Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/332
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
314
SHAKSPEARE.
Print, comrades, print; the fairest thought
Ever limned in painter's dream,
The rarest form e'er sculptor wrought
By the light of beauty's gleam,
Though lovely, may not match the power
Which our proud, art can claim—
That links the past with the present hour,
And its breath—the voice of fame.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?
Ever limned in painter's dream,
The rarest form e'er sculptor wrought
By the light of beauty's gleam,
Though lovely, may not match the power
Which our proud, art can claim—
That links the past with the present hour,
And its breath—the voice of fame.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?
Print, comrades, print; God hath ordained
That man by his toil should live:
Then spurn the charge that we disdained
The labour that God would give!
We envy not the sons of ease,
Nor the lord in princely hall,
But bow before the wise decrees
In kindness meant for all.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?
That man by his toil should live:
Then spurn the charge that we disdained
The labour that God would give!
We envy not the sons of ease,
Nor the lord in princely hall,
But bow before the wise decrees
In kindness meant for all.
Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
The slender letters round—
A glorious thing is our labouring,
Oh, where may its like be found?
Shakspeare.
Centuries have rolled on centuries, years on years,
The never-ceasing progress of decay
Has swept the mighty and the mean away,
Monarchs and multitudes! but there appears,
Towering above all tempests and all time,
A pyramid more glorious and sublime
Than those the imperishable Memphis rears
Over her sandy wilderness; for theirs
Are but unspeaking stones, where lies enshrined
Eternal silence. But peerless Shakspeare
Pours forth still from his exhaustless stores of mind
All truth—all passion—and all poetry;
Mounting, with tireless wings, on every wind,
And filling earth with sweetest minstrelsy.
The never-ceasing progress of decay
Has swept the mighty and the mean away,
Monarchs and multitudes! but there appears,
Towering above all tempests and all time,
A pyramid more glorious and sublime
Than those the imperishable Memphis rears
Over her sandy wilderness; for theirs
Are but unspeaking stones, where lies enshrined
Eternal silence. But peerless Shakspeare
Pours forth still from his exhaustless stores of mind
All truth—all passion—and all poetry;
Mounting, with tireless wings, on every wind,
And filling earth with sweetest minstrelsy.