English Poets.

Tercentenary ode on Shakespeare read by the author at the anniversary concert, 1864.


        Three centuries have passed away
        Since that most famous April day,
        When the sweet, gentle Will was born,
        Whose name the age will e're adorn.

        That great Elizabethan age
        Does not leave on history's page,
        A name so bright he stands like Saul,
        A head and shoulders over all.

        Delineator of mankind,
        Who shows the workings of the mind,
        And in review in nature's glass,
        Portrays the thoughts of every class.

        That man is dull who will not laugh
        At the drolleries of Falstaff,
        And few that could not shed a tear
        At sorrows of poor old King Lear.

        Or lament o'er King Duncan's death
        Stabbed by the dagger of McBeth,
        Or gentle Desdemona pure,
        Slain by the misled jealous Moor.

        Or great Caesar mighty Roman
        Who o'ercame his country's foemen,
        His high deeds are all in vain,
        For by his countrymen he's slain.

        The greatest of heroic tales
        Is that of Harry, Prince of Wales,
        Who in combat fought so fiercely
        With the brave and gallant Percy.

        Imagination's grandest theme
        The tempest or midsummer's dream,
        And Hamlet's philosophic blaze
        Of shattered reason's flickering rays.

        And now in every land on earth
        They commemorate Shakespeare's birth,
        And there is met on Avon's banks
        Men of all nations and all ranks.

        And here upon Canadian Thames
        The gentle maids and comely dames
        Do meet and each does bring her scroll
        Of laurel leaves from Ingersoll.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Lay Of The Spring.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

United States.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Walt Whitman.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Four Acre Farm.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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Scottish Poets.

The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.


        This night shall never be forgot
            For humble life none now despise,
        Since Burns was born in lowly cot
            Whose muses wing soars to the skies.

        'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
            And raised her name in classic story
        A deathless fame he did bequeath,
            His country's pride, his country's glory.

        He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
            Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,
        Of death and Hornbook and such tales
            As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.

        He bravely taught that manly worth
            More precious is than finest gold,
        H...

James McIntyre

The Two Shakespeare Tercentenaries: Of Birth, 1864: Of Death, 1916.

                            TO SHAKESPEARE

                Longer than thine, than thine,
    Is now my time of life; and thus thy years
    Seem to be clasped and harboured within mine.
    O how ignoble this my clasp appears!

                Thy unprophetic birth,
    Thy darkling death: living I might have seen
    That cradle, marked those labours, closed that earth.
    O first, O last, O infinite between!

                Now that my life has shared
    Thy dedicated date, O mortal, twice,
    To what all-vain embrace shall be compared
    My lean enclosure of thy paradise?

                To ignorant arms that fold
    A poet to a foolish breast?    The Line,
    That is not, with the world within its hold?
    So, days with days,...

Alice Meynell

Shakespeare - Tercentennial Celebration

"Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown,
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep,
Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?
Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep;
Shall warring aliens share her holy task?"
The Old World echoes ask.

O land of Shakespeare! ours with all thy past,
Till these last years that make the sea so wide;
Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast
Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride
In every noble word thy sons bequeathed
The air our fathers breathed!

War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife,
We turn to other days and far-off lands,

Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life,
Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands
To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flowers, -
Not his the need...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

To The Memory Of My Beloved Author, Mr. William Shakespeare

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor muse can praise too much;
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For seeliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron; what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed,
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin. Soul of the age!
The appl...

Ben Jonson

To The Memory Of My Beloved, The Author, Mr. William Shakespeare, And What He Hath Left Us

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
`Tis true, and all men`s suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise;
For silliest Ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind Affection, which doth ne`er advance
The truth, but gropes and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty Malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seem`d to raise.
These are as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill - fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore, will begin. Soul of the age!
The ap...

Ben Jonson

For The Burns Centennial Celebration

January 25, 1859

His birthday. - Nay, we need not speak
The name each heart is beating, -
Each glistening eye and flushing cheek
In light and flame repeating!

We come in one tumultuous tide, -
One surge of wild emotion, -
As crowding through the Frith of Clyde
Rolls in the Western Ocean;

As when yon cloudless, quartered moon
Hangs o'er each storied river,
The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon
With sea green wavelets quiver.

The century shrivels like a scroll, -
The past becomes the present, -
And face to face, and soul to soul,
We greet the monarch-peasant.

While Shenstone strained in feeble flights
With Corydon and Phillis, -
While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights
To snatch the Bourbon lilies, -

...

Oliver Wendell Holmes