Qlarttell Hniweraitg ffiihtarg 
 
 3tlf«a, New ^nrk 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BENNO LOEWY LIBRARY 
 
 COLLECTED BY 
 
 BENNO LOEWY 
 
 1854-1919 
 
 BEQUEATHED TO CORNELL UNIVERSITY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 2923 1864.C29 
 
 Shakespeare; an ode written 'oi; t^je J;«'eb 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013151794 
 
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 AN ODE 
 
 FOR THE 
 
 TERCENTENARY OF SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 
 
 By J. E. CARPENTER. 
 
 LONDON : 
 ROUTLEDGE, WARNE AND ROUTLEDGE, 
 
 BRO^VDWAY, LtDGATE HILL. 
 
 186i. 
 
 SHILLING. 
 
TO 
 
 WESTLAND MAKSTON, ESQUIKE, LL.D., 
 
 WHO, 
 
 AT A PERIOD WHEN THE SENSATIONAL MELODRAMA 
 
 COMMANDS THE SYMPATHIES OF THE PUBLIC, 
 
 REMAINS PAITHPUL IN HIS DEVOTION 
 
 TO THE 
 
 POETIC, MORAL AND PHILOSOPHIC DRAMA, 
 
 AND SUSTAINS IT BY THE FORCE OF HIS GENIUS A3 
 
 ITS SUCCESSFUL AND CHIEF REPRESENTATIVE, 
 
 THIS ODE, 
 
 WRITTEN FOB 
 THE OELBBKATION OP THE TERCENTENARY OF SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY, 
 
 HELD AT THE 
 
 UEBAN CLUB, 1864, 
 
 IS 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS ADMIRING AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 
 
 J. E. CABPENTEE. 
 
SHAKESPEAKE. 
 
 Hail ! to tlie day that gave to eartli 
 
 Its. proudest name with Shakespeare's birth ! 
 
 Hail ! to the day when rose the star, 
 
 Like that the Shepherds watched afar, 
 
 That guides the Pilgrim far away 
 
 To where his honored ashes lay; 
 
 That rose three centuries ago. 
 
 Yet, beaming with a brighter glow. 
 
 Gathers fresh lustre as it soars 
 
 From Britain's Isles to distant shores; 
 
 That Bards unborn shall sweetly hymn, 
 
 Nor time, nor distance make more dim. 
 
 Hail ! mighty Shakespeare — thou to-day 
 
 Shalt claim my tributary lay. 
 
 Though worthier bard might haply deem 
 
 Thee fitter subject for his theme. 
 
 My humble muse would fain aspire 
 
 To catch awhile the Poet's fire; 
 
 Secure that, while she wings her flight 
 
 To realms of fancy and delight, 
 
 A band of brothers lends the willing ear, 
 
 Nor deigns to censure where the song's sincere; 
 
 A host of friends whose bosoms throb the same, 
 
 To bless and celebrate great Shakespeare's fame. 
 
 II. 
 
 Three hundred years! and yet no second birth 
 'Mid all the millions that have peopled earth, 
 
So great, so grand, so wondrous, so sublime, 
 O'ertowering all, defying Change and Time, 
 As that we celebrate on this great day. 
 That gave to England Shaksepeare ! 
 
 He whose sway 
 Sui'vives the proudest conqueror ever sought. 
 The mighty monarch of the realms of thought ! 
 Three hundred years! yet all left far behind 
 The grasp, the compass of o^ie master-mind! 
 None to dispute — no rival near his throne — 
 The Fairy world of Fancy all his own; 
 The fine creations of that wondi'ous brain. 
 Unmatched in poet's theme or minstrel's strain — 
 And yet, familiar as the woodland flowers. 
 Or fairy tale that cheered our childhood's houi's; 
 As mother-love, or passions that, at length. 
 Grow with our growth and strengthen with our strength. 
 Till they become of life and thought a part — 
 The intellectual breathings of the heart! 
 
 Three hundred years! Look back to history's page. 
 Its proudest names sui'vive on Shakespeare's stage; 
 The laurel'd Bard proclaims the Hero's name. 
 And, lo! 'tis stamped upon the scroll of Fame — 
 There to endure, when crumbled into dust. 
 The towering column and the sculptur'd bust, 
 Secure of all that human power can give. 
 While language lasts, or Shakespeare's lines still live. 
 And shall we raise no trophy to his name. 
 Whom Milton lauded as the "heir of Fame?" 
 Whose varied fancy learned Johnson drew. 
 And told us Shakespeare, while to natui-e true, 
 "Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new!" 
 
