April 23rd, 1864.
I.
To-day, three hundred years ago,
A common, English April morn,
In Stratford town a child was born,
Stratford, where Avon’s waters flow.
II.
No guns are fired, no joy-bell rings:
But neighbours call to see the boy
And mother, and to wish them joy,
And then—attend to other things.
III.
Some years glide by—the boy is man;
At school they thought him apt to learn;
And now he goes from home to earn
His livelihood, as best he can.
IV.
He takes the stage; he writes a play;
’Tis well received; he writes again;
His name is known, and courtly men
Are glad to hear what he may say.
V.
For he flings wreaths of pearls abroad,
Like shells or daisies idly strung;
Nor sparing brain, nor pen, nor tongue,
Nor waiting until men applaud;
VI.
But, like a bird, a noble song
He sings, as Genius teaches him—
Regardless of the critic’s whim—
Whether he think it right or wrong.
VII.
Great Nature’s book he wisely reads:
He solves the mystery of life,
And cuts, with philosophic knife,
The tangled knot of human deeds.
VIII.
Man’s passion—madness, hatred, guile,
Hope, mercy, friendship, honour, truth;
The griefs of age—the joys of youth;
The patriot’s tear—the villain’s smile;
IX.
The modest gem—the tinselled gaud,
Of noble worth or base pretence;
The glory bought at blood’s expense;
The power gained by force or fraud—
X.
On these his sun of genius shone,
Making a wondrous photograph,
Till even critics ceased to laugh,
And owned the picture nobly done.
XI.
The chromatrope of woman’s heart;
The words forgot with passion’s breath;
The vanity that conquers death;
The feathery smile that wings a dart;
XII.
The gentle care that makes man blest;
The truth far more than jewels worth;
The love that makes a heaven of earth—
All these to him were manifest.
XIII.
He touches the historic page—
The dead return to life again,
And feel and speak like real men,
Hero or lover, king or sage.
XIV.
The realms of air, with potent wand,
He enters boldly as a king;
And fays, that float on viewless wing,
Sing dreamy songs at his command!
XV.
And witches point, with palsied hand,
And blast the air with hellish chime;
And ghosts revisit earth a time,
With messages from spirit-land!
XVI.
He calls, and what men fancied dumb,
Hills, groves, and lakes, and brooks, and stones,
Answer him in a thousand tones,
Till silence makes a joyous hum.
XVII.
In fine, he made “the world a stage,”
And all upon it act their parts—
By Nature’s prompting and by Art’s—
For Art is Nature taught by age.
XVIII.
And, singing thus, he passed his days—
Not without honour, it is true—
Yet hardly understood by few,
And these were slow in giving praise.
XIX.
And men had lived in mist so long,
Some could not bear his blaze of light,
But shut their eyes, and said ’twas night,
When it ’twas just the noon of song.
XX.
But when his soul shook off its clay,
And hied, its labour done, to God,
Throughout the land that he had trod,
’Twas felt “A King is dead to-day!”
XXI.
And now, when centuries have flown,
Some shout, “Come, build a monument,
For all arrears of poet-rent,”—
As if he needed brass or stone!
XXII.
O man! how oft thy acts have lied!
Thou crushest those who strive to live,
And makest poor pretence to give
Fame unto him thou can’st not hide.
XXIII.
And some are honoured, being dead,
By those who coldly turned aside,
And gave them, living, but their pride,
When they, perhaps, were needing bread!
XXIV.
Yet not to all such honour comes—
Only a few bright names are known
Of all the “simple, great ones gone”—
The most are only found on tombs.
XXV.
But one shall never pass away—
His, who was born in Stratford town,
When brave Queen Bess wore England’s crown,
Three hundred years ago to-day!