Classic Poem

TO A FRIEND VISITING ENGLAND

THIS is a Christmas carol —
A late one, it is true, —
But (dight in Truth's apparel)
The best that we can do: —
The best our Muse belated
Thus offers, antedated, —
E'en as the old waits waited
We, waiting, sing for you.

So, haply, you may listen,
As 'twere, with Fancy's ear,
And shape such songs of this-un
As were worth worlds to hear, —
Such anthemings ecstatic
As scaled The Mermaid's attic
In midnight's aromatic
Of choicest Christmas cheer:

Such songs as Marlowe lifted,
With throstle-throated Will
And rare Ben, as they shifted
Their laughing voices till
The mirth, with music blended,
So oversweet ascended,
It well were never ended —
And, hark! — you hear it still! . . .

You hear it; aye, and love it! —
Beyond all voices dear —
Your master's! — none above it. —
So harken, and so hear! —
Your master's English. — Surely
No other rests so purely
On Fame, or more securely, —
O English of Shakespeare!