One circle round our Sun—and o’er—
Is perfected, since forth there stray’d[62]
In youth a fair Princess,
From whom fell liquid drops of love—
Love-crystals of her wedding tour.
Though griev’d, the fair-form’d gentle maid
(Whom God was pleas’d to bless),
With modest courage sweetly strove
And conquer’d it!—Joy helping her.
Those moments sad, Time soon spent out:
Her Edward, yet afar,
Beheld her with bright vision’s eye.
She wiped away the pearly tear,
And tripp’d on deck. Then ’rose a shout
For Denmark’s shooting star—
Resounding thro’ the azure sky!
Silently sped the ship over the sea:
Edward beheld his Bride, happy and free.
England’s store of wealth and fame
Burst forth in one united blaze,
And reel’d in ecstasy—
Love’s civil war of Joy _v._ Joy!
To-day, around the Font to name—
(As on a courtly group we gaze
In seemly modesty)—
The pretty infant nursling boy,
A family of royal descent
Implore Great God’s especial care,
For this, their lovely child.
* * * * *
O bounteous Lord, who gave him breath!
Behold them reverently bent
Whilst offering up their pray’r
To Thee, Who kindly smiled:—
Defend and succour unto death.
Now in their triple bond, safe from the sea,
Edward beholds them both happy and free.
[61] The reader will please to observe that lines 1st and 5th, 2nd and
6th, 3rd and 7th, &c., have rhythmical terminations.
[62] The author seeks indulgence in using the word “stray’d.”
[Illustration]
The Astronomer.
Cold, yet salubrious, is the night,
And quiet reigns around;
Mid-winter’s nimbly spread its white
Robe o’er the goodly ground.
The silver’d earth reflects the moon,
As, in her majesty,
She rides across that vast saloon
Where mystic meteors fly,—
Where giant stars,[63] all in their course,
Roll through the plains of night,—
Sustain’d by their centrip’tal force,
And centrifugal flight,—
Illuminating the blue main
(Where discontents ne’er rise),
As on they travel in a train
Through the enchanting skies. * * *
Famed Venus, Jupiter, or Mars,
Attract the passer-by;
While countless other glittering stars
Ne’er catch a single eye.
Some creatures, weary with their toil,
Scarce lift their heads above;
And others, thoughtless of them all,
Prefer their downs of love.
But the Astronomer’s deep mind
Soars through the ocean air,—
He loves the Hand which has design’d
The heav’ns with so much care;
For in’t he finds a glorious feast
Of beauteous wonderment!
Though thousands ’round him take their rest,
He seeks the firmament:
Therein abides his only hope,
And there his soul is lost!—
In solitude he loves to cope
The grand nocturnal host;
His nourishment—the silv’ry draught,
While ’tis a cloudless sky;—
But lo! he turns and views, abaft,
Some striplings of dark dye.
And then a group, of murky hue,
Seem to conspire to mar
The radiant twinklers from his view,
And hide his favourite star.
All hope—awhile—now gone from him,
He seeks his lonely bed,
And there he utters, in a dream,
Those words—“When I am dead!” * * *
Awoke—his ever-studious mind
Impels his feathery pen,
And draws, perchance, his last design
Of the ethereal main.
Ah! something stirs him to a smile—
Like lightning skips his quill;
Then, for some reason, waits awhile,
And sits, as ’twere, stark still:
Or, studiously obedient to
The impulse of his heart,
Inclines his heavy-laden brow,
And drops his grey-goose dart.
Then, when ’tis eve, he travels forth
To scan the starry height,
With instruments of precious worth,
And compasses the night.
Fix’d,[64] and directed to the spot—
The object of his gaze—
Exclaims the man, “O, beauteous dot!—
Some men, methinks, will praise
Thee more than I, when ’neath the sod
My cold clay form is laid:—
When I th’ immortal path have trod,
They’ll talk of him that’s dead.” * * *
He strikes the bosom of his muse,
And chants in silent song
A hymn of joy, whilst he reviews
The grand celestial throng.
He envies not the king his throne;
The nation its proud wealth:
But ponders o’er the purple zone,
Till self-destroying health
Bids him relax the arduous task,—
He sighs at every breath,—
For on his pale cheeks lurk the mask
Of hungry-looking death.
