! As at the waving of some magic wand ; An holy trance my charmed spirit wings, And awful shapes of warriors and of kings People the busy mead, Like spectres swarming to the wizard's hall ; 94 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand The wounds ill-covered by the purple pall. Before me Pity seems to stand A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore, To see Misfortune rend in frantic mood His robe with regal woes embroidered o'er. Pale Terror leads the visionary band, And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood. THOMAS WARTON (1750). SHAKESPEARE'S MONUMENT AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON. Great 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. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 95 Nor yet unrivalled the Maconian strain, The British Eagle, and the Mantuan Swan Tower equal heights. But happier, Stratford, thou With uncontested 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. (Anonymous.) INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT TO SHAKESPEARE. " O youths and virgins : O declining eld : O pale misfortune's slaves : O ye who dwell Unknown with humble quiet : ye who wait In courts, or fill the golden seats of kings : O sons of sport and pleasure : O thou wretch That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds 96 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand, Which left thee void of hope : O ye who roam In exile, ye who through the embattled field Seek bright renown, or who for nobler palms Contend, the leaders of a public cause, Approach : behold this marble. Know ye not The features ? Hath not oft his faithful tongue Told you the fashion of your own estate, The secrets of your bosom ? Here, then, round His monument with reverence while ye stand, Say to each other, 'This was Shakespeare's form; Who walked in every path of human life, Felt every passion ; and to all mankind Doth now, will ever, that experience yield, Which his own genius only could acquire.' " MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770), TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 97 AN EPISTLE ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. Sir- While born to bring the Muse's happier days, A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom, Green and unwithered o'er his honored tomb ; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell What secret transports in her bosom swell ; With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame, And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's name. Hard was the lot those injured strains endured, Unowned by Science, and by years obscured ; Fair Fancy wept ; and echoing sighs confessed A fixed despair in every tuneful breast. # * # # But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed The perfect boast of time should last succeed. 98 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The beauteous union must appear at length, Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength ; One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn, And even a Shakespeare to her fame be born ! Yet, ah ! so bright her morning's opening ray, In vain our Britain hoped an equal day ! No second growth the western isle could bear, At once exhausted with too rich a year. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part ; Nature in him was almost lost in art. Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came, The next in order, as the next in name ; With pleased attention, midst his scenes we find, Each glowing thought that warms the female mind ; Each melting sigh, and every tender tear ; The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. His every strain the Smiles and Graces own ; But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone ; Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand, The unrivalled picture of his early hand. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 99 With gradual steps and slow, exacter France Saw Art's fair Empire o'er her shores advance : By length of toil a bright perfection knew, Correctly bold, and just in all she drew ; Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fired, Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired ; And classic judgment gained to sweet Racine, The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line. But wilder far the British laurel spread, And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. Yet he alone to every scene could give The historian's truth, and bid the manners live. Waked at his call, I view with glad surprise Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, And laurelled Conquest waits her hero's arms. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, Scarce born to honors, and so soon to die ! 100 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Yet shall thy theme, unhappy infant, bring No beam of comfort to the guilty king ; The time shall come when Gloster's heart shall bleed, In life's last hours, with horror of the deed ; When dreary visions shall at last present Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent ; Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, Blunt the weak sword, and break the oppressive spear. Where'er we turn, by Fancy charmed, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove With humbler nature in the rural grove ; Where swains contented own the quiet scene, And twilight fairies tread the circled green ; Dressed by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, And Spring diffusive decks the enchanted isle. O, more than all in powerful genius blest, Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. IOI 'Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel, Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal ! There every thought the poet's warmth may raise, There native music dwells in all the lays. O might some verse with happiest skill per- suade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid ! What wondrous draughts might rise from every page! What other Raphaels charm a distant age ! # # * * WILLIAM COLLINS (1744). [Sir Thomas Hanmer (1677-1746) was a mem- ber of an old English family, an Oxford scholar, and a man of wealth and importance. In 1744 he published an edition of Shakespeare, in six quarto volumes, which involved him in a serious quarrel with Warburton, who intended to issue an edition of Shakespeare himself ; and though Hanmer had been for several years at the work, yet Warburton, enraged at his issuing his first, 102 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. charged him with having stolen his notes. Han- mer's edition was highly esteemed by Johnson and the critics of the day, and was soon sold at an exorbitant price. Collins addressed this Epistle to him on its publication, and Gay and other writers addressed him in flattering terms.] SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare (whom you and every play-house bill Style the divine, the matchless, what you will) For gain, not glory, winged his roving flight, And grew immortal in his own despite. * * # * Not but the tragic spirit was our own, And full in Shakespeare, fair in Otway shone; But Otway failed to polish or refine, And fluent Shakespeare scarce effaced a line. ALEXANDER POPE (1732). (Extract from " The Satires in Imitation of Horace.") TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 103 TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE, AND DE- LIGHT OF MY HEART, ANN HATHAWAY. Would 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 Ann Hathaway ! She hath a way to sing so clear, Phoebus might wondering stoop to hear; To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, And Nature charm, Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To breathe delight Ann 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 Ann hath a way ; She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, 104 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Turn foulest night to fairest day, Thou know'st, fond heart, Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway ; To make grief bliss Ann hath a way, Talk not of gems, the orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; Talk of my gem, Ann Hathaway ! She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustre to defy ; The jewels she, and the foil they, So sweet to look Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway; To shame bright gems, Ann hath a way, But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven ; For, though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Ann Hathaway ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 105 She hath a way so to control, To rapture the imprisoned soul, And sweetest heaven on earth display, That to be heaven Ann hath a way ; She hath a way, Ann Hathaway; To be heaven's self Ann hath a way. [This ballad was written by Charles Dibdin (1745-1814), though it has been ascribed to Shakespeare. " It may be found set to music in the edition of Dibdin's Songs published by Davidson (London, 1848), vol. ii., p. 127 " (Rolfe).] THE BUST OF SHAKESPEARE. Stranger, to whom this monument is shown, Invoke the poet's curses on Malone, Whose meddling zeal his barb'rous taste dis- plays, And daubs his tombstone as he marred his plays. (Album at Stratford Trinity Church.) Io6 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. [The Stratford Bust, to which these lines refer, is in the chancel of Holy Trinity Church at Strat- ford-on-Avon. It is considered the best authen- ticated of all the representations which we have of Shakespeare. It was originally painted in col- ors to resemble life; the hair and beard were auburn, the eyes of a light hazel, and the doub- let was scarlet. By order of Malone in 1793, and to satisfy his classical taste, it was painted a uni- form white. About a quarter of a century ago, Mr. Collins, of London, removed the white paint, and restored this interesting relic to its original colors. The head of the Ward statue in Central Park, New York, is modelled from the Stratford Bust. The allusion to Malone's edition of Shake- speare is hardly just, as he was a most painstaking editor.] WRITTEN IN THE VISITORS' BOOK AT STRATFORD. The eyes of Genius glisten to admire How Mem'ry hails the sound of Shakespeare's lyre. One tear I'll shed, to form a crystal shrine For all that's great, immortal, and divine. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 107 Let princes o'er their subject kingdoms rule, 'Tis Shakespeare's province to command the soul ! To add one leaf, oh, Shakespeare ! to thy bays, How vain the effort, and how mean my lays ! Immortal Shakespeare! o'er thy hallow'd page, Age becomes taught, and youth is e'en made sage. PRINCE LUCIEN BONAPARTE (1810). [Lucien was not the only member of the Bona- parte family who was a pilgrim to the shrine of Shakespeare : Napoleon III. spent his last day in England there before being proclaimed Emperor of the French (1852).] WRITTEN BEFORE RE-READING "KING LEAR." O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute ! Fair plumed Syren ! Queen ! if far away ! Leave melodizing on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden volume, and be mute. I08 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Adieu ! for once again the fierce dispute, Betwixt Hell torment and impassion'd clay Must I burn through ; once more assay The bitter sweet of this Shakespearian fruit. Chief Poet ! and ye clouds of Albion, Begetters of our deep eternal theme, When I am through the old oak forest gone Let me not wander in a barren dream, But when I am consumed with the Fire, Give me new Phoenix-wings to fly at my desire. JOHN KEATS (1818). WRITTEN IN THE VISITORS' BOOK AT STRATFORD. Of mighty Shakespeare's birth the room we see, That where he died in vain do try. Useless the search, for all immortal, he, And those who are immortal never die. WASHINGTON IRVING (1818). [This brief poetical tribute to Shakespeare in- adequately expresses Irving's admiration. It was TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 109 he, in his " Stratford-on-Avon " (1818), who first described in his incomparable prose the emotion which a visit to Shakespeare's native town ex- cites in the heart of the " literary pilgrim of every nation ;" and cold and dull must he be who can- not say with Irving, "Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has gilded the dull re- alities of life with innocent illusions !"] SHAKESPEARE ODE. God of the glorious Lyre Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang, While Jove's exulting choir Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang, Come ! bless the service and the shrine We consecrate to thee and thine. Fierce from the frozen North, When Havoc led his legions forth O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark de- stroyers spread ; In dust the sacred statue slept, Fair Science round her altars wept, And Wisdom cowl'd his head. 110 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. At length, Olympian lord of morn, The raven veil of night was torn, When through the golden clouds descending, Thou didst hold thy radiant flight, O'er Nature's lovely pageant bending, Till Avon roll'd all sparkling to thy sight ! There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade, Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed minstrel stray'd. Lighting there and lingering long, Thou didst teach the bard his song ; Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, And round his brows a garland curl'd ; On his lips thy spirit fell, And bade him wake and warm the world. Then Shakespeare rose ! Across the trembling strings His daring hand he flings, And lo! a new creation glows ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Ill There, clustering round, submissive to his will, Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil. Madness, with his frightful scream, Vengeance, leaning on his lance, Avarice, with his blade and beam, Hatred, blasting with a glance, Remorse that weeps, and Rage that roars, And Jealousy that dotes, but dooms and mur- ders, yet adores. Mirth, his face with sunbeams lit, Waking laughter's merry swell, Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell. Despair, that haunts the gurgling stream, Kiss'd by the virgin moon's cold beam, Where some lost maid wild chaplets wreathes, And swan -like, thus her own dirge breathes, 112 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Then, broken-hearted, sinks to rest, Beneath the bubbling wave that shrouds her maniac breast. Young Love, with eye of tender gloom, Now drooping o'er the hallow'd tomb Where his plighted victims lie, Where they met, but met to die ; And now when crimson buds are sleep- ing, Through the dewy arbor peeping, Where Beauty's child, the frowning world for- got, To Youth's devoted tale is listening, Rapture on her dark lash glistening, While fairies leave their cowslip cells and guard the happy spot. Thus rise the phantom throng, Obedient to their Master's song, And lead in willing chains the wondering soul along, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 113 For other worlds war's Great One sigh'd in vain, O'er other worlds see Shakespeare rove and reign ! The rapt magician of his own wild lay, Earth and her tribes his mystic wand obey. Old Ocean trembles, Thunder cracks the skies, Air teems with shapes, and tell-tale spec- tres rise ; . Night's paltering hags their fearful orgies keep, And faithless Guilt unseals the lip of Sleep ; Time yields his trophies up, and Death re- stores The moulder'd victims of his voiceless shores ; The fireside legend and the faded page, The crime that cursed, the deed that bless'd an age, 114 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. All, all come forth, the good to charm and cheer, To scourge bold Vice, and start the gen- erous tear ; With pictured Folly, gazing fools to shame, And guide young Glory's foot along the path of fame. ~Lo^\ hand in hand, Hell's juggling sisters stand, To greet their victim from the fight ; Group'd on the blasted heath, They tempt him to the work of death, Then melt in air and mock his wondering sight. In midnight's hallow'd hour, He seeks the fatal tower Where the lone raven, perch'd on high, Pours to the sullen gale Her hoarse, prophetic wail, And croaks the dreadful moment nigh. