Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1864 (1809-1894)
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, but ours!
We call those poets who are first to mark
Through earth’s dull mist the coming of the dawn,—
Who see in twilight’s gloom the first pale spark,
While others only note that day is gone;
For him the Lord of light the curtain rent
That veils the firmament...
With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name
Stamped once on dust that moved with pulsed breath,
As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame
Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death:
We praise not star or sun; in these we see
Thee, Father, only Thee!
Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love:
We read, we reverence on this human soul,—
Earth’s clearest mirror of the light above,—
Plain as the record on Thy prophet’s scroll,
When o’er his page the effluent splendours poured,
Thine own, “Thus saith the Lord!”
This player was a prophet from on high,
Thine own elected. Statesman, poet, sage,
For him Thy sovereign pleasure passed them by;
Sidney’s fair youth, and Raleigh’s ripened age,
Spenser’s chaste soul, and his imperial mind
Who taught and shamed mankind.
“Shakespeare Tercentennial Celebration, 23 April 1864.” Songs of Many Seasons. 1875.