_Encyclopædia Britannica._ 7th edition, 1838. Article on Shakespeare. The following fine apostrophe to Shakespeare occurs at the end of De Quincey’s essay “On the knocking at the gate in _Macbeth_”:—O, mighty poet! Thy works are not as those of other men, simply and merely great works of art; but are also like the phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, the stars and the flowers,—like frost and snow, rain and dew, hailstorm and thunder, which are to be studied with entire submission of our own faculties, and in the perfect faith that in them there can be no too much or too little, nothing useless or inert,—but that, the further we press in our discoveries, the more we shall see proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where the careless eye had seen nothing but accident. JOHN STERLING, 1839 (1806-1844) “_Shakespeare._” How little fades from earth when sink to rest The hours and cares that moved a great man’s breast! Though nought of all we saw the grave may spare, His life pervades the world’s impregnate air; Though Shakespeare’s dust beneath our footsteps lies, His spirit breathes amid his native skies; With meaning won from him for ever glows Each air that England feels, and star it knows; His whispered words from many a mother’s voice Can make her sleeping child in dreams rejoice, And gleams from spheres he first conjoined to earth Are blent with rays of each new morning’s birth. Amid the sights