Well may your modern minstrel pause to quote 
 Those truthful lines that sum up all he wrote, 
 And, trembling, shrink half-Mghtened that you ask 
 His feeble pencil to perform its task; 
 But so it is, the mightier passed away, 
 The humbler bears the burden of the day — 
 Content to creep where others strode before. 
 And lowly sing whence they did, singing, soar. 
 
 But though the mightier Bards have passed away, 
 
 Should we oui' heart-felt homage still delay? 
 
 Nor seek oui- lasting gratitude to speak, 
 
 Tho' language fail and words be all too weak? 
 
 Great though our cause, and feeble our design. 
 
 The humblest Pilgrim may approach the shrine 
 
 Where worship all. Thus we our tribute bring, 
 
 And hail thee, Shakespeare, England's Minstrel King ! 
 
 Not to thy glory only — nor thy praise, 
 
 (Thou needest none from modern minstrel's lays) 
 
 Men meet to-day within the banquet hall. 
 
 Or, pilgrims, rove where Avon's waters fall, 
 
 Or seek the crowded theatre to hear 
 
 Thy tuneftd lines, and wake the echoing cheer ; — ■ 
 
 Not for all this. The impulse they obey 
 
 A piled-up debt of gratitude to pay — 
 
 A long accumulated debt of years. 
 
 The heritage of many smiles and tears. 
 
 Of home delights, of teachings vast and grand; 
 
 For this all hearts in this thy native land 
 
 Now beat as one, and would fit trophy raise 
 
 To hand their homage down to fatui'e days, 
 
 Some fitting monument to long remain, 
 
 And link Eliza's with Victoria's reign. 
 
8 
 
 Oh ! why need critics snarl and small wits blame ? 
 
 And yet wlien Grarrick ruled they did the same, 
 
 Yet Garrick's name is still a "household word," 
 
 While his detractors, silenced ere scarce heard. 
 
 All unrecorded, e'en to evil fame, 
 
 Are copied still by those I will not name. 
 
 Assured the fungus of the scribbling mind 
 
 Will die and rot, or but produce its kind. 
 
 While sterling worth, howe'er " The Times " may sneer, 
 
 The pool subsiding will rise pure and clear. 
 
 Yet not to them, to you we would appeal. 
 
 To join our ranks and emulate our zeal. 
 
 No selfish end to gain have we in view. 
 
 The nameless scribblers hnow that this is true. 
 
 E'en while to crush our honest aim they seek. 
 
 And print the libels which they dare not speak. 
 
 Come then, and aid us in our grand design 
 
 To raise to England's Bard some fitting shrine. 
 
 That men may say, when pointing to the spot. 
 
 Though late, and raised for " benefits forgot," 
 
 The public voice was heard on that high day 
 
 That England chose her gratitude to pay, 
 
 And, owning mighty Shakespeaee King and Lord, 
 
 Gave to the pen, what oft she gave the sword, 
 
 A statue worthy of the proudest name 
 
 That wafts abroad her glory and her fame. 
 
 That stirs all hearts where good Victoria's sway 
 
 Is felt in boundless regions far away; 
 
 Where'er St. George's banner is unfurled, 
 
 Shakespeare ! the Minstrel Monarch of the world ! 
 
III. 
 
 Come then, while fancy points my votive song 
 
 To those bright scenes the poet loved so long; 
 
 Picture fair Avon's time-enchanted stream, 
 
 Upon whose banks perchance the Poet's dream 
 
 Teem'd with wild shapes of love, with beauty fraught. 
 
 Sublime creations of the realms of thought. 
 
 Here oft perchance the youthful Shakespeare strayed. 
 
 To sing but of some simple cottage maid, 
 
 'Till Grenius, wandering, heard the votive strain. 
 
 And stamped iadelibly the Poet's brain. 
 
 Here 'twas our Shakespeare, in his earlier hours. 
 
 First drew from Nature's streams and fields and flowers, 
 
 When upon Avon's banks he erst reclined. 
 
 And the huge workings of his master-ndnd 
 
 First woke that Lyre, whose magic, mighty tone, 
 
 Hath made the sweetest melodies his own — 
 
 Hath raised that great and ever- varying theme 
 
 That hallows still fair Avon's town and stream. 
 
 DUET. 
 
 DOWN BT THE AVON's FLOWING STEBAM. 
 
 [Mitsic by Stephen Glovek. 
 
 Down by the Atoii's flowing stream, 
 There came a Bard, in his youth, to dream; 
 Loved by the gentle fairies long, 
 T-hey weaved around him the spell of song. 
 