Yet still assiduously goes on
The man (not of this world):
Until, alas! his period’s run—
The sails of life are furl’d!
His worldly goods are sought by those
The nearest of his kin;—
On cumb’rous shelves, in cupboards, doze
The products of his pen.
They see, at length, in their rude style
That in the vast blue heav’n
There rangeth one more ariel-isle!
Its name was all but given * * *
Enough though had been writ of it,
Man’s wisdom to absorb;
For yet-liv’d ’stronomers deem’d fit
To seek the new-born orb:—
Yes, and ’twas found! and then they raise
A tribute to its fame,
And learn the dead man’s works to praise.
And lauded forth his name.
[63] The Planets.
[64] His astronomical instrument.
On Shakespeare.
[Composed on the occasion of “The Shakespeare Tercentenary Festival,”
1864.]
NOTE.—The reader is requested to observe that lines 1-5, 2-6, 3-7, 4-8
(and so in every eight consecutive lines), have rhythmical terminations,
though the quantity of feet do not agree; but the number of feet in
lines 1-9, 2-10, 3-11, 4-12, 5-13, 6-14, 7-15, and 8-16 (and so in each
successive 16 lines), will be found to correspond, with but slight
variation.
He liv’d to die, but not to be forgott’n,
Without a title save that his parents gave him,—
A proud yet simple one indeed,—
Such as almost a very babe might utter.
Although the dust of his birth-dwelling’s long since trodd’n,
He’s now, as was of yore, a glorious shining beam,
On which our memories love to feed.
His mother fondly watch’d his gentle stature:
Himself the womb of a rare sparkling brain:
And heaping, aye! unthought of world-wide wondrous fame
With his enchanting pen:—the food,
The fondest food of history, and the stage:
’Twas but a little cabinet that did contain
The ponderous manuscripts which bore his goodly name—
Those volumes so well understood.
O god of bards, thou wert the greatest sage!
* * * * *
“The tempest” of life he did begin to fare
One April-month, ’tis writ (in Fifteen’ sixty-four)
Not “much ado about nothing.”
“Love’s labour lost?” Oh, no—indeed ’twere not!
In him were planted tender shrubs, and striplings rare,
Which grew, at length, to giant trunks of strength and pow’r:
In literature he ’came a king.
To grasp the sceptre of the stage he wrote.
* * * * *
Whilst but a youth, at Stratford-upon-Avon,
He stole, poor lad! away from one Sir Thomas Lucy.
A lucky day was that for “Will,”—
When he began his “comedy of errors,”—
Startling, withal, men’s minds for ever and anon!
Erst chalking satire on the knighted-man’s own gateway.
“Measure for measure,” penn’d his quill,
And left poor Lucy, first to taste his terrors.
* * * * *
O thou bright charmer of the inmost spark!
Why revell’d thou so soon in death’s grim holiday—
Ere time had run its ’lotted space?
In peace thy work began was finished well.
Like as the stars which shine throughout the dreary dark
Thy feather’d instruments made letters and words say
That thou didst live—didst live to chase
Gods to their heav’n; and devils to their hell.
* * * * *
(Men stirr’d themselves and ransack’d o’er their wit,
And did in their quiet homilies rack brain and soul
To render unto the great dead
A worthy tribute of their country’s love.
With all the modern implements of learning writ
They—each and either of them—their own favourite roll:
“Not as you like it,” be it said,—
He wrote a play while they their plans approve.)
“Will’s” cloudy days nigh spent, his sun arose!
(God with him, tickling his fair brow and sparkling eye)
With wisdom wrote he ’n majesty
On high-born kings and lowly peasantry
In rhyme’s sweet readings; lines of quaint sarcastic prose:
Perhaps offendingly to some; whilst others sigh,
Or laugh, or cry, and timidly
Enjoy the witty man’s bright pleasantry.—
Behold his genius! look ye to the skies;
For like a planet, known by its respective sign,
So was he—good William Shakespeare—
Occupying the golden throne of history;
Whose countless pages, fraught with gloomy mysteries—
Stored o’er and o’er in ancient and in new design—
Are lasting monuments, so dear,
That he shall ne’er escape from memory.