Sir Walter at last arose and said "that although the hour was late, or, more properly speaking, early, he earnestly desired the noble gentlemen present to hear one whose fame, in the world of dramatic letters, like the morning sun, had already flashed upon the horizon and rapidly approached the high noon of earthly immortality--William Shakspere, of Stratford-on-Avon!" Then could be heard roof-lifting cheers by all present, who had often heard the Bard in his lofty language and kingly strides at the Blackfriars. William, in the flush of self-conscious, imperial, splendid manhood exclaimed: "Gentlemen: _Your toast of glory to The Virgin Queen Cracks high heaven with reverberation, And through the ambient air, sonorous, The echoing muses mingle the Harmony of the spheres with celestial repetition! Elizabeth, I lift my song to thee, In holy adoration To echo down the flowing tide of ages!_ _Within the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and gallant knights, Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I know their antique pen would have expressed Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they looked, but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing; For me, which now behold these present days Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise._ _Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul Of the wide world dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mark their own presage; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of the most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes, Since spite of him I'll live in the poor rhyme While he sweeps over dull and speechless tribes. And thou, in this shall find thy monument, When tyrant crests and tombs of brass are spent!"_ Rapturous and universal praise and applause greeted William and his immortal sonnets; and if any critical reader or author will take pains to delve into and scan the poetry and philosophy of Spenser and Bacon with that of Shakspere, they will quickly and honestly come to the conclusion that the former writers are merely rushlights to the flashing electric lights of the Divine Bard! To paraphrase the encomium of Shakspere to Cleopatra would fit the greatness of himself: _"Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale His infinite variety; other men cloy The appetites they feed; but he makes hungry Where most he satisfies!"_ CHAPTER IX. BOHEMIAN HOURS. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST."