THE NE Y RK PUBLIC LIBRARY
ASTOR LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
This was Shakespeare's form;
Who walked in every path of human life,
Felt every passion; and to all mankind,
Doth now, will ever, that experience yield, Which his own genius only could acquire. AKENSIDE, Inscription for a Monument of Shakespeare.
What needs my Shakespeare for his honor'd bones,
The labor of an age in piled stones?
Or that his hallowed relics should be hid
Under a star-y pointing pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of fame.
MILTON, Epitaph on Shakespeare.
The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee room;
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
BEN JONSON- Underwoods. To the Memory of
Shakespeare.
He was not of an age but for all time.
The other held a globe, which to his will
Obedient turn'd, and owned the master's skill;
Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,
And look'd through nature at a single view;
A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,
And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll;
Call'd into being scenes unknown before
And passing nature's bounds, was something more. IBID, Rosciad.
Far from the sun and summer gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face; the dauntless child
Stretched forth his little arms and smiled.
"This pencil take," she said, "whose colors clear Richly paint the vernal year;
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears." GRAY, Progress of Poesy.
If manly sense; if nature link'd with art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If powers of acting vast and unconfin'd;
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If strong expression, and strange powers which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye;
If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know,
And which no face so well as his can show
Deserve the preference; Garrick! take the chair,
Nor quit it till thou place an equal there.
Shakespeare's magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he. DRYDEN, The Tempest.
Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd, And wondered at the work herself had made. CHURCHILL, Author.
In the first seat, in robe of various dyes,
A noble mildness flashing from his eyes,
Sat Shakespeare; in one hand a wand he bore,
For mighty wonders form'd in days of yore;
Our Garrick's a salad; for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar and saltness agree.
GOLDSMITH, Retaliation.
Here lies David Garrick-describe him who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings-a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
IBID, Retaliation.
I can no more believe old Homer blind,
Than those who say the sun hath never shin'd;
The age wherein he liv'd was dark, but he
Could not want sight who taught the world to see.
DENHAN, Progress of Learning.
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor;
Verse may seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.
SHEFFIELD, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, Essay on
Poetry.
His speech, his form, his action full of grace,
And all his country beaming in his face,
He stood, as some inimitable hand
Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand.
COWPER, Table Talk.
I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous boy,
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride.
Of him who walked in glory and in joy,
Following his plow along the mountain side.
WORDSWORTH, Respect and Independence.
Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen.
Chosen with large designs, he had the art
Of winning with his humor, and he went
Straight to his mark, which was the human heart;
Wise, too, for what he could not break, he bent.
Upon his back a more than Atlas-load,-
The burden of the Commonwealth,—was laid;
He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road
Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed.
Hold, warriors, councilors, kings! All now give
place
To this dear benefactor of the race.
R. H. STODDARD, Abraham Lincoln.
Three Poets, in three distant ages born,
Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
The first, in loftiness of thought surpass'd;
The next in majesty; in both the last.
The force of nature could no further go;
To make a third, she joined the former two.
DRYDEN, Lines Under Milton's Picture.
Ages elaps'd ere Homer's lamp appeared,
And ages ere the Mantuan Swan was heard;
To carry nature lengths unknown before,
To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.
COWPER, Table Talk.
Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night:
God said, "Let Newton be!" and all was light.
POPE, Epitaph Intended for Sir Isaac Newton.
O Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!
BYRON, English Bards.
Waller was smooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.
POPE, Satire.
This man, whose homely face you look upon,
Was one of nature's masterful, great men;
Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won;
Have ye not listened while he bound the suns
And planets to their spheres? the unequal task
Of humankind till then.
THOMSON, To Memory of Sir Isaac Newton.
Newton (that proverb of the mind,) alas!
Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent,
That he himself felt only "like a youth
Picking up shells by the great ocean-Truth."
BYRON, Don Juan.
Superior beings, when of late they saw
A mortal man unfold all nature's law,
Long shall we seek this likeness-long in vain, And turn to all of him which may remain, Sighing that nature found but one such man, And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan.
BYRON, Monody on the Death of Sheridan.
Nor shall my verse that elder bard forget,
The gentle Spenser, fancy's pleasing son;
Who, like a copious river, poured his song,
O'er all the mazes of enchanted ground;
Nor thee, his ancient master, laughing sage,
Chaucer, whose native manners-painting verse,
Well moralized, shine through the Gothic cloud
Of time and language o'er thy genius thrown.
THOMSON, Seasons. Summer.
FAIR Bard! with sweetness lined on lip and brow
'Neath veil of sadness,-in thy darkling eyes
Dilate with thought, like orbs in twilight skies
Enhanced and dreamful seen through mists aglow,
Dwells soul unfathomable; a meaning fraught
More deep with shadowings of the things to be,
And subtle draughts from fount of mystery
Than e'en thy lettered-page hath tuneful taught. For right, for kindred, for humanity
Thy heart-felt notes were sounded, fresh and clear. Thou'rt passed-a gleam athwart our mental sky By motion swift consumed, ere midday hour Could round to full its pure effulgent power; And Israel drops anew the burning tear Where dumb in trance of death thy song-lips lie. MRS. EDWARD MCCARTHY.
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