Mary Arden.

I.

    O thou to whom, athwart the perish'd days
    And parted nights long sped, we lift our gaze,
    Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme,
    Love-lit and reverent as befits the time,
    To solemnize the feast-day of thy son.


II.

    And who was he who flourish'd in the smiles
    Of thy fair face? 'Twas Shakespeare of the Isles,
    Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known
    As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone
    Of all the seas and all the lands of earth.


III.

    He was un-famous when he came to thee,
    But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see,
    And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day,
    A week before the wondrous month of May;
    And God therein was gracious to us all.


IV.

    He lov'd thee, Lady! and he lov'd the world;
    And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurl'd;
    And Kings who flourished ere thy son was born
    Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn,
    In all the far-off cycles yet to come.


V.

    He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips,
    A hundred mottoes from immortal lips;
    And, year by year, we smile to keep away
    The generous tears that mind us of the sway
    Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof.


VI.

    His was the nectar of the gods of Greece,
    The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece
    Of grand endeavour; and the thunder-roll
    Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole,
    Have borne the tidings of our English tongue.


VII.

    He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us more
    Than schools have taught us; and his fairy-lore
    Was fraught with science; and he called from death
    Verona's Lovers, with the burning breath
    Of their great passion that has filled the spheres.


VIII.

    He made us know Cordelia, and the man
    Who murder'd sleep, and baleful Caliban;
    And, one by one, athwart the gloom appear'd
    Maidens and men and myths who were revered
    In olden days, before the earth was sad.


IX.

    Aye! this is true. It was ordainèd so;
    He was thine own, three hundred years ago;
    But ours to-day; and ours till earth be red
    With doom-day splendour for the quick and dead,
    And days and nights are scattered like the leaves.


X.

    It was for this he lived, for this he died;
    To raise to Heaven the face that never lied,
    To lean to earth the lips that should become
    Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb,
    And all the firm, fine body turn'd to clay.


XI.

    He lived to seal, and sanctify the lives
    Of perish'd maids, and uncreated wives,
    And gave them each a space wherein to dwell;
    And for his mother's sake he loved them well,
    And made them types, undying, of all truth.


XII.

    O fair and fond young mother of the boy
    Who wrought all this - O Mary! - in thy joy
    Did'st thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest,
    He turn'd to thee, that his would be the best
    Of all men's chanting since the world began?


XIII.

    Did'st thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust
    Perceive, prophetic, through the dark and dust
    Of things terrene, the glory of thy son,
    And all the pride therein that should be won
    By toilsome men, content to be his slaves?


XIV.

    Did'st thou, good mother! in the tender ways
    That women find to fill the fleeting days,
    Behold afar the Giant who should rise
    With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies,
    To write his name, and thine, among the stars?


XV.

    I love to think it; and, in dreams at night
    I see thee stand, erect, and all in white,
    With hands out-yearning to that mighty form,
    As if to draw him back from out the storm, -
    A child again, and thine to nurse withal.


XVI.

    I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair,
    And big, bright eyes, far-searching in the air
    For thy sweet babe, and, in a trice of time,
    I see the child advance to thee, and climb,
    And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones.


XVII.

    Yet, if my thought be vain - if, by a touch
    Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch -
    Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow
    My heart with fervour while to thee I bow
    Athwart the threshold of my fading dream.


XVIII.

    For, though so seeming-bold in this my song,
    I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng
    Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scann'd, afar,
    The famed effulgence of that eastern star
    Which usher'd in the Crown'd One of the heavens.


XIX.

    In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass
    Along the banks of Avon, by the grass,
    As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son
    Endow'd with life, but with the look of one
    Who knows the nearest way to some new grave.


XX.

    And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush
    Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hush!"
    Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair
    Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare
    Because a tiny hand had toy'd therewith!


XXI.

    Oh! by the June-tide splendour of thy face
    When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace
    Did leap and laugh, O Mary! by the same,
    I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame,
    And call thee England's Pride for evermore!