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 115 See by the phantom dagger led, Pale, guilty thing ! Slowly he steals, with silent tread, And grasps his coward steel to smite his sleep- ing King ! Hark ! 'tis the signal bell, Struck by that bold and unsex'd one Whose milk is gall, whose heart is stone ; His ear hath caught the knell, 'Tis done ! 'tis done ! Behold him from the chamber rushing, Where his dead monarch's blood is gushing! Look where he trembling stands, Sad gazing there, Life's smoking crimson on his hands, And in his felon heart, the worm of wild despair ! Mark the sceptred traitor slumbering ! There flit the slaves of conscience round, With boding tongue foul murders number- ing; Sleep's leaden portals catch the sound. Il6 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. In his dream of blood for mercy quaking, At his own dull scream behold him waking ! Soon that dream to fate shall turn ; For him the living furies burn ; For him the vulture sits on yonder misty peak, And chides the lagging night, and whets his hungry beak. Hark ! the trumpet's warning breath Echoes round the vale of death. Unhorsed, unhelm'd, disdaining shield, The panting tyrant scours the field. Vengeance ! he meets thy dooming blade ! The scourge of earth, the scorn of Heaven, He falls ! unwept and unforgiven, And all his guilty glories fade. Like a crush'd reptile in the dust he lies, And Hate's last lightning quivers from his eyes! Behold yon crownless king, Yon white-lock'd, weeping sire, Where heaven's unpillar'd chambers ring, And burst their stream of flood and fire ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 117 He gave them all, the daughters of his love ; That recreant pair ! they drive him forth to rove In such a night of woe, The cubless regent of the wood Forgets to bathe her fangs in blood, And caverns with her foe ! Yet one was ever kind ; Why lingers she behind ? Oh pity! view him by her dead form kneel- ing, Even in wild frenzy holy nature feeling. His aching eyeballs strain To see those curtain'd orbs unfold, That beauteous bosom heave again ; But all is dark and cold. In agony the father shakes ; Grief's choking note Swells in his throat, Each wither'd heartstring tugs and breaks ! Round her pale neck his dying arms he wreathes, And on her marble lips his last, his death-kiss breathes. Il8 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Down, trembling wing ! shall insect weakness keep The sun-defying eagle's sweep ? A mortal strike celestial strings, And feebly echo what a seraph sings ? Who now shall grace the glowing throne Where, all unrivalPd, all alone, Bold Shakespeare sat, .and look'd creation through, The minstrel monarch of the worlds he drew ? That throne is cold that lyre in death unstrung, On whose proud note delighted wonder hung. Yet Old Oblivion, as in wrath he sweeps, One spot shall spare, the grave where Shake- speare sleeps. Rulers and ruled in common gloom may lie, But Nature's laureate bards shall never die. Art's chisell'd boast and Glory's trophied shore Must live in numbers, or can live no more. While sculptured Jove some nameless waste may claim, Still rolls the Olympic car in Pindar's fame ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 119 Troy's doubtful walls in ashes pass'd away, Yet frown on Greece in Homer's deathless lay; Rome, slowly sinking in her crumbling fanes, Stands, all immortal in her Maro's strains ; So, too, yon giant empress of the isles, On whose broad sway the sun forever smiles, To Time's unsparing rage one day must bend, And all her triumphs in her Shakespeare end ! O Thou ! to whose creative power We dedicate the festal hour, While Grace and Goodness round the altar stand, Learning's anointed train, and Beauty's rose- lipp'd band Realms yet unborn in accents now unknown, Thy song shall learn, and bless it for their own. Deep in the West, as Independence roves, His banners planting round the land he loves, Where Nature sleeps in Eden's infant grace, In Time's full hour shall spring a glorious race. 120 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Thy name, thy verse, thy language, shall they bear, And deck for thee the vaulted temple there. Our Roman-hearted fathers broke Thy parent empire's galling yoke ; But thou, harmonious master of the mind, Around their sons a gentler chain shalt bind ; Once more in thee shall Albion's sceptre wave, And what her monarch lost, her monarch Bard shall save. CHARLES SPRAGUE (1823). [This ode, a prize poem, was read at the Bos- ton Theatre in 1823.] TO SHAKESPEARE. He lighted with his golden lamp on high, The unknown regions of the human heart, Showed its bright fountains, showed its rueful wastes, Its shoals and headlands; and a tower he raised TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 121 Refulgent, where eternal breakers roll, For all to see, but no man to approach. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR (1824). [" Imaginary Conversations : ' The Abbe De- lille and Walter S. Landor.' "] WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKE- SPEARE. How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! Hues of all flowers that in their ashes lie, Tropbied in that fair light whereon they fed, Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red, Like exhalations from the leafy mould, Look here how honor glorifies the dead, And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold! Such is the memory of poets old, Who on Parnassus' hill have bloomed elate ; 122 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Now they are laid under their marbles cold, And turned to clay, whereof they were create ; But god Apollo hath them all enrolled, And blazoned on the very clouds of fate ! THOMAS HOOD (1828). SHAKESPEARE. The soul of man is larger than the sky, Deeper than ocean, or the abysmal dark Of the unfathomed centre. Like that ark, Which in its sacred hold uplighted high, O'er the drowned hills, the human family, And stock reserved of every living kind, So, in the compass of the single mind, The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie, That make all worlds. Great poet, 'twas thy art, To know thyself, and in thyself to be Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny, Or the firm fatal purpose of the heart, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 123 Can make of man. Yet thou wert still the same, Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame. HARTLEY COLERIDGE (1833). STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. (JANUARY, 1837.) We stood upon the tomb of him whose praise Time, nor oblivion's 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 'twas given the bounds to know Of human action, and the secret springs Whence the deep streams of joy and sorrow flow. HENRY ALFORD, Dean of Canterbury (1810-1871), 124 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. How little fades from earth when sink to rest The hours and cares that move a great man's breast ! Though naught of all we saw the grave may spare, His life pervades the world's impregnate air ; Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our foot- steps lies, His spirit breathes amid his native skies. With meaning won from him forever glows Each air that England feels, and star it knows ; His whispered words from many a mother's voice Can make her sleeping child in dreams re- joice ; And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth Are blest with rays of each new morning's birth. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 125 Amid the sights and tales of common things, Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of kings Of shore and sea, and Nature's daily round, Of life that tills, and tombs that load the ground, His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, And haunt with living presence, heart and eye. And tones from him by other bosoms caught Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought ; And the long sigh, and deep, impassioned thrill Rouse custom's trance, and spur the faltering will. Above the goodly land, more his than ours, He sits supreme, enthroned in skyey towers, And sees the heroic brood of his creation Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. O shaping brain ! O flashing fancy's hues ! O boundless heart kept fresh by pity's dews ! C) wit humane and blithe ! O sense sublime ! For each dim oracle of mantled time ! 126 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Transcendent form of man ! in whom we read Mankind's whole tale of impulse, thought, and deed! Amid the expanse of years, beholding thee, We know how vast our world of life may be, Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine, Small tasks and strengths may be no less di- vine. JOHN STERLING (1839). TO SHAKESPEARE. If from the height of that celestial sphere, Where now thou dwellest, spirit powerful" and sweet ! Thou yet canst love the race that sojourn here, How must thou joy, with pleasure not unmeet For thy exalted state, to know how dear Thy memory is held throughout the earth Beyond the favored land that gave thee birth. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 127 E'en in thy seat in heaven thoit mayest receive Thanks, praise, and love, and wonder ever new, From human hearts, who in thy verse perceive All that humanity calls good and true ; Nor dost thou for each mortal blemish grieve They from thy glorious works have fallen away, As from thy soul its outward form of clay. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE (1844). TO SHAKESPEARE. Oft when my lips I open to rehearse Thy wondrous spells of wisdom, and of power, And that my voice, and thy immortal verse On listening ears and hearts I mingled pour, I shrink dismayed, and awful doth appear The vain presumption of my own weak deed , Thy glorious spirit seems to mine so near, That suddenly I tremble as' I read ! Thee an invisible auditor I fear. O, if it might be so, my master dear ! 128 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. With what beseeching would I pray to thee, To make me equal to my noble task ! Succor from thee how humbly would I ask, Thy worthiest works to utter worthily ! FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE (1844). WRITTEN IN THE VISITORS' BOOK AT STRATFORD. Stratford-on-Avon ! Well, I think I must See Shakespeare's house his tomb and bust I've seen, and just maligned Malone For daubing Shakespeare's bust of stone, And could not let his works alone. Just now I'm rather in a pet, I've sketched his house, and got quite wet. And now I sit, turn o'er and look The countless names writ in this book. And try to think with all my might, That I've also a right to write. But hold, I fear to increase my crime, To give as reason, doggerel rhyme. DANIEL MACLISE (1811-1870). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 129 SHAKESPEARE. Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask. Thou smilest, and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill, Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling- place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foiled searching of mortality ; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self- secure, Didst tread on earth unguessed at. Better so ! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow, Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. MATTHEW ARNOLD. 130 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE. O precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped ! Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages, And giving tongues unto the silent dead ! How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read, Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages Of the great poet who foreruns the ages, Anticipating all that shall be said ! O happy Reader ! having for thy text The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught The rarest essence of all human thought ! O happy Poet ! by no critic vext ! How must thy listening spirit now rejoice, To be interpreted by such a voice ! H. W. LONGFELLOW (1850). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 131 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. To Stratford-on-the-Avon And we passed Thro' 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. ROBERT LEIGHTON (1822-1869). 132 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. POETRY IMMORTAL. The sacred beings of poetic birth Immortal live to consecrate the earth. San Marco's pavement boasts no doge's tread, And all its ancient pageantry has fled ; Yet, as we muse beneath some dim arcade, The mind's true kindred glide from ruin's shade ; In every passing eye that sternly beams We start to meet the Shylock of our dreams ; Each maiden form, where virgin grace is seen, Crosses our path with Portia's noble mien ; While Desdemona, beauteous as of yore, Yields us the smile that once entranced the Moor. # # # =* Long ere brave Nelson shook the Baltic shore, The bard of Avon hallow'd Elsinore ; Perchance when moor'd the fleet, awaiting day, To fix the battle's terrible array, Some pensive hero, musing o'er the deep, So soon to fold him in its dreamless sleep, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 133 Heard the Dane's sad and self-communing tone Blend with the water's melancholy moan, Recall'd, with prayer and awe -suspended breath, His wild and solemn questionings of death, Or caught from land Ophelia's dying song, Swept by the night-breeze plaintively along ! HENRY T. TUCKERMAN (1813-1871). SHAKESPEARE IN ITALY. Beyond our shores, beyond the Apennines, Shakespeare, from heaven came thy creative breath ! 