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?
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?
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 sublimeThan those the imperishable Memphis rearsOver her sandy wilderness; for theirs Are but unspeaking stones, where lies enshrinedEternal silence. But peerless Shakspeare Pours forth still from his exhaustless stores of mindAll truth—all passion—and all poetry; Mounting, with tireless wings, on every wind,And filling earth with sweetest minstrelsy.
This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.