And then the bow burst forth,
That strong love-token of the Deity
Unto a drowning world. Each prismed ray
Had held bright dalliance with the bard, and helped
To tint the woof in which his thought was wrapped
For its first cradle-sleep.
Then twilight came
In her grey robe, and told a tender tale
Of his low musings, while she noiseless drew
Her quiet curtain. And the queenly moon,
Riding in state upon her silver car,
Confessed she saw him oft, through chequering shades,
Hour after hour, with Fancy by his side,
Linking their young imaginings, like chains
Of pearl and diamond.
Last, the lowly grave,—
Shakspeare's own grave,—sent forth a hollow tone,
—"The heart within my casket read itself,
And from that inward study learned to scan
The hearts of other men. It pondered long
In those lone cells, where nameless thought is born,
Explored the roots of passion, and the founts.
Of sympathy, and at each sealed recess
Knocked, until mystery fled. Hence her loved bard
Nature doth crown with flowers of every hue,
And every season, and the human soul
Owning his power, shall at his magic touch
Shudder, or thrill, while age on age expires."
October 11, 1840.