'Mid citron grove and overarching vines Thy genius wept at Desdemona's death ; In the proud sire thou badest anger cease, And Juliet by her Romeo sleeps in peace. Then rose thy voice above the stormy sea, And Ariel flew from Prospero to thee. W. S. LANDOR (July, 1860). 134 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. In poetry, there is but one supreme, Though there are many angels round his throne, Mighty and beauteous, while his face is hid. LANDOR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. (APRIL 23, 1864.) She sat in her eternal house, The sovereign mother of mankind ; Before her was the peopled world, The hollow night behind. " Below my feet the thunders break, Above my head the stars rejoice ; But man, although he babbles much, Has never found a voice. "Ten thousand years have come and gone, And not an hour of any day, But he has dumbly looked to me, The things he could not say. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 135 " It shall be so no more," she said, And then revolving in her mind, She thought : " I will create a child Shall speak for all his kind." It was the spring-time of the year, And lo, where Avon's waters flow, The child, her darling, came on earth, Three hundred years ago. There was no portent in the sky, No cry, like Pan's, along the seas, Nor hovered round his baby mouth The swarm of classic bees. What other children were, he was, If more, 'twas not to mortal ken ; The being likest to mankind, Made him the man of men. They gossiped, after he was dead, An idle tale of stealing deer ; One thinks he was a lawyer's clerk; But nothing now is clear. 136 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Save that he married, in his youth, A maid, his elder ; went to town ; Wrote plays ; made money ; and at last Came back, and settled down, A prosperous man, among his kin, In Stratford, where his bones repose. And this what can be less ? is all The world of Shakespeare knows. It irks us that we know no more, For where we love, we would know all ; What would be small in common men, In great is never small. Their daily habits, how they looked, The color of their eyes and hair, Their prayers, their oaths, the wine they drank, The clothes they used to wear, Trifles like these declare the men And should survive them nay, they must ; We'll find them somewhere ; if it needs, We'll rake among their dust ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 1.37 Not Shakespeare's ! He has left his curse On him disturbs it ; let it rest, The mightiest that ever Death Laid in the earth's dark breast. Not to himself did he belong Nor does his life belong to us ; Enough, he was ; give up the search If he were thus, or thus. Before he came his like was not, Nor left he heirs to share his powers ; The mighty Mother sent him here, To be his voice and ours. To be her oracle to man, To be what man may be to her ; Between the Maker and the made, The best interpreter. The hearts of all men beat in his, Alike in pleasure and in pain ; And he contained their myriad minds, Mankind in heart and brain. 138 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Shakespeare ! what shapes are conjured up By that one word ! They come and go, More real, shadows though they be, Than many a man we know. Hamlet the Dane, unhappy Prince, Who most enjoys when suffering most ; His soul is haunted by itself There needs no other Ghost. The Thane, whose murderous fancy sees The dagger painted in the air ; The guilty King, who stands appalled When Banquo fills his chair. Lear in the tempest, old and crazed, " Blow winds, spit fire, singe my white head !" Or, sadder, watching for the breath Of dear Cordelia dead ! The much-abused relentless Jew, Grave Prospero, in his magic isle, And she who captived Anthony, The serpent of old Nile. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 139 Imperial forms, heroic souls, Greek, Roman, masters of the world, Kings, queens, the soldier, scholar, priest, The courtier, sleek and curled ; He knew and drew all ranks of men, And did such life to them impart, They grow not old, immortal types, The Lords of Life and Art. Their sovereign he, as she was his, The awful Mother of the Race, Who, hid from all her children's eyes, Unveiled to him her face ; Spake to him till her speech was known, Through him till man had learned it ; then Enthroned him in her Heavenly House, The most supreme of Men ! R. H. STODDARD. 140 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. (A CELEBRATION ODE, APRIL 23, 1864.) Ring out, glad bells, your blithest lays In honor of our poet's fame ; Join heart and voice, with loud acclaim, To flood the land with grateful praise. Not all the trophies he hath won Are worthy of his skill divine. Bow, nation bow before his shrine, And own your greatest, grandest son. No hero, crushing human wrongs No champion, bleeding for the right, Hath equalled in the great world's fight, Our conqueror in the strife of tongues. O myriad mind ! whose matchless lyre Could only speak with living word, Whose sound, full oft, dead hearts hath stirred To fervent breathings of desire ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 141 The music thou dost richly pour, In silver cadence far and near, Like Oberon's love- juice, charms the ear, And all who listen must adore. First scholar of Dame Nature's throng, And by no other teacher taught, He dug his treasure-caves of thought From Avon with its silver song And yet, though men have yearned to find, Through thrice a hundred years of toil, Those Alpine heights of unturned soil, Where towers the summit of his mind ; Their mightiest efforts are but vain To grasp its greatness scale its height ; The mountain-top eludes the sight Of weary watchers on the plain ! His glory glimmers from afar, Through hecatombs of buried years ; Yet fairer now to light appears, And queenlier than the evening star. 142 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Let all, to-day, his name revere ; Ring, happy land, with grateful praise ! And crown with never-fading bays Our poet, preacher, sage, and seer ! Chime on, ye tuneful bells chime on ! Proclaim to all our generous pride ; And let the nations far and wide Behold how Britain loves her son. Chambers 's Journal, March, 1864. SHAKESPEARE. (TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864.) " Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown, Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep, Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown ? Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep ; Shall warring aliens share her holy task ?" The Old World echoes ask. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 143 O land of Shakespeare ! ours with all thy past, Till these last years that make the sea so wide, Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride In every noble word thy sons bequeathed The air our fathers breathed ! War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife, We turn to other days and far-off lands, Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life, Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flow- ers, Not his the need, but ours ! We call those poets who are first to mark Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn, Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark, While others only note that day is gone ; For him the Lord of light the curtain rent That veils the firmament. 144 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The greatest for its greatness is half known, Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant- lines, As in that world of Nature all outgrown Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines, And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall Nevada's cataracts fall. Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours, Throbbing its radiance like a beating heart ; In the wide compass of angelic powers The instinct of the blindworm has its part ; So in God's kingliest creature we behold The flower our buds infold. With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name Stamped once on dust that moved with pulse and breath, As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 145 We praise not star or sun ; in these we see Thee, Father, only thee ! Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love ; We read, we reverence on this human soul, Earth's clearest mirror of the light above, Plain as the record on thy prophet's scroll, When o'er his page the effluent splendors poured, Thine own, " Thus saith the Lord !" This player was a prophet from on high, Thine own elected, Statesman, poet, sage, For him thy sovereign pleasure passed them by ; Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's ripened age, Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial mind Who taught and shamed mankind. Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum rise, Nor fear to make thy worship less divine, And hear the shouted choral shake the skies, Counting all glory, power, and wisdom thine ; 146 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. For thy great gift thy greater name adore, And praise thee evermore ! In this dread hour of Nature's utmost need, Thanks for those unstained drops of fresh- ening dew ! O, while our martyrs fall, our heroes bleed, Keep us to every sweet remembrance true, Till from this blood-red sunset springs new- born Our Nation's second morn ! O. W. HOLMES. ODE ON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. In Stratford upon Avon Where the silent waters flow, The immortal Drama woke from sleep, Three hundred years ago. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 147 Then as the long dark ages rolled away, A light from Heaven shone on Shake- speare's face. Land of the illustrious Dead ! With thee this day, We love to linger near the hallowed place, For wert thou not the Fatherland of our New England race ? Beyond the Rocky Mountains, From the Golden Gate of fame, Far East to Schoodic's misty shores, Is heard his honored name. Live where we may, such life-like scenes he drew, Arrayed in robes of beauty, all his own, Nature herself proclaims each picture true To Albion's echoing hills; nor there alone, As e'en Megara speaks in Prospero's thunder- tone. 148 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Ah ! what a halcyon memory, Our school-boy days bring on, When young Othello told us how He Desdemona won ! Where are the voices that once filled the air? Let not stern manhood deem the illusion wrong, When the boy dreamed the enchanted isle was there, Near Academic grove unknown to song, Where Kennebec among the hills, meandering glides along. Not in the Theatre alone Is seen his wondrous power, Though some great actor tread the stage, The pageant of an hour ; He visits many a humble home and when Some brave thought stirs the heart by sor- row riven, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 149 We feel like heroes though we live like men In lowly lot : for here full oft at even, The Bard of Avon sweeps the ^Eolian harp of Heaven. England with all thy glory From the Druid days of old, Not Crecy's pride, nor Agincourt Nor Field of the Cloth of Gold, Shines with such virtue in all coming time As genius, learning, minstrelsy inspire They fill the ideal world with thoughts sub- lime, Guiding Ambition's eye to aim far higher, Than light the flames of civil war, with strange, unholy fire ! They gleam like stars in history Along a dreary waste, Who first enlarged the bounds of mind, Or raised the tone of taste. 150 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Thus Bacon looms up in that glorious age, Of Spenser's lay and Jonson's critic eye, When a Promethean spark illum'd the stage, And Shakespeare drew such scenes of time gone by, That Life a Drama seems, midst shadows of Eternity. JOHN H. SHEPPARD. (Celebration by New England Historical and Genealogical Society, April 23, 1864.) SHAKESPEARE. I wish that I could have my wish to-night ; For all the fairies should assist my flight Back into the abyss of years ; Till I could see the streaming light, And hear the music of the spheres That sang together at the joyous birth Of that immortal mind, The noblest of his kind The only Shakespeare that has graced our earth. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 151 Oh, that I might behold Those gentle sprites, by others all unseen, Queen Mab and Puck the bold, With curtseys manifold Glide round his cradle every morn and e'en ; That I might see the nimble shapes that ran And frisked and frolicked by his side, When school-hours ended or began, At morn or eventide ; That I might see the very shoes he wore, Upon the dusty street, His little gown and pinafore, His satchel and his schoolboy rig com- plete ! If I could have the wish I rhyme, Then should this night, and all it doth con- tain, Be set far back upon the rim of Time, And I would wildered be upon a stormy plain ; 152 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The wanton waves of winter wind and storm Should beat upon my ruddy face, And on my streaming hair ; And hags and witches multiform, And beldames past all saintly grace, Should hover round me in the sleety air ! Then hungry, cold, and frightened by these imps of sin, And breathless all with buffeting the storm, Betimes I would arrive at some old English inn, Wainscoted, high and warm. The fire should blaze in antique chimney-place ; And on the high-backed settles, here and there, The village gossip, and the merry laugh Should follow brimming cups of half-an'-half ; Before the fire, in hospitable chair, The landlord fat should bask his shining face, And slowly twirl his pewter can ; And there in his consummate grace, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 153 The perfect lord of wit, The immortal man, The only Shakespeare of this earth should sit. There, too, that Spanish galleon of a hulk, Ben Jonson, lying at full length, Should so dispose his goodly bulk That he might lie at ease upon his back, To test the tone and strength Of Boniface's sherris-sack. * And there should be some compeers of these two, Rare wits and poets of the land, Whom all good England knew, And who are now her dear forget - me - nots ; And they should lounge on Shakespeare's either hand, And sip their punch from queer old cans and pots. 154 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Oh, then, such drollery should begin, Such wit flash out, such humor run Around the fire in this old English inn, The veriest clod would be convulsed with fun ; And Boniface's merry sides would ache, And his round belly like a pudding shake. Never since the world began Has been such repartee ; And never till the next begins, Will greater things be said by man, Than this same company Were wont to say so oft in those old English inns. Dear artist, if you paint this picture mine, Do not forget the storm that roars Above the merry din and laughter within doors ; But let some stroke divine Make all within appear more rich and warm, By contrast with the outer storm. HENRY AMES BLOOD. April 23, 1864. