The trumpet blareth and calleth the true to be stern Be then thy soft reposeful music dumb; Yet shall thy lovers awhile give ear --Tho’ in war’s garb they come-- To the praise of England’s gentlest son; Whom when she bore the Muses lov’d Above the best of eldest honour --Yea, save one without peer-- And by great Homer set, Not to impugn his undisputed throne, The myriad-hearted by the mighty-hearted one. For God of His gifts pour’d on him a full measure, And gave him to know Nature and the ways of men: To dower with inexhaustible treasure A world-conquering speech, Which surg’d as a river high-descended That gathering tributaries of many lands Rolls through the plain a bounteous flood, Picturing towers and temples And ruin of bygone times, And floateth the ships deep-laden with merchandise Out on the windy seas to traffic in foreign climes. Thee SHAKESPEARE to-day we honour; and evermore, Since England bore thee, the master of human song, Thy folk are we, children of thee, Who knitting in one her realm And strengthening with pride her sea-borne clans, Scorn’st in the grave the bruize of death. All thy later-laurel’d choir Laud thee in thy world-shrine: London’s laughter is thine; One with thee is our temper in melancholy or might, And in thy book Great-Britain’s rule readeth her right. Her chains are chains of Freedom, and her bright arms Honour Justice and Truth and Love to man. Though first from a pirate ancestry She took her home on the wave, Her gentler spirit arose disdainful, And smiting the fetters of slavery Made the high seaways safe and free, In wisdom bidding aloud To world-wide brotherhood, Till her flag was hail’d as the ensign of Liberty, And the boom of her guns went round the earth in salvos of peace. And thou, when Nature bow’d her mastering hand To borrow an ecstasy of man’s art from thee, Thou her poet secure as she Of the shows of eternity, Didst never fear thy work should fall To fashion’s craze nor pedant’s folly Nor devastator whose arrogant arms Murder and maim mankind; Who when in scorn of grace He hath batter’d and burn’d some loveliest dearest shrine, Laugheth in ire and boasteth aloud his brazen god. * * * * *