 With visions bright 
 
 They charmed his sight, 
 
 In legends old 
 
 Their loves they told; 
 
10 
 
 'Twas thus he dreamed his youth away, 
 
 And wove his magic spell, 
 And now in Shakespeake's tuneful lay 
 
 The gentle fairies dwell; 
 And still they rove, when fades the beam, 
 Down by the Avon's flowing stream. 
 
 " I know a bank," said the Fairy Queen, 
 " Where oft he sleeps on the daisied green;" 
 " / know a Bank" sung the Bard of old. 
 When to our wonder his dream he told. 
 
 Since that sweet time. 
 
 In his sweet rhyme. 
 
 In fairies bright 
 
 We take delight. 
 And still we while the hours away, 
 
 'Neath Shakespeakb's magic spell. 
 And with him love the paths to stray 
 
 Where gentle fairies dwell; 
 For still they rove, when fades the beam, 
 Down by the Avon's flowing stream. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Change we the scene — the busy town 
 
 Now claims the actor of renown; 
 
 And Shakespeare and Dick Burbadge meet, 
 
 And in the mimic scene compete; 
 
 While many a tavern's merriest night 
 
 Is when they meet, with spirits light. 
 
 The merry actors of the day, 
 
 To con the last or next new play, 
 
 And, o'er a cheerful cup of sack. 
 
 To laugh behind their Patron's back: 
 
 For patrons then the stage could boast — 
 
 No actor-Parsons ruled the roast; 
 
11 
 
 The learned Peer — the wealthy cit 
 
 The spendthrift, still a man of wit: 
 
 They ruled the town, and their applause 
 
 First gave the stage its careless laws; 
 
 No foreign singers, with their strains, 
 
 Absorbed the honest actor's gains. 
 
 Then, too, the Court its influence shed, 
 
 And good Queen Bess the fashions led; 
 
 The sov'ran lady of the land 
 
 Could well sweet Shakespeare understand, 
 
 For, skilled in wit as courtly grace, 
 
 No promptings needed she to trace 
 
 The brightest jewel of her crown. 
 
 That almost hands her glory down 
 
 To these our times. So Shakespeare thrives 
 
 And writes for her "The Merry Wives;" 
 
 And then, a simple, honest man, 
 
 Eetui'ns to where his race began, 
 
 Laden with honours and renown. 
 
 And sanctifies his native town, 
 
 "Washed by the Avon's gentle wave — 
 
 His home, his birthplace, and his grave! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 THE BIRTHPLACE, THE HOME, AND THE GKAVB OF THE BAKD. 
 
 All hail to the ehrine, for the spot must be holy 
 
 That cradled in infancy genius and worth; 
 Oh! what though the roof may be humble and lowly, 
 
 It shelter'd the gem that shone proudest on earth. 
 'Tis not mid the gay halls of riches and splendour 
 
 The home of true genius alone can be found, 
 But in dwellings like those, where our homage we render. 
 
 With heaven above them, and nature around. 
 
12 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then hail to the shrine, be it hallowed, for never 
 
 Shall we, who sweet Shakespeare have learnt to regard, 
 Forget the dear scene were the Avon runs ever — 
 
 The birthplace — the home — and the grave of the bard. 
 That nation can ne'er be debased or degraded, 
 
 Whose people still cherish, with feelings of pride, 
 The spots that the halo of Genius pervaded — 
 
 The home where it dwelt, the place where it died. 
 Then perish the slave who with rude hands would sever 
 
 The relics of him who made language divine ; 
 May they stand like his fame, which endureth for ever, 
 That millions unborn may still visit the shrine. 
 
 OHOEUS. 
 
 Then hail to the shrine, be it hallowed, for never 
 
 Shall we, who sweet Shakespeare have learnt to regard, 
 
 Forget the dear scene where the Avon runs ever — 
 
 The birthplace — the home — and the grave of the bard. 
 
 V. 
 
 And now two centuries have passed away, 
 
 And Chai'les's wits have lived their little day, 
 
 And "want of decency," that "want of sense," 
 
 No longer gives the public ear offence, 
 
 For Gaeeick rises to pursue his way. 
 
 And once more Shakespeare o'er all hearts holds sway. 
 
 'Twas 'neath this roof he essayed first to play, 
 
 Here, where we meet, devoid of pomp or state. 
 
 His favourite bard and ours to celebrate; 
 
 Fit time, fit place, fit audience too, we trust. 
 
 To laud his name and venerate his dust. \ 
 
 Yet Garrick found the public taste was low, 
 And Johnson prophesied 'twould stiU be so; 
 
13 
 
 The Behns and Z)' Urfreys lie deemed so grotesque, 
 
 Are gone, but still we've glitter and burlesque; 
 
 The tortured word — the laboured pun and joke, 
 
 That oftener sneers than honest mirth provoke ; 
 
 The twice Dundrea/i'ies that take all the town. 
 