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 155 THE STRATFORD JUBILEE. (APRIL 23, 1864.) Went not thy spirit gladly with us then, Most genial Shakspeare ! wast thou not with us Who throng'd to honor thee and love thee thus, A few among thy subject fellow-men ? Yea, let me truly think it ; for thy heart (Though now long-since the free-made citizen Of brighter cities where we trust thou art,) Was one, in its great whole and every part, With human sympathies ; we seem to die, But verily live ; we grow, improve, expand, When Death transplants us to that Happier Land ; Therefore, sweet Shakspeare, came thy spirit nigh, Cordial with Man, and grateful to High Heaven For all our love to thy dear memory given. MARTIN F. TUPPER. 156 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. THE TWO POETS. (APRIL 23, 1864.) SHAKESPEARE. Gramercy ! What a night for stalking deer ! My kingdom for a Hold ! what have we here ! A head of Schiller ! Phoebus ! can it be, Schiller in Central Park ahead of me ? SCHILLER. Goodden, good Shakespeare ; Guten Abend long Have I thy coming waited, Prince of Song, Guarding the snowy flocks that round me throng. SHAKESPEARE. What flocks, O Schiller ! cujum pecus ? say Whose errant sheep into thy pasture stray? SCHILLER. No errant sheep ; but the white birds that yon The lakelet's placid bosom rest upon, And are to mankind thy comparison. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 157 SHAKESPEARE. O faithful Schiller ! who, by lake and river, My truant swans thus unto me deliver, Half of my white-necked flock be thine forever ! [This is from Harper s Weekly, with an accom- panying cut of a scene in Central Park, where Shakespeare stands before the bust of Schiller, as if addressing him.] SHAKESPEARE. (Quatrain.) I see all human wits Are measured but a few ; Unmeasured still my Shakespeare sits, Lone as the blessed Jew. R. W. EMERSON (1867). SHAKESPEARE. England's genius rilled all measure Of heart and soul, of strength and pleasure, Gave to the mind its emperor, And life was larger than before ; Nor sequent centuries could hit Orbit and sum of Shakespeare's wit. 158 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The men who lived with him became Poets,, for the air was fame. R. W. EMERSON. (Extract from " Solution," 1867.) IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD AT FREDERICKSBURG. In the old churchyard at Fredericksburg, A gravestone stands to-day, Marking the place where a grave has been, Though many and many a year it has seen, Since its tenant mouldered away. And that quaintly carved old stone Tells its simple tale to all ; " Here lies a bearer of the pall At the funeral of Shakespeare." There in the churchyard at Fredericksburg, I wandered all alone, Thinking sadly on empty fame, How the great dead are but a name, To few are they really known. Then upon this battered stone, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 159 My listless eye did fall, Where lay the bearer of the pall, At the funeral of Shakespeare. Then in the churchyard at Fredericksburg, It seemed as though the air Were peopled with phantoms that swept by, Flitting along before my eye, So sad, so sweet, so fair ; Hovering about this stone, By some strange spirit's call, Where lay a bearer of the pall, At the funeral of Shakespeare. For in the churchyard of Fredericksburg, Juliet seemed to love, Hamlet mused, and the old Lear fell, Beatrice laughed, and Ariel Gleamed through the skies above, As here beneath this stone Lay in his narrow hall, He who before had borne the pall At the funeral of Shakespeare. 160 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And I left the old churchyard at Fredericksburg; Still did the tall grass wave, With a strange and beautiful grace, O'er the sad and lonely place Where hidden lay the grave ; And still did the quaint old stone Tell its mournful tale to all : " Here lies a bearer of the pall, At the funeral of Shakespeare." FREDERICK WADSWORTH LORING (1870). [The above poem was suggested by this news- paper paragraph : " In the cemetery of Fredericksburg, Va., there is a red-sandstone slab with the following inscrip- Here lies the body of EDWARD HELDON PRACTITIONER IN PHYSICS AND CHIRURGERY. Born in Bedfordshire, England, in the year of our Lord 1542; was contemporary with, and one of the pall bearers of William Shakespeare. After a brief illness, his spirit ascended, in the year of our Lord 1618 aged 76." While the author did not consider it a fact, the poetical subject fired his imagination, and he TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. l6l wrote the poem which was published in the At- lantic Monthly, September, 1870. The Heldon myth again went the rounds of the newspapers in 1884. Dr. W. J. Rolfe ex- plained the probable foundation for the ingenious hoax, in regard to this alleged pall bearer, in the columns of the Literary World for December, 1884, and January, 1885, and of it the late Mr. Halliwell- Phillips wrote, "The pall story is ap- palling in its absurdity." There is a melancholy interest attached to the poem, on account of the tragic fate of its young author. Mr. Loring was killed by Indians in Arizona, in 1871, when he was only twenty-three years of age.] SHAKESPEARE. When first the tuneful Nine their table spread, And bade of mortals the immortal few To banquet, it was counted Shakespeare's due To sit, as sovereign master, at the head ; And there, on either hand, by fair nymphs fed, All drinking from the fountain, fresh and new, The wine of Helikon, sat other two Dante and Homer crowned and garlanded. 1 62 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Since then, a thousand goodly men have sought To catch the crumbs which from that table fell ; A million poems have been deftly wrought, But still the waves of song no higher swell. Like rain-drops lost, unnumbered in the sea, Shall deathless Shakespeare's followers ever be ! SIMEON TUCKER CLARK. SHAKESPEARE'S STATUE. (CENTRAL PARK, NEW YORK, MAY 23, 1872.) i. In this free Pantheon of the air and sun, Where stubborn granite grudgingly gives place To petted turf, the garden's daintier race Of flowers, and Art hath slowly won A smile from grim, primeval barrenness, What alien Form doth stand ? Where scarcely yet the heroes of the land, As in their future's haven, from the stress Of all conflicting tides, find quiet deep Of bronze or marble sleep, What stranger comes, to join the scanty band ? TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 163 Who pauses here, as one that muses While centuries of men go by, And unto all our questioning refuses His clear, infallible reply ? Who hath his will of us, beneath our new-world sky? ii. Here, in his right, he stands ! No breadth of earth-dividing seas can bar The breeze of morning, or the morning star, From visiting our lands : His wit, the breeze, his wisdom, as the star, Shone where our earliest life was set, and blew To freshen hope and plan In brains American, To urge, resist, encourage, and subdue ! He came, a household ghost we could not ban : He sat, on winter nights, by cabin fires ; His summer fairies linked their hands Along our yellow sands ; He preached within the shadow of our spires ; And when the certain Fate drew nigh, to cleave The birth-cord, and a separate being leave, 164 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. He, in our ranks of patient-hearted men, Wrought with the boundless forces of his fame, Victorious, and became The Master of our thought, the land's first Citizen ! in. If, here, his image seem Of softer scenes and grayer skies to dream, Thatched cot and rustic tavern, ivied hall, The cuckoo's April call And cowslip-meads beside the Avon stream, He shall not fail that other home to find We could not leave behind ! The forms of Passion, which his fancy drew, In us their ancient likenesses beget : So, from our lives forever born anew, He stands amid his own creations yet ! Here comes lean Cassius. of conventions tired ; Here, in his coach, luxurious Antony Beside his Egypt, still of men admired ; And Brutus plans some purer liberty ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 165 A thousand Shylocks, Jew and Christian, pass ; A hundred Hamlets, by their times betrayed ; And sweet Anne Page comes tripping o'er the grass, And antlered Falstaff pants beneath the shade. Here toss upon the wanton summer wind The locks of Rosalind ; Here some gay glove the damned spot conceals Which Lady Macbeth feels ; His ease here, smiling smooth lago takes, And outcast Lear gives passage to his woe, And here some foiled Reformer sadly breaks His wand of Prospero ! In liveried splendor side by side, Nick Bottom and Titania ride ; And Portia, flushed with cheers of men, Disdains dear faithful Imogen ; And Puck, beside the form of Morse, Stops on his forty-minute course ; And Ariel from his swinging bough A blossom casts on Bryant's brow, 1 66 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Until, as summoned from his brooding brain, He sees his children all again, In us, as on our lips, each fresh, immortal strain ! IV. Be welcome, Master ! In our native air Keep the calm strength we need to learn of thee! A steadfast anchor be 'Mid passions that exhaust, and times that wear ! Thy kindred race, that scarcely knows What power is in Repose, What permanence in Patience, what renown In silent faith and plodding toil of Art That shyly works apart, All these in thee unconsciously doth crown ! v. The Many grow, through honor to the One ; And what of loftier life we do not live, This Form shall help to give, In our free Pantheon of the air and sun ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 167 Here, where the noise of Trade is loudest, It builds a shrine august, To show, while pomp of wealth is proudest, How brief is gilded dust : How Art succeeds, though long, And o'er the tumult of the generations, The strong, enduring spirit of the nations, How speaks the voice of Song ! Our City, at her gateways of the sea, Twines bay around the mural crown upon her, And wins new grace and dearer dignity, Giving our race's Poet, honor ! If such as he Again may ever be, And our humanity another crown Find in some equal, late renown, The reverence of what he was shall call it down! BAYARD TAYLOR. [This poem was written for the dedication of the statue to Shakespeare in Central Park, May, 1872. Mr. W. C. Bryant delivered the oration on the occasion, and Mr. Edwin Booth recited Stoddard's poem to Shakespeare (1864).] 1 68 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. What shall his crown be? Not the laurel leaf That, blood-besprinkled, decks the warrior's head, Who grasps at glory as destruction's chief, A living monument to thousands dead ; Bequeathing a vast legacy of grief, Some pest incarnate fed with human life Born of ambition, or the lust of strife. In regal diadem, shall we proclaim Him monarch ? That would circumscribe his worth ; A kingly coronet would only shame . The kinglier Thought whose realm is the whole earth. Such petty vanities but mock his fame. Profane it not, he is all crowns above ! Hero of Peace, Evangelist of Love ! JOHN BROUGHAM. [Written for the dedication of the Ward statue in Central Park, May, 1872.] TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 169 ANNE HATHAWAY. Once on a time when jewels flashed, And moonlit fountains softly splashed, And all the air was sweet and bright With music, mirth, and deft delight, A courtly dame drew, laughing, near A poet greatest of his time And chirped a question in his ear, With voice like silver bells in chime : " Good Mr. Shakespeare, I would know The name thy lady bore, in sooth, Ere thine. Nay, little time ago It was for we still mark her youth ; Some high-born name, I trow, and yet, Altho' I've heard it, I forget." Then answered he with dignity, Yet blithely for the hour was gay " My lady's name Anne Hathaway." " And good, sweet sir," the dame pursued, Too fair and winsome to be rude, 1 70 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. " Tis whispered here and whispered there, By doughty knights and ladies fair, That that well, that her royal lord Does e'en obey her lightest will ; Now, my good spouse I pledge my word Tho' loving well, doth heed me ill ; How art thou conquered, prithee tell," She pleaded with her pretty frown ; " I fain would know what mighty spell Can bring a haughty husband down." She ceased and raised her eager face To his, with laughing, plaintive grace. Then answered he, with dignity, Yet blithely for the hour was gay " Ah lady, I can only say Her name again Anne Hath-a-way." SCOTT'S SHAKESPEARE. When Scotland's master genius raised The veil of long departed time, And bade us wonder while we gazed On regal pomp and feudal crime ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 171 Touched with the rays of living light That darted from his magic pen, Heroes and kings stood out to sight, As if they breathed and moved again. When midst the noblest of the land, The vision'd form of Shakespeare came, Even he the enchanter stayed his hand, Nor dared to sport with Shakespeare's name. [The above stanzas were suggested by the glimpse of Shakespeare introduced into the novel of " Kenilworth," where a few gracious words were addressed to him by Leicester at the palace gate, and received by the immortal dram- atist in respectful silence.] SHAKESPEARE. The name of human names we most revere, That in our cradle-days we used to hear ; The first that on our waking senses fell, As if we came to life beneath its spell ; Whose strong attracting force our souls obeyed, And grew to strength beneath his vital grade. 172 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. What precious memories these thoughts in- spire Of our fair mother and our fervid sire, Their fine rehearsals round the evening fire ! How the great poet's music filled their lives, And in their children's children still sur- vives ; And how they made their own his thoughts that reach The human heart, through every grade and change. These shaped, without intent, our daily speech, And gave our lives a higher, brighter range. His was the living sympathetic glass That holds, forever, pictures as they pass ; That brings each moral feature out to view, Disclosing what is false and what is true ; That measures values, not by what appears, But by the tests of truth, like holy seers. