Classic Poem

I

If we could win from Shakespeare's river
The music of its murmuring flow,
With all the wild-bird notes that quiver
Where Avon's scarlet meadows glow;
If we could twine with joy at meeting
Their prayers who lately grieved to part,
Ah, then, indeed, our song of greeting
Might find an echo in his heart!

But though we cannot, in our singing,
That music and those prayers entwine,
At least we'll set our blue-bells ringing,
And he shall hear our whispering pine;
And these shall breathe a welcome royal,
In accents tender, sweet, and kind,
From lips as fond, and hearts as loyal
As any that he left behind.

II

Far off beyond the shining sea,
Where scarlet poppies glisten,
And daisies on the emerald lea
Lift up their heads and listen,
Where Thames and Avon glance and glow,
To-day the waters, straying,
Will murmur in their tranquil flow
The words that we are saying.

Ah, not in parting hours alone
Is fond affection spoken:
The love that weeps in sorrow's moan
Still smiles in welcome's token.
Farewell, farewell our hearts will sigh,
When void and dark his place is;
But " Well for me" is England's cry,
To him her love embraces!

Farewell, thou child of many a prayer!
While lonely we deplore thee,
All crystal be the seas that bear,
And skies that sparkle o'er thee.
Thy mother's heart, thy mother's lip
Will soon once more caress thee;
We can but watch thy lessening ship,
And, in our silence, bless thee!

But let the golden waves leap up
While yet our hearts beat near him!
No bitter drop be in the cup
With which our hope would cheer him!
Pour the red roses at his feet!
Wave laurel boughs above him!
And if we part or if we meet,
Be glad and proud to love him!

His life has made this iron age
More grand and fair in story;
Illumed our Shakespeare's sacred page
With new and deathless glory;
Refreshed the love of noble fame
In hearts all sadly faring,
And lit anew the dying flame
Of genius and of daring.

Long may his radiant summer smile
Where Albion's rose is dreaming,
And over Art's Hesperian isle
His royal banner streaming;
While every trumpet blast that rolls
From Britain's lips to hail him
Is echoed in our kindred souls,
Whose truth can never fail him.

On your white wings, ye angel years,
Through roseate sunshine springing,
Waft fortune from all happier spheres,
With garlands and with singing;
Make strong that tender heart, and true —
That thought of heaven to guide him —
And blessings pour, like diamond dew,
On her that walks beside him!

And when is said the last farewell,
So solemn and so certain,
And Fate shall strike the prompter's bell,
To drop the final curtain,
Be his, whom every muse hath blest,
That best of earthly closes, —
To sink to rest on England's breast,
And sleep beneath her roses.
III

Now fades across the glimmering deep, now darkly drifts away,
The royal monarch of our hearts, the glory of our day;
The pale stars shine, the night wind sighs, the sad sea makes its moan,
And we, bereft, are standing here, in silence and alone.

Gone every shape of power and dread his magic touch could paint;
Gone haunted Aram's spectral face, and England's martyred saint;
Gone Mathias, of the frenzied soul, and Louis' sceptred guile,
The gentle head of poor Lesurques, and Hamlet's holy smile.

No more in gray Messina's halls shall love and revel twine;
No more on Portia's midnight bowers the moon of summer shine;
No golden barge on Hampton's stream salute the perfumed shore;
No ghost on Denmark's rampart cliff affright our pulses more!

The morning star of art, he rose across the eastern sea
To wake the slumbering harp, and set the frozen fountain free;
Now, wrapt in glory's mist, he seeks his orient skies again;
And tender thoughts in sorrowing hearts are all that must remain. ...

Slow fade, across a drearier sea, beneath a darker sky,
The dreams that cheer, the lights that lure, the baffled hopes that die:
Youth's trust, love's bliss, ambition's pride, — the white wings all are flown,
And memory walks the lonely shore, indifferent and alone.

Yet sometimes o'er that shadowy deep, by wandering breezes blown,
Float odors from Hesperian isles, with music's organ tone,
And something stirs within the breast, a secret, nameless thrill,
To say, though worn, and sear, and sad, our hearts are human still; —

If not the torrid diamond wave that made young life sublime,
If not the tropic rose that bloomed in every track of time,
If not exultant passion's glow, when all the world was fair,
At least one flash of heaven, one breath of Art's immortal air!

Ah, God, make bright, for many a year, on Beauty's heavenly shrine,
This hallowed fire that Thou hast lit, this sacred soul of Thine!
While love's sweet light and sorrow's tear, — life's sunshine dimmed with showers —
Shall keep for aye his memory green in these true hearts of ours!