 And bring the merry peals of laughter down. 
 
 Yes ! still our Shakespeare must endure the rage 
 
 Of morbid fashions that corrupt the stage — 
 
 E'en as the sun when clouds obscure the ray 
 
 That else would glisten from the orb of day; 
 
 His vacant throne usurped by maudlin plays, 
 
 Sensation "headers" in the sea of baize. 
 
 How could e'en Shakespeare with those writers cope, 
 
 Who don't depend on lines — but on a rope? 
 
 E'en Kichard's self, when played, the palm must yield 
 
 To supernumeraries for Bosworth field; 
 
 '^ew French effects in "Hamlet" we must see — 
 
 A thing "undreamt in our philosophy." 
 
 Yet I'd not censure this sight-loving age. 
 
 If left to Shakespeare but one modem stage, 
 
 Nor grudge each tinselled scene we now behold, 
 
 (With Shakespeare but regilding purest gold,) 
 
 If the supporters of our stage would try 
 
 To mend the morals while they charm the eye — 
 
 That vulgar crowds might not so eager be. 
 
 To applaud the Drama of the Tyburn tree. 
 
 YI. 
 
 Degraded Drama! yet not all too late. 
 Thy faithful fiiends thy power would reinstate; 
 Nor need I proofs, when such her friends afford. 
 In the warm hearts around this festive board — 
 
14 
 
 Hearts that must throb with every fond delight, 
 
 In union with the Spirit of the night! 
 
 Yet there are names upon the Drama's rolls — 
 
 Marston — the worthy follower of Knowles — 
 
 Coyne — Bernard — Bvilwer — Oxenford — and more 
 
 Whose comedies still set the pit a-roar — 
 
 Whose muses still in virtue's cause prevail 
 
 To "point the moral" and "adorn the tale." 
 
 Then if our Isles can boast these gifted men, 
 
 If virtue point and genius guide the pen, 
 
 The star of Hope is shining thro' the gloom 
 
 That may the light of Britain's stage relume. 
 
 Oh! may their works, beyond this passing age, 
 
 Still keep their proud position on the stage — 
 
 When Time, the test of fame, has fleeted by, 
 
 And yielded them "a name that cannot die." 
 
 But while my muse, with laudatory strain, 
 
 Extols the playwrights of Victoria's reign. 
 
 The olden poets may not be forgot 
 
 By those who circle round this hallowed spot. 
 
 What lover of sweet Shakespeare could afford 
 
 To lose the many beauties of John Ford? 
 
 Or pass unheeded o'er each brilliant line 
 
 That makes thy works, Beaumont and Fletcher, shine ? 
 
 Not the long lapse of ages shall deter 
 
 The well-earned bays of Philip Massinger 
 
 Wreathing his temples, while they gild his name 
 
 With those emblazoned on the scroll of fame : 
 
 But, next and nearest to our Shakespeare's heart. 
 
 Who of his laurels once could claim a part. 
 
 On fame's high throne dost thou securely sit. 
 
 Oh ! rare Ben Jonson — with thy stores of wit. 
 
15 
 
 But most, oil ! Shakespeare — most we venerate 
 Tlie wondrous shapes thou didst delineate ; 
 The fair Mwcmda, all devoid of guile, 
 That peerless spirit of the lonely isle; 
 The witty Portia, and Neris8a too. 
 And the fair daughter of the ruthless tTew; 
 The gentle Rosalind, without compeer, 
 Grown to our hearts by recollections dear ; 
 The fair shrew Catherine, in each angry mood, 
 "Whom more we love for being thus subdued; 
 The wronged, but weak, yet trusting Lady Ann, 
 That hapless victim of designing man; 
 Ophelia, whose sad story doth impart 
 How frail a flower is trusting woman's heart; 
 And the fair consort of the jealous Moor, 
 Whose wrongs we can but weep for and deplore. 
 Nor shall the youthful Juliet be forgot, 
 While feeling hearts can wail her hapless lot; 
 And, one rare gem of worth and wit combined. 
 In which the triumphs of a virtuous mind 
 The magic pen of Shakespeare did engage. 
 Lives in the portraiture of " Sweet Ann Page.'''' 
 
 Here would I pause, lest you should haply deem 
 
 My humble muse unequal to my theme ; 
 
 Yet would I fain some passing tribute pay. 
 
