One balmy summer’s night, As Stratford yeomen tell, One Will, the royst’ring wight, Beneath a crab tree fell; And, sunk in deep repose, The tipsy time beguiled, Till Dan Apollo rose Upon his greatest child. Since then all people vowed The tree had wondrous power: With sense, with speech endowed, ’Twould prattle by the hour; Though scattered far about, Its remnants still would blab: Mind, ere this fact you doubt,— It was a female crab. “I felt,” thus spoke the tree, “As down the poet lay, A touch, a thrill, a glee, Ne’er felt before that day. Along my verdant blood A quick’ning sense did shoot, Expanding every bud, And rip’ning all my fruit. “What sounds did move the air, Around me and above! The yell of mad despair, The burning sigh of love! Ambition, guilt-possessed, Suspicion on the rack, The ringing laugh and jest, Begot by sherris-sack! “Since then, my branches full Of Shakespeare’s vital heat, My fruit, once crude and dull Became as honey sweet; And when, o’er plain and hill, Each tree was leafless seen, My boughs did flourish still In everlasting green.” And thus our moral food Doth Shakespeare leaven still, Enriching all the good And less’ning all the ill;— Thus, by his bounty shed Like balm from angel’s wing, Though winter scathe our head, Our spirits dance with spring. With reference to the first of the following essays there recently came into my hands an interesting letter from the author, which may well be quoted here. Walter Savage Landor’s _Citation and Examination of William Shakespeare_ had been published in 1834, and apparently Jerrold’s correspondent had pointed out the similarity of theme:— “11 THISTLE GROVE, LITTLE CHELSEA, “_August 6th (1835)_.