The just, the wise, the brave, And you, the soldiers of our wars, Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars, Salute him once again, Your late commander-slain! Yes, let your tears indignant fall, (When Justice shall unsheathe her brand, If Mercy may not stay her hand, Nor would we have it so, She must direct the blow.) And you, amid the master-race, Bow while the body passes—nay, And, children, you must come in bands, With garlands in your little hands, Of blue and white and red, To strew before the dead. So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes Beneath no mighty dome, The churchyard where his children rest, There shall his grave be made, And there his countrymen shall come, For many a year and many an age, On that Paternal Soul. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. APRIL 23, 1564. SHE sat in her eternal house, The sovereign mother of mankind; "Below my feet the thunders break, "Ten thousand years have come and gone, And not an hour of any day But he has dumbly looked to me "It shall be so no more," she said. It was the spring-time of the year, 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; They gossiped, after he was dead, Save that he married, in his youth, 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, Their prayers, their oaths, the wine they drank, 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! Not Shakespeare's! He hath left his curse The mightiest that ever Death 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 life was not, Nor left he heirs to share his powers; The mighty Mother sent him here, To be her 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, Shakespeare! What shapes are conjured up Hamlet, the Dane, unhappy Prince Who most enjoys when suffering most: His soul is haunted by itself— There needs no other Ghost. |