 To laud the "hero of each high-wrought play; 
 
 Hamlet — Othello — Leao' — the vengeful Jew, 
 
 So wild, so wondrous, yet to nature true: 
 
 Goriolanus — Goesar — long shall stand. 
 
 Touched by the magic of our Shakespeare's wand, 
 
 In monumental pride to grace the stage, 
 
 And show past manners to a future age. 
 
16 
 
 And, oh! where else, where can we look upon 
 
 So rare a miracle as fat Sir John? 
 
 Shakespeare alone could draw the unctuous knight, 
 
 That, as the past, will future times delight. 
 
 More would I say — tut time, with sweeping wing, 
 
 The stealthy hours will o'er us silent fling. 
 
 And to far abler men must I resign 
 
 The task of lauding Shakespeare's mighty line; 
 
 Enough for me, if kindly you regard 
 
 My humble offering to the brilliant bard; 
 
 Enough to feel, if weakly 'tis expressed, 
 
 Your better judgments can supply the rest. 
 
 Yet some "last words," before I close the page — ■ 
 
 Brief mention of the actors of our stage. 
 
 What! are there none to fill the mimic scene — 
 
 To catch the mantle of the generous Keanf 
 
 Are all the actors of the Kemhle school 
 
 Lost to the Theatre they once could rule? 
 
 The boards where Foote and David Oarrick played, 
 
 Unmeaning spectacle alone pervade? 
 
 No ! not while Phelps will his ripe powers engage. 
 
 To grace and elevate the British stage; 
 
 While Helen Faucit, now too seldom seen, 
 
 Still lives, her well-earned laurels fresh and green; 
 
 While Stirling acts, and Oompton keeps the boards, 
 
 And Weister glimpses of the past affords; 
 
 While Hen/ry Ma/rston, artist good and true, 
 
 Still keeps the Drama's polar star in view; 
 
 SiiAKESPEAEE, again enthroned, may crown the stage, 
 
 The noblest, greatest bard of evert age ! 
 
NEW MUSIC. 
 
 Now ready, Price Ss., with a View of Stratford-on-Avon Church, in Colours,' 
 
 DOWN BY THE AVON'S FLOWING STREAM.4Duet. 
 
 Sung by the Misses E. and M. MASCALL. 
 Words by J. E. CAEPENTER. Composed by STEPHEN GLOVER. 
 
 London:— S. BREWER and CO., BISHOPSGATE STREET WITHIN. 
 
 Price 2s. 6d., with a View of Shakespeare's House, 
 
 THE BIRTHPLACE, THE HOME, AND THE GRAVE OF THE BARD-Song. 
 
 Sung by Miss MARY MASCALL. 
 
 Words by J. E. CARPENTER. Composed by J. E. PERRING. 
 
 LoKDON.— C. JEFFERYS, SOHO S Q U A R E.— Stbatbohd-on-Avon : E. A D A M S. 
 
 Just published, a Fourth Edition, Royal 24mo., Price Is., and inCloth 2s. 6d., 
 
 SONGS AND BALLADS by J. E. CARPENTEB,. 
 
 *,• This Volume contains Five Hundred of Mr. Carpenter's Songs, including all his most 
 
 popular Ballads. 
 
 LONDON!— ROUTLEDGE, WARNE and ROUTLEDGE. 
 
 " Nearly the whole volume consists of songs which were written for music, which have been set to 
 music, and which, in that shape, acquired no iucousiderablu share of popularity. To divorce the words 
 thus written from the music to which they were wedded, almost at their birth, is certaiuly to subject 
 them to a severe ordeal; but upon the whole we hardly know any collectiou of songs, always excepting 
 Moore and Burns, which could have endured the test so successfully." — Couet Joubnal. 
 
 " Characterised by a deep pathos, and express, in sweet harmonious numbers, the purest feelings 
 of the heart." — Covbntbi Hehald. 
 
 " This beautiful little volume is full of music, and full of poetry." — Bibmingham Advertises. 
 
 "Mr. Carpenter's songs breathe those pure and natural feelings which go direct to the heart; while 
 the simple but graceful language in which they are expressed, and the remarkable smoothness of their 
 versification, render them peculiarly adapted for vocalisation," — Scndat Tiues. 
 
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 combining withal, a quiet pathos which at once comes home to the heart " — Livebpooi. Jouknal. 
 
 " Mr. Carpenter's versification is remarkably mellifluous, his language elegant, his illustrations 
 happily chosen, and iogeniousF,f'' applied ; and the whole work exhibits a purity of thought and a fine 
 to all that is chaste aind beautiful." — Weekly Dispatch. 
 
 " Pbems which exhibit much poetical power, combined with grace and an easy command of 
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