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 173 He lost no truth that fell upon its face ; All lesser lights he drew into his own Attracting, nature-like, each form of grace, As birds of plumage seek the torrid zone. He drew the nuggets from the golden lands Such shapes he made of these, none else can make Leaving for others the few sparkling sands That, in his wealth, he never stooped to take. What startling figures leaves he on the wall, As fires electric shed their glyphic trace ; What precious pictures from his fingers fall, As hands of skill on grounds of gold en^ chase ; What fiery strokes of pride, and truth, and brand, Appear beneath his all-engrossing hand 174 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. The hand that makes the passions come and go, That masters all their fitful, changing forms, Whose fierce attractions cause their overflow, Whose meteoric laws control their storms ; Whose forms of beauty fresh and young with force He passes o'er us in their bright array, As stars are clustered in their starry course And chase each other in the Milky Way; Whose forms ethereal like the solar beams Whence men have wrested types of things on earth, So these come down in subtler golden streams, Of part terrestrial, part aerial birth, Appearing now in tears and then in mirth. We marvel much that beings of an hour To vaster scopes, like his, should e'er attain, And share almost the wondrous sense of power That triumphed in his heart, and hand, and brain. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 175 But God had touched him with a glorious ray, Endued him with resemblance of His might, To use the grander forces of the day, To fill with star-dust all the fields of night. Through all his rushing world there throbs the beat Of life momentous, present, far and near ; We feel the press of forces, and the heat Of seething passions ; over all we hear, Above the wings of flying ages hear Surpassing Roman grace, surpassing Greek, Exceeding all we hope man yet may speak His living voices, playful, sweet, and clear His, sterner, grander, masterful, severe ! He spake as those might speak that understand The more sublime of God's unwritten speech ; He leads us step by step, and hand in hand, Up to the glorious heights the angels reach. MARY H. WELLES PUMPELLY (1873). 176 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. A vision as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow ; Thunder of thoroughfares ; trumpets that blow To battle ; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets ; Tolling of bells in turrets, and below Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw O'er garden walls their intermingled sweets ! This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the muses loved, not one alone ; Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne. H. W. LONGFELLOW (1875). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 177 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Not if men's tongues and angels' all in one Spake, might the word be said that might speak Thee. Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, moun- tains, yea, the sea, What power is in them all to praise the sun ? His praise is this, he can be praised of none. Man, woman, child, praise God for him ; but he Exults not to be worshipped, but to be. He is : and, being, beholds his work well done. All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth, Are his ; without him, day were night on earth. Time knows not his from time's own period. All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres, Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires. All stars are angels : but the sun is God. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 12 178 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SONNET. TO ENGLAND. Our mother, which wast twice, as history saith, Found first among the nations : once, when she Who bore thine ensign saw the God in thee Smite Spain, and bring forth Shakespeare; once, when death Shrank, and Rome's bloodhounds cowered, at Milton's breath : More than thy place, then first among the free ; More than that sovereign lordship of the sea Bequeathed to Cromwell from Elizabeth ; More than thy fiery guiding-star, which Drake Hailed, and the deep saw lit again for Blake ; More than all deeds wrought of thy strong right hand, This praise keeps most thy fame's memorial strong, That thou wast head of all these streams of song, And time bows down to thee as Shake- speare's land. ALGERNON C, SWINBURNE. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 179 TO EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. (WITH "SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS.") Had we been living in the antique days, With him, whose young but cunning fingers penned These sugared sonnets to his strange sweet friend, I dare be sworn we would have won the bays. Why not ? We could have turned in amorous phrase Fancies like these, where love and friend- ship blend, (Or were they writ for some more private end ?) And this, we see, remembered is with praise. Yes, there's a luck in most things, and in none More than in being born at the right time ; It boots not what the labor to be done, Or feats of arms, or art, or building rhyme. Not that the heavens the little can make great, But many a man has lived an age too late. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. l8o TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. WITH "SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS." (To JAMES LORIMER GRAHAM, JR.) What can I give him, who so much hath given, That princely heart, so over-kind to me, Who, richly guerdoned both of earth and heaven, Holds for his friends his heritage in fee ? No. costly trinket of the golden ore, Nor precious jewel of the distant Ind. Ay me ! These are not hoarded in my store, Who have no coffers but my grateful mind. What gift then nothing? Stay, this Book of Song May show my poverty and thy desert, Steeped, as it is, in love, and love's sweet wrong, Red with the blood that ran through Shake- speare's heart. Read it once more, and, fancy soaring free, Think, if thou canst, that I am singing Thee. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. l8l WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF "SHAKE- SPEARE'S SONNETS." When shall true love be love without alloy : Shine free at last from sinful circumstance ! When shall the canker of unheavenly chance Eat not the bud of that most heavenly joy ! When shall true love meet love not as a coy Retreating light that leads a deathful dance, But as a firm fixed fire that doth enhance The beauty of all beauty ! Will the employ Of poets ever be too well to show That mightiest love with sharpest pain doth writhe ; That underneath the fair, caressing glove Hides evermore the iron hand ; and though Love's flower alone is good, if we would prove Its perfect bloom, our breath slays like a scythe ! RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 182 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON. Thus spake his dust (so seemed it as I read The words) : Good frend, for Jesus' sake forbeare (Poor ghost!) To digg the dust 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. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 183 SHAKESPEARE. Like to a glass of magic old His soul each passing image caught ; His mind an ocean that could hold The river of each human thought. My dimmer eyes meet far-off rays His all immortal vision saw ; That inner world the Dawn of Days Breaks through the clouds earth's vapors draw. And ever, while I read, there seems A world of real life around ; And friends of old float through the dreams Of peopled air and fairy ground. Great Nature's self so in him dwelt, With all her wealth of songs and springs, That never throb of his is felt, But she is vocal while he sings. J. M. ROGERS. 184 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. HIRAM HAYES IN STRATFORD. Once I journeyed while the mavis, O'er the English meadows sang ; It was beauteous summer weather, All the roads with music rang. Hiram Hayes was my companion, Straight from Boston he had come Purse as long as John J. Astor's, Head as hollow as a drum. Towards the leafy lanes of Warwick, Merrily the stage coach flew How I clapped my hands and shouted,* " Soon in Stratford we'll be due/' "What of that?' 7 asked weary Hiram. " Shakespeare's country ! glorious Will ! We shall see the spire of Avon When we mount up yonder hill ! " There his home was ; there his grave is ; There his fancies grew sublime ; There he plumed his mighty pinions, Built his fame up for all time." TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 185 " Drive on faster ! I sha'n't stop there !" Muttered Mr. Hiram Hayes ; " Shakespeare never would be thought of If he hadn't writ them plays !" Atlantic Monthly. SHAKESPEARE. Adam of poets ! thou must once have felt The Almighty's awful nearness unto thee ; Into the nostrils of thy soul seemed dealt The breath of all the poets yet to be. Not through long generations didst thou come, But contact with the Almighty gave thee birth ; Charged with His breathing, what the mighty sum Of all that thou hast given to the earth ! 1 86 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And is it said, thou often wroughtest so That holy inspiration was profaned ? Ah ! Adam's self hath taught too well we know How far he falls who hath such height at- tained. Adam of poets, still, despite the dross, Thy truth the saviour that redeems from loss ! CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES (1879). TO THE AVON. Flow on, sweet river ! like his verse Who lies beneath this sculptured hearse ; Nor wait beside the churchyard wall For him who cannot hear thy call. Thy playmate once ; I see him now A boy with sunshine on his brow, And hear in Stratford's quiet street The patter of his little feet. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 187 I see him by thy shallow edge Wading knee-deep amid the sedge ; And lost in thought, as if thy stream Were the swift river of a dream. He wonders whitherward it flows; And fain would follow where it goes, To the wide world, that shall erelong Be filled with his melodious song. Flow on, fair stream ! That dream is o'er ; He stands upon another shore ; A vaster river near him flows, And still he follows where it goes. H. W. LONGFELLOW. A WORD FOR SHAKESPEARE. When hawthorn hedges, foaming white, Were sweet with mimic snowing, He first beheld the April light And heard the Avon flowing. 1 88 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Like other children, then as now, The olden summers found him, He laughed and cried, and knit his brow. And ruled the world around him ! Still was he wiser than they knew This child, the straw-thatch under, Whose song three hundred years ago Yet makes the wide world wonder ! A child, from croon of cradle hymn Above him in his slumbers, A youth, along the Avon's rim He caught his tuneful numbers. Full poet-souled the shy boy grew To manhood's ripe completeness ; What Nature taught he quickly knew Her wondrous lore and sweetness. The years so fraught with weary toil Were gladdened by his singing, For well he heard through life's turmoil Serenest music ringing ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 189 As everywhere the world- wide throng To-day who know and love him, Through his can hear the lark's sweet song, That soared and sang above him. Where'er he turned his eager feet, Her smile o'er him was leaning, He felt the heart of Nature beat, And learned its hidden meaning. What golden wealth from her he brought Her heir by this sweet token A power to clothe the hidden thought That else had been unspoken. What marvel that the race to-day Toward him is fondly turning, Who gave its hope a tongue for aye To tell its deathless yearning ? All changing moods of being's state, Life's sad or sunny fancies, The smile of love, the scowl of hate, Affection's sweet romances, IQO TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. He holds embalmed in wondrous art A lore beyond the sages The wildest passions of the heart, The tenderest love-lit pages. Grand builder in the realm of thought ! Through his wide-swinging portals, Behold the fane his fancy wrought, And peopled with immortals ! The king of bards he stands revealed, By very grace of giving, What hidden founts hath he unsealed, And poured for all the living! His fame and song ring evermore Above the centuries' thunders ; Though dead three hundred years and more, Yet still the wide world wonders ! BENJ. F. LEGGETT (1880). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 191 SHAKESPEARE. On fabled California's flowery strand There stands, great girthed and piercing to the sun, A tree before, whose front the gods might stand A-tremble at the sign of Mightier One ; Within whose tunneled trunk, 'neath emerald spires, The Indian shapes his flints and fans his fires, And coyotes creep, and horse and rider chase, Through ceaseless cycles of the human race. The fool will sneer if you the story tell, The wise man worship marvels please him well. So thou, perennial Shakespeare, aye must stand The mightiest marvel of the human mind ! Let maundering nomads mar with axe and brand ; Pause, master spirits : here your master find ! KATE BROWNLEE SHERWOOD. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. O Poet, thou wast like a flower That opened in the sun and shower Beside the way, Though trodden on by careless feet, Still ever through the dust and heat, Turned upward to the skies to greet The perfect day. O Poet, thou wast like a lark That slumbers in the dew and dark Through all the night ; The dreaming world below him lies ; He meets the morn, he mounts the skies, And sings himself to Paradise, The heaven of light. MINNA IRVING (1880). TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 193 POET AND ACTRESS. When Avon's Bard his sweetest music scored, A woman's vision with the numbers blent ; Each to the other equal beauty lent As weaving fancy robed the form adored. O Poet, didst thou see upon the board Eye-filling Rosalind, whose playful bent Suffused thy lines ? Juliet, all passion-spent ? Viola's sweet self, and Imogen's restored ? 'Twas thine to give the music-mated lines, But Heaven alone empowers the counterpart To walk in splendor where such genius shines. Thrice happy we, blest heirs of dual art, To own as mother-tongue Will Shakespeare's writ, To live when kindling Neilson voices it. CLARENCE CLOUGH BUEL. (Century Magazine, 1880.) IQ4 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE. Out of a richly storied, far-off time, Sounding through centuries of echoing years, One voice, above all voices, fills our ears. Clear over all ring out its tones sublime In stately verse, oft laughing into rhyme, Stirring our hearts to gladness or to tears With trooping images of hopes and fears. As full it sounds to-day as, in its prime, It filled with melody a golden age ; Nor hath it lost one charm or wizard spell To wake the passions, or their fury quell O sweet enchanter, O magician sage, Still o'er each living age employ thy arts, Charming to thy remembrance human hearts ! WILLIAM LEIGHTON. November, 1883. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 195 MANKIND'S HIGHEST. A dream enticed the Spirit of the Earth And as in sleep, fantastic shapes he chased ; The Hours slumbered, and the Laws delayed. When he awoke, behold ! man's puny race He found had in the fleeting interval Expired as silently as bubbles burst. A smile of pity crossed the Spirit's lips ; " To think the weaklings, if I nodded, died ! But, after all," he said, " the tiny imps Have startled from me many a hearty laugh. My time would drag could I no longer see The shifting scenes of Human Comedy." So men he made anew : and that the new Might differ nowise from the elder breed, He hunted 'mid the ruins of the past, A book wherein true types of men are drawn. And from these patterns he refilled the globe. Upon that book, O Shakespeare, was thy name. WM. ROSCOE THAYER. 196 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. THE POET'S MONTH. When April comes, like tearful, timorous nymph Escaping from the stormy grasp of March, 'Tis not alone for summer harbingers And mildness after winter's- harsher days We hail the gentle month. It hath a grace, A fair inheritance that hath come down The busy, perilous, and changeful years, Bringing a better boon than gold to us ; It is our poet's month. On a spring day, " A day in April never came so sweet " * And goodly in its golden promises As that whereon in England's heart upsprung A seed whose fruitfulness hath brought great store Of all men's blessings ; made its parent soil Forever glorious, On a sweet day of spring was Shakespeare born, Our Shakespeare ; for his tongue, his fame are ours ; * " Merchant of Venice," ii., 9, 93. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 197 Nor can the island of his birth fold in His fame that overlaps the bounds of oceans, Reaching remotest corners of the earth. Still for that day of old we love thee, April, And if thou hast been called injurious names, We will forget them ; and thou shalt not be To us, for that one birth, a " spongy April ;" * But ever in thy changeful skies shall shine The ancient "glory of an April day." f The young year loves thee, and most maidenly Reflects thy changefulness, all smiles and tears, Both happy : for she has not learned the woes The dark November of her life may bring ; " The April's in her eyes ; it is love's spring ;" J And love lends " spices to the April day." Her small, swift bounding foot, " whose perfect white Shows like an April daisy on the grass," || * " Tempest," iv., i, 65. f " Two Gentlemen of Verona," i., 3, 85. t " Antony and Cleopatra," iii., 2, 43. " Timon of Athens," iv., 3, 41. | " Lucrece," 395. 198 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Flashes before us as the nymph flies on "Where proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim," * "Three April perfumes" t in his waving locks, Catches her eye, enticing her light steps To come and dance away the merry hours " 'Twixt May and April." t Bright month ! thy poet loved thee ; and thy freshness Breathes pleasantness and joy in his sweet verse, And perfume that " smells April," lovesome- ness That cries how " men are April when they woo." || So "youthful April shall," 1 by all the lovers Of him who sung its charm, be often blessed For his sweet songs ; and, in the years to come, " When well-apparelled April on the heel * Sonnet xcviii., 2. f Sonnet civ., 7. J " Lover's Complaint," cii. " Merry Wives of Windsor," iii., 2, 69. 1 "As You Like It," iv., I, 147. *[[ " Titus Andronicus," iii., i, 18. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 199 Of limping Winter treads," * 'twill bring re- membrance Of poesy, " a man in April born ;" f And to the beauty " peering in April's front " $ Give added grace. Nor must we blame his month That not " fourscore of April " birthdays came To cheer the world with golden years of verse ; Nor that in " April died "|| his heart of song ; Died ! Nay : his song, his soul of poesy, His grandeur, and his sweetness have not died ; But live immortal in his deathless verse, Victors of time, and death, and accident ; Making the world more happy, noble, wise ; Stirring in every heart harmonious strings, Divinest music of the human soul ; In which thy bard, O April, shall live on While men recall the past, and have the gift * " Romeo and Juliet," i., 2, 27. f " Troilus and Cressida," i., 2, 189. J " Winter's Tale," iv., 4, 3. "Winter's Tale," iv., 4, 280. I " King John," iv. , 2, 120. 200 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. To feel, beyond the brutes, gay springtime's promises, Celestial hopes transfiguring earthly things ; While Age, with memories of full ripe years, " Calls back the lovely April of its prime " * Or Youth rejoices in its best delights, " With April's first-born flowers and all things rare." t WILLIAM LEIGHTON. [These verses, written in 1884, contain in quo- tation every allusion Shakespeare has made in his plays and poems to the month of his birth.] SHAKESPEARE, i. His soul was like a palace wrought of glass, Star-stained and many-sided, and full-fraught With all the fairest flowers of human thought, Outspread in one immeasurable mass, * Sonnet in., 10. f Sonnet xxi., 7. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 2OI A garden of enravishments, where pass The rapt creations that his fancy caught From realms of being hitherto unsought, Or feebly sought, or fruitlessly, alas ! He peered thro' nature with a prophet's ken, He pierced her secrets with a poet's eye, With passion, power, and high philosophy, He set the spirit's inner-gates apart ; He stripped the shackles from the souls of men, And sacked the fortress of the human heart. IT. The perfect model of the perfect mind ! Within the spheric fullness of his sense, Within his kingly soul's circumference, The image of the universe was shrined ; In lofty utterance, his tongue outlined The golden orb of all intelligence ; He touched the circle of omnipotence, Defining things no other ere defined. 202 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. God made but one ! the rack of centuries, The rolling chariot of resistless years, Leaves unbedimmed the amaranth he wears ; His fame is co-eternal with the skies, His words are fadeless as our memories, His influence as deathless as our tears. JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS (1884). A VISION OF LOSS. Sitting alone, there came to me a thought The merest fancy of my musing brain, That stabbed me like a sharp and sudden pain, What if our Shakespeare had not lived or wrought ! How strange a world ! bereft of him who taught Mankind to know itself. And I was fain To measure the huge loss : thereon a train Of figures passed me, and a vision I caught TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 203 Of musing Hamlet, and the majesty Of discrowned Lear, the Fool who loved him well, Shades of great ancients, Brutus, Antony, The Prince and Falstaff, loving Romeo, The tricky Puck and nimble Ariel, And mightiest conjurer ! poet Prospero. All these had slowly vanished from my ken, When, following, appeared a beauteous band Of maids and matrons, joining hand with hand, Led by the pearl of women, Imogen. Mild Hermione after came, and then Titania, summer queen of fairy-land, With Portia, Rosalind, and her who planned For love a rescue from the spite of men ; Miranda, Viola, sweet sisterhood As wise as fair, as fair and wise as good; 204 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Whose names are linked as in a garland rare Blown rose and bud are joined without a thorn, These, too, all melted into air, thin air, And left me mourning as one all forlorn. M. L. HENRY. (Literary World, 1884.) SHAKESPEARE. Working as erst by law, not miracle, By genius God doth lift a common soul To some still spot where it may glimpse the goal; Bidding it on the mountain heights to dwell, Yet not so far apart but it may tell To toilers in the plain below, the whole Of the vision. Master, still the organ-roll Of thy deep music vibrates, and its spell Aids the uplift that stirs our grosser clay TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 205 To rise and seek the heights. O soul God set A little lower than his white angels, yet A round for man to climb the starward way Thou art. One palm with angels long since met, The other warm in man's grasp still doth stay. ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON. THE DEAD LION. Only a player ; and his ancestry Derived from yeoman sires From such a line How could there spring an intellect divine ? Shakespeare ? Ah, no ! no mighty soul was he; In Bacon, Raleigh, the true Shakespeares see. Doth light of genius fall on earth to shine On low-born lives? Would Heaven, with large design, Godlike endow one of the yeomanry ? 206 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Thus chatter they who to the mystery Of a great soul would find a brazen key ; Or figure poesy up like a paltry sum. So when a lion dies base jackals come, To rend the kingly, and make hideous night, With obscure howling o'er his fallen might. WILLIAM LEIGHTON. July, 1884. THE NAMES. Shakespeare ! To such name's sounding, what succeeds Fitly as silence ! Falter forth the spell, Act follows word, the speaker knows full well, Nor tampers with its magic more than needs. Two names there are : That which the Hebrew reads With his soul only ; if from lips it fell, Echo, back thundered by earth, heaven, and hell, Would own " Thou didst create us !" Nought impedes, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 207 We voice the other name, man's most of might, Awesomely, lovingly : let awe and love Mutely await their working, leave to sight All of the issue as below above Shakespeare's creation rises : one remove, Though dread this finite from that infinite. ROBERT BROWNING. March 12, 1884. [Mr. Browning wrote this sonnet for the " Shak- sperean Show-Book/' issued in connection with the Shakespeare Show, held in London in 1884, for the benefit of the Chelsea Hospital. The contributions were for charity's sake, and consist of songs, poems, musical compositions, pictures, programmes, and fac-simile autographs. It is an interesting volume, and a valuable souvenir of the Show, for which it served as a handbook. Com- plete lists of the tableaux and Shakespearian relics on exhibition are included in it.] 2C>8 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. THE MODERN RHYMER. i. Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme, Have we not sworn it, many a time That we no more our verse would scrawl For Shakspere he had said it all ! And yet whatever others see The world is fresh to you and me And birds that sing, and winds that blow, And flowers that make the country glow, And lusty swains, and maidens bright, And clouds by day, and stars by night ; And all the pictures in the skies That passed before Will Shakspere's eyes, Love, hate, and scorn frost, fire, and flower- On us as well as him have power. Go to our spirits shall not be laid, Silenced and smothered by a shade. Avon is not the only stream Can make a poet sing and dream ; TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 209 Nor are those castles, queens, and kings The height of sublunary things. ii. Beneath the false moon's pallid glare, By the cool fountain in the square (This gray-green dusty square that's set Where two gigantic highways met) We hear a music strange and new, Will Shakspere, was not known to you ! You saw the new world's sun arise, High up it shines in our own skies. You saw the ocean from the shore, Through mid - seas now our ship doth roar A wild, new, teeming world of men That wakens in the poet's brain Thoughts that were never thought be- fore Of hope, and longing, and despair ; Wherein man's never resting race Westward, still westward, on doth fare, 14 210 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Doth still subdue, and still aspire, Or turning on itself doth face Its own indomitable fire O million-centuried thoughts that make The Past seem but a shallop's wake ! RICHARD WATSON GILDER. TO MODJESKA AS ROSALIND. When from the poet's brain fair Arden's glades Were peopled with the lightsome folk we know, A shade of discontent was seen to grow Upon his brow, as he through long decades In vision saw this loveliest of his maids By beardless boys enacted, and her show Of maiden grace obscured and hidden so In guise of youths half won from boyish trades. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 211 Soon changed the vision and through centu- ries far A group of women fair he then did see, Whose hearts, one after other, were beguiled By some Orlando's youth and bravery, And in the throng, and radiant as a star, On thee, the mighty master, looking, smiled ! OSCAR FAY ADAMS. November, 1884. EPIGRAM. " How weak are words to carry thoughts like mine !" Saith each dull daughter round the much bored Nine. Yet words sufficed for Shakespeare's suit, when he Woo'd Time,, and won instead Eternity. WILLIAM WATSON (1884). 212 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS. (TO THE OVER-CURIOUS.) [Good frend for lesus sake forbeare To digg the dvst encloased heare Bleste be the man that spares these stones And curst be he that moves my bones.] These living stones hide most mysterious dust; The curse and blessing that so guard his grave Seem flashing, somehow, from their blinding light. Let what he willed lie in the heart of night ; Dig not for earthly things of love or lust Beneath the deathless beauty that they have. CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. (Century Magazine, July, 1885.) WITH A COPY OF SHAKESPEARE. This is the deep profound that imports man ; His shoals, his rapids, all are chartered here ; There is no joy of voyage, and no fear That is not bodied in this mighty plan. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 213 He knew where the sweet springs of love be- gan, ^And whence the fires of hate and horror peer, What wakens merriment, and how appear The raging passions that bewitch and ban. Herein behold how nobly souls may mount, How basely fall ; and see as well how sweet The common rill of human life may run. It is at once the ocean and the fount ; The compass of our triumph and defeat ; The heart of earth, the splendor of the sun. CHARLES GOODRICH WHITING (1885). THE SERMON OF A STATUE. (!N WESTMINSTER ABBEY.) Suddenly, in the melancholy place With sculptured king and priest and knight assembled, The music called us. Then, with kindly grace, On a gold head was laid a hand that trembled : 214 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. "You little stranger, come," the verger cried, " And hear the sermon." " No," the child re- plied. A moment standing on his new-world will, There in the Corner of the Poets, holding His cap with pretty reverence, as still As any of that company, he said, folding His arms : " But let that canon wait." And then, " I want to stay here with these marble men. " If they could preach, I'd listen !" Ah, they can, Another thought. It pleased the boy to linger In the pale presence of the peerless man, Who pointed to his text with moveless finger. Laughing with blue-eyed wonder, he said : " Look, This one (but do you know him ?) has a book !" TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 215 ... I know him. Ay, and all the world knows him, Among the many poets the one only ! On that high head the stained gloom was dim ; In those fixed eyes the look of gods was lonely. Kings at his feet, to whom his hand gave fame, Lay, dust and ashes, shining through his name. I heard him. With the still voice of the dead From that stone page, right careless of de- rision, Sad jesters of a faithless age ! he read How the great globe would vanish like a vision, With all that it inhabit. . . . And hath he Then writ but one word, and that Vanity? S. M. B. PIATT (1886). 2l6 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKE- SPEARE. Between these covers a fair country lies, Which, though much traversed, always seemeth new ; Far, mountain peaks of Thought reach to the blue ; While placid meadows please less daring eyes Deep dells and ivied walls where daylight dies Tell of Romance, and lovers brush the dew By moonlit stream and lake, while never few Are the rich bursts of song that shake the skies. This country's king holds never-ending court; To him there come from all his wide domain Minstrels of love and spangled imps of sport, And messengers of fancy, joy, and pain ; Of man and nature, he has full report ; He made his kingdom, none dispute his reign. CHARLES H. CRANDALL. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 217 AFTER READING SHAKESPEARE. Blithe fancy lightly builds with airy hands, Or on the edges of the darkness peers, Breathless and frightened at the Voice she hears : Imagination (lo ! the sky expands) Travels the blue arch and Cimmerian sands, Homeless on earth, the pilgrim of the spheres, The rush of light before the hurrying years, The Voice that cries in unfamiliar lands. Men weigh the moons that flood with eerie light The dusky vales of Saturn wood and stream, But who shall follow on the awful sweep Of Neptune through the dim and dreadful deep ? Onward he wanders in the unknown night, And we are shadows moving in a dream. C. E. MARKHAM (1887). 2l8 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. THECHILDS FOUNTAIN AT STRAT- FORD-ON-AVON. Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long imprisoned stream ! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads, As plashing raindrops to the flowery meads, As summer's breath to Avon's whispering reeds ! From rock-walled channels, drowned in rayless night, Leap forth to life and light ; Wake from the darkness of thy troubled dream, And greet with answering smile the morning's beam ! No purer lymph the white-limbed Naiad knows Than from thy chalice flows ; Not the bright spring of Afric's sunny shores, Starry with spangles washed from golden ores, Nor glassy stream Blandusia's fountain pours, Nor wave translucent where Sabrina fair Braids her loose-flowing hair, Nor the swift current, stainless as it rose, Where chill Arveiron steals from Alpine snows. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 219 Here shall the traveller stay his weary feet To seek thy calm retreat ; Here at high noon the brown-armed reaper rest ; Here, when the shadows, lengthening from the west, Call the mute song-bird to his leafy nest, Matron and maid shall chat the cares away That brooded o'er the day, While flocking round them troops of children meet, And all the arches ring with laughter sweet. Here shall the steed, his patient life who spends, In toil that never ends, Hot from his thirsty tramp o'er hill and plain, Plunge his red nostrils, while the torturing rein Drops in loose loops beside his floating mane ; Nor the poor brute that shares his master's lot Find his small needs forgot Truest of humble, long-enduring friends, Whose presence cheers, whose guardian care defends ! 220 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Here lark and thrush and nightingale shall sip, And skimming swallows dip, And strange shy wanderers fold their lustrous plumes, Fragrant from bowers that lent their sweet perfumes Where Paestum's rose or Persia's lilac blooms ; Here from his cloud the eagle stoop to drink At the full basin's brink, And whet his beak against its rounded lip, His glossy feathers glistening as they drip. Here shall the dreaming poet linger long, Far from his listening throng Nor lute nor lyre his trembling hand shall bring ; Here no frail Muse shall imp her crippled wing, No faltering minstrel strain his throat to sing ! These hallowed echoes who shall dare to claim Whose tuneless voice would shame, Whose jangling chords with jarring notes would wrong The nymphs that heard the Swan of Avon's song ? TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 221 What visions greet the pilgrim's raptured eyes ! What ghosts made real rise ! The dead return they breathe they live again, Joined by the host of Fancy's airy train, Fresh from the springs of Shakespeare's quick- ening brain ! The stream that slakes the soul's diviner thirst Here found the sunbeams first ; Rich with his fame, not less shall memory prize The gracious gift that humbler wants supplies. O'er the wide waters reached the hand that gave To all this bounteous wave, With health and strength and joyous beauty fraught ; Blest be the generous pledge of friendship, brought From the far home of brother's love, unbought ! Long may fair Avon's fountain flow, enrolled With storied shrines of old, Castalia's spring, Egeria's dewy cave, And Horeb's rock the god of Israel clave ! 222 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Land of our Fathers, ocean makes us two, But heart to heart is true ! Proud is your towering daughter in the West, Yet in her burning life-blood reign confest Her mother's pulses beating in her breast. This holy fount, whose rills from heaven de- scend, Its gracious drops shall lend Both foreheads bathed in that baptismal dew, And love make one the old home and the new ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. [Dr. Holmes's poem, written for the dedication of the fountain given by Mr. G. W. Childs, of Philadelphia, to Stratford-on-Avon, October 17, 1887, was read by Mr. Henry Irving; and the occasion was honored, also, by an address from Mr. James Russell Lowell.] -TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 223 HAMLET AT THE BOSTON. We sit before the row of evening lamps, Each in his chair, Forgetful of November dews and damps, And wintry air. A little gulf of music intervenes, A bridge of sighs, Where still the cunning of the curtain screens Art's paradise. My thought transcends these viols' shrill delight, The booming bass. And towards the regions we shall view to night Makes hurried pace. The painted castle, and the unneeded guard, That ready stand ; The harmless Ghost, that walks with helm unbarred And beckoning hand. 224 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. And, beautiful as dreams of maidenhood, That doubt defy, Young Hamlet, with his forehead grief-subdued And visioning eye. O fair dead world, that from thy grave awak'st A little while, And in our heart strange revolution mak'st With thy brief smile ! O beauties vanished, fair lips magical, Heroic braves ! O mighty hearts, that held the world in thrall ! Come from your graves ! The poet sees you through a mist of tears, Such depths divide Him, with the love and passion of his years From you, inside ! The poet's heart attends your buskined feet, Your lofty strains, Till earth's rude touch dissolves that madness sweet, And life remains : TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 225 Life that is something, while the senses heed The spirit's call ; Life that is nothing, when our grosser need Ingulfs it all. And thou, young hero of this mimic scene, In whose high breast A genius greater than thy life hath been Strangely comprest ! Wear'st thou those glories draped about thy soul Thou dost present ? And art thou by their feeling and control Thus eloquent ? 'Tis with no feigned power thou bind'st our sense, No shallow art ; Sure, lavish Nature gave thee heritance Of Hamlet's heart ! Thou dost control our fancies with a might So wild, so fond, We quarrel, passed thy circle of delight, With things beyond ; 226 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Returning to the pillows rough with care. And vulgar food, Sad from the breath of that diviner air, That loftier mood. And there we leave thee, in thy misty tent Watching alone ; While foes about thee gather imminent To us scarce known. Oh, when the lights are quenched, the music hushed, The plaudits still, Heaven keep the fountain, whence the fair stream gushed, From choking ill ! Let Shakspeare's soul, that wins the world from wrong, For thee avail, And not one holy maxim of his song Before thee fail ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 227 So get thee to thy couch as unreproved As heroes blest ; And all good angels, trusted in and loved, Attend thy rest ! JULIA WARD HOWE. SINCE CLEOPATRA DIED. " Since Cleopatra died I have lived in such dishonor, that the world Doth wonder at my baseness." " Since Cleopatra died !" Long years are past, In Antony's fancy, since the deed was done. Love counts its epochs, not from sun to sun, But by the heart-throb. Mercilessly fast Time has swept onward since she looked her last On life, a queen. For him the sands have run Whole ages through their glass, and kings have won And lost their empires o'er earth's surface vast 228 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Since Cleopatra died. Ah ! Love and Pain Make their own measure of all things that be. No clock's slow ticking marks their death- less strain ; The life they own is not the life we see ; Love's single moment is eternity ; Eternity, a thought in Shakspere's brain. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (1888). ACROSS THE FIELDS TO ANNE. [From Stratford- on- Avon a lane runs west- ward through the fields a mile to the little village of Shottery, in which is the cottage of Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare's sweetheart and wife.] How often in the summertide, His graver business set aside, Has stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed, As to the pipe of Pan Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 229 It must have been a merry mile, This summer stroll by hedge and stile, With sweet foreknowledge all the while How sure the pathway ran To dear delights of kiss and smile, Across the fields to Anne. The silly sheep that graze to-day, I wot, they let him go his way, Nor once looked up, as who should say : " It is a seemly man." For many lads went wooing aye Across the fields to Anne. The oaks, they have a wiser look ; Mayhap they whispered to the brook : " The world by him shall yet be shook, It is in Nature's plan ; Though now he fleets like any rook Across the fields to Anne." And I am sure, that on some hour Coquetting soft 'twixt sun and shower, 230 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. He stooped and broke a daisy flower With heart of tiny span, And bore it as a lover's dower Across the fields to Anne. While from her cottage garden-bed She plucked a jasmine's goodlihede, To scent his jerkin's brown instead ; Now since that love began, What luckier swain than he who sped Across the fields to Anne ? The winding path whereon I pace, The hedgerows green, the summer's grace, Are still before me face to face ; Methinks I almost can Turn poet and join the singing race Across the fields to Anne ! RICHARD E. BURTON. (Century Magazine, 1889.) TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 231 ASHES. (Written in the Shakespeare Church at Strat- ford-upon-Avon, August 26, 1889.) No eyes can see man's destiny completed Save His, who made and knows th' eternal plan : As shapes of cloud in mountains are repeated, So thoughts of God accomplished are in man. Here the divinest of all thoughts descended ; Here the sweet heavens their sweetest boon let fall ; Upon this hallowed ground begun and ended The life that knew, and felt, and uttered all. There is not anything of human trial That ever love deplored or sorrow knew, No glad fulfilment and no sad denial, Beyond the pictured truth that Shakespeare drew. 232 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. All things are said and done, and though for ever The streams dash onward and the great winds blow, There comes no new thing in the world, and never A voice like his, that seems to make it so. Take then thy fate, or opulent or sordid, Take it and bear it, and esteem it blest ; For of all crowns that ever were awarded The crown of simple patience is the best. WILLIAM WINTER. (From "Gray Days and Gold.") GUILIELMUS REX. The folk who lived in Shakspere's day And saw that gentle figure pass By London Bridge, his frequent way,- They little knew what man he was ! TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 233 The pointed beard, the courteous mien, The equal port to high and low, All this they saw or might have seen But not the light behind the brow ! The doublet's modest gray or brown, The slender sword-hilt's plain device, What sign had these for prince or clown ? Few turned, or none, to scan him twice. Yet 'twas the king of England's kings ! The rest with all their pomps and trains Are mouldered, half-remembered things, 'Tis he alone, that lives and reigns ! THOMAS BAILEY^ALDRICH. August, 1890. THE PASSING BELL AT STRATFORD. Sweet bell of Stratford, tolling slow, In summer gloaming's golden glow, I hear and feel thy voice divine, And all my soul responds to thine. 234 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. As now I hear thee, even so, My Shakespeare heard thee long ago, When lone by Avon's pensive stream He wandered, in his haunted dream ; Heard thee and far his fancy sped Through spectral caverns of the dead, And strove and strove in vain to pierce The secret of the universe. As now thou mournest didst thou mourn On that sad day when he was borne Through the long aisle of honied limes, To rest beneath the chambered chimes. He heard thee not, nor cared to hear ! Another voice was in his ear, And, freed from all the bonds of men, He knew the awful secret then. Sweet bell of Stratford, toll, and be A golden promise unto me TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 235 Of that great hour when I shall know The path whereon his footsteps go. WILLIAM WINTER (1890). (From " Gray Days and Gold.") A BAR TO ORIGINALITY. In one respect Will Shakespeare is a curse ; To literary folk like me and you ; He's drawn so largely on fair Nature's purse, There's really nothing left for us to do. JOHN KENDRICK BANGS (1890). AFTER READING "TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT." Your Marlowe's page I close, my Shakespeare's ope. How welcome, after drum and trumpet's din, The continuity, the long, slow slope And vast curves of the gradual violin ! WILLIAM WATSON (1890). 236 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. THE TWENTY-THIRD OF APRIL. A little English earth and breathed air Made Shakspere the divine : so is his verse The broidered soil of every blossom fair ; So doth his song all sweet bird songs re- hearse. But tell me, then, what wondrous stuff did fashion That part of him which took those wilding flights Among imagined worlds whence the white passion That burned three centuries through the days and nights? Not heaven's four winds could make, nor the round earth, The soul wherefrom the soul of Hamlet flamed ; Nor anything of merely mortal birth Could lighten as when Shakspere's name is named. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 237 How was his body bred we know full well, But that high soul's engendering who may tell! R. W. GILDER. April 23, 1891. THE THOUGHT OF SHAKESPEARE. The thought of Shakespeare is like vital air ; Transfused with warmth and lustre and un- bounded, Of azure, cloud, and rainbow hues com- pounded, Tempestuous here, serene and sunny there ; Astir with breaths which blow from regions rare, From summits which no pinion yet hath rounded, And lights which glimmer out of depths un- sounded Sometimes like starlights when the night is fair. 238 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Where ends that thought, the arching heavens are lying, And where begins, the earth all reeking clings, So doth it hold the elements supplying Life's various force that even foulest things Draw nourishment from thence, and there, wide-flying In kindred ether soar the lightest wings. RICHARD EDWIN DAY. May, 1891. BRIEF TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. For lofty sense, Creative fancy, and inspection keen Through the deep windings of the human heart, Is not wild Shakspere thine and Nature's boast ? JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748). ("The Seasons Summer.") TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 239 And divinest Shakespeare's might Fills Avon and the world with light. P. B. SHELLEY (1792-1822). Shakespeare ! on whose forehead climb The Crowns o' the world ! Oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1809-1861). ("Vision of the Poets.") Shakespeare, loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy ! MATTHEW ARNOLD (1822-1888). (" Heine's Grave.") What were our Shakespeare's deathless fame, Dependent on man's jealous praise ? He moves before us, with God's claim To kinghood flashing from his bays. GEORGE HENRY BOKER. ("The Book of .the Dead.") 240 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Beethoven, Raphael, cannot reach The charm which Homer, Shakspere, teach. To these, to these, their thankful race Gives, then, the first, the fairest place ; And brightest is their glory's sheen, For greatest hath their labor been. MATTHEW ARNOLD. (Epilogue to Lessing's " Laocoon.") Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home And get himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, And English books, none equal to his own, Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). ROBERT BROWNING (1812-1889). (" Bishop Blongram's Apology.") The morning star, the guide and the pioneer of true philosophy. COLERIDGE. TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 241 There is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer ; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the praised far off him, far above. Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. (" Sonnet to Robert Browning.") Our loved bard, the sweetest and the best Of all the singers of our English tongue, Whose fame is old, whose voice is ever young. WILLIAM LEIGHTON. Shakespeare, the wisest of men, as the greatest of poets. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Shakespeare is a great psychologist, and we learn from his pieces the secrets of nature. GOETHE. 16 242 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. M I LTON (" L' Allegro ' ') . Shakespeare has had neither equal nor second. MACAULAY. I should like to have been Shakespeare's shoe-black just to have lived in his house, just to have worshipped him to have run on his errands, and seen that sweet serene face. W. M. THACKERAY. The great master who knew everything. CHARLES DICKENS. He wrote the play the Almighty made. EDWARD YOUNG, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 243 The great master of the maxims of life and conduct. DANIEL WEBSTER. We account for Shakespeare as we account for the highest mountain, the greatest river. He was. R. G. INGERSOLL. The intellectual measure of every man since born, in the domains of creative thought, may be assigned to him, according to the de- gree in which he has been taught by Shake- speare. JOHN RUSKIN. I am always happy to meet persons who perceive the transcendent superiority of Shake- speare over all other writers. R. W. EMERSON. 244 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. His works are, next to the Bible, the most precious and priceless heritage of imaginative genius. F. W. FARRAR. The protagonist on the great arena of modern poetry, and the glory of the human intellect. DE QUINCEY. The name of Shakespeare is the greatest in our literature it is the greatest in all lit- erature. HALLAM. Great above rule. . . . Nature was his own. MALLETT. Consider what this Shakespeare has actu- ally become among us. Which Englishman we ever made, in this land of ours, which million of Englishmen, TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. 245 would we not give up rather than the Stratford Peasant? . . . He is the grandest thing we have yet done. . . . Consider now, if they asked us, Will you give up your Indian Empire or your Shakespeare, you English ; never have had any Indian Empire, or never have had any Shakespeare ? Really it were a grave ques- tion. Official persons would answer doubtless in official language : but we, for our part, too, should not we be forced to answer : Indian Empire, or no Indian Empire ; we cannot do without Shakespeare ! Indian Empire will go, at any rate, some day ; but this Shake- speare does not go, he lasts forever with us : we cannot give up our Shakespeare ! THOMAS CARLYLE. He is really, really the genius : he has gone to the bottom of everything, divined ev- erything, said everything : he is always true to nature. ALEXANDRE DUMAS, fits. 246 TRIBUTES TO SHAKESPEARE. Altogether " a manly man " (as Chaucer says) this Shakespeare, strong, tender, hu- mourful, sensitive, impressionable, the truest friend, the foe of none but narrow minds and base. And as we track his work from the lightness and fun of its rise, through the fairy fancy, the youthful passion, the rich imagin- ings, the ardent patriotism, the brilliant sun- shine, of his first and second times, through the tender affection of his Sonnets, the whirl- wind of passion in his Tragedies, and then to the lovely sunset of his latest plays, what can we do but bless his name, and be thankful that he came to be a delight, a lift and strength, to us and our children's children to all time a bond, that shall last forever be- tween all English-speaking, English-reading men, the members of that great Teutonic brotherhood which shall yet long lead the world in the fight for freedom and for truth ! F. J. FURNIVALL. (Introd. to " Leopold " Shakespeare.) THE END. SHAKESPEARE. WITH NOTES BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, A.M. The Merchant of Venice. The Tempest. Julius Coesar. Hamlet. As You Like It. Henry the Fifth. Macbeth. Henry the Eighth. A Midsummer- Night's Dream. Richard the Second. Richard the Third. Much Ado About Nothing. Antony and Cle- opatra. Romeo and Juliet. Othello. Twelfth Night. The Winter's Tale. King John. Henry IV. Part I. Henry IV. Part II. King Lear. The Taming of the Shrew. All 's Well that Ends Well. Coriola- nus. Comedy of Errors. Cymbeline. Merry Wives of Windsor. Measure for Measure. Two Gentlemen of Verona. Love's Labour 's Lost. Timon of Athens. Henry VI. Part I. Henry VI. Part II. Henry VI. Part III. Troilus and Cressida. Pericles, Prince of Tyre. The Two Noble Kinsmen. Poems. Son- nets. Titus Andronicus. Forty Volumes. Illustrated. Square i6mo, Flexible Cloth, 56 cents per vol. ; Paper, 40 cents per vol. "FRIENDLY EDITION," complete in 20 vols., i6mo, Sheets, $22 oo ; Cloth, $25 oo ; Half Leather, $35 oo. (Sold only in Sets.) In the preparation of this edition of the English Clas- sics it has been the aim to adapt them for school and home reading, in essentially the same way as Greek and Latin Classics are edited for educational purposes. The chief requisites are a pure text (expurgated, if necessary), and the notes needed for its thorough explanation and illustration. Each of Shakespeare's plays is complete in one volume, and is preceded by an Introduction contain- ing the "History of the Play," the "Sources of the Plot," and " Critical Comments on the Play." (For commendations, see next page.) ROLFE'S SHAKESPEARE. SOME OPINIONS: Mr. Rolfe, having learned by the practical experience of the class-room what aid the average student really needs in order to read Shakespeare intelligently, has put just that amount of aid into his notes, and no more. Having said what needs to be said, he stops there. It is a rare virtue in the editor of a classic, and we are pro- portionately grateful for it. Examiner, N. Y. This work has been done so well that it could hardly have been done better. It shows throughout knowl- edge, taste, discriminating judgment, and, what is rarer and of yet higher value, a sympathetic appreciation of the poet's moods and purposes. N. Y. Times. Mr. W. J. Rolfe's capital edition of Shakespeare. . . . by far the best edition for school and parlor use. We speak after some practical use of it in a village Shake- speare Club. The notes are brief but useful ; and the necessary expurgations are managed with discriminating skill. Christian Union, N. Y. Mr. Rolfe's excellent series of school editions of the Plays of Shakespeare . . . differ from some of the Eng- lish ones in looking on the plays as something more than word-puzzles. They give the student helps and hints on the characters and meanings of the plays, while the word- notes are also full and posted up to the latest date. Academy, London. No one can examine these volumes and fail to be im- pressed with the conscientious accuracy and scholarly completeness with which they are edited. The educa- tional purposes for which the notes are written Mr. Rolfe never loses sight of, but, like a " well-experienced archer, hits the mark his eye doth level at." HORACE HOWARD FURNESS, Ph.D., LL.D. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. Sgp^ The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by 'the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. DQWDEN'S SHAKSPERE. Shakspere. A Critical Study of his Mind and Art. By EDWARD DOWDEN, LL.D. 12 mo, Cloth, $i 75. We have read the book with unflagging interest and unstinted enjoyment from the first page to the last, and we pronounce it an important and admirable contribu- tion to the critical literature of England. Literary World, London. The principles of criticising adopted by Mr. Dowden in these researches have placed him in the front rank of Shaksperian scholars. N. Y. Sun. Dr. Edward Dowden has vindicated his high position among Shaksperians in this work. . . . The reader of Dr. Dowden may be certain that he has heard the latest word on the disputed points. His opening chapter, on the influences of the age, as shown in its poetry, religion, philosophy, and manners, under which Shakspere grew up and ripened, is eloquent and able. His criticism is cogent, and he draws impartially upon the best he can find in other commentators to illustrate his purpose. N. Y. Herald. No one is so well informed on the subject that he can afford to pass these studies by ; and for one who is not well informed there is no more rapid nor fruitful meth- od of entering into the heart of the Shakspere lore than by devoting himself to the careful reading of these stud- ies. Independent, N. Y. Professor Dowden thoroughly understands Shak- spere's humor. ... A better book as an introduction to the study of Shakspere than Professor Dowden's we do not know. Westminster Review, London. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. HSJp 3 ' The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by tJte ptiblishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. DYER'S FOLK-LORE OF SHAKESPEARE. Folk-Lore of Shakespeare. By the Rev. T. F. THISELTON DYER, M.A., Oxon., Author of "British Popular Customs, Past and Pres- ent," etc. Crown 8vo, Cloth, $2 50. The volume sheds light in two directions : upon ob- scure passages in the dramatist's writings, which take on a new significance by virtue of the explanations which are given ; and upon the customs, beliefs, superstitions, and habits of thought which prevailed in the England of Shakespeare's day. ... As a companion in Shakespearian study, or as a repository of folk-lore, this engaging vol- ume will find many interested readers. Boston Journal. The author's fidelity and industry will be heartily con- ceded by the appreciative reader. The book merits a place among books to be consulted with frequency. -Jeiv- ish Messenger, N. Y. The book is not only invaluable for reference, but will be found very entertaining for continuous reading. The full citation of authorities in the foot-notes adds to its value for the student and critic, while the ten-page index puts every detail of its rich and varied contents at their easy command. No more complete and authoritative work on the subject is to be found in English. Literary World, Boston. An admirable commentary upon a very important feat- ure in the Shakespearian drama, and also presenting an entertaining survey of manners and traditions. Parallel citations from foreign and ancient folk-lore add to the interest of the volume, which should be in the possession of every intelligent reader and lover of Shakespeare's works. Boston Traveller. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. flgUr 3 The above work is for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price. OVERDUE. U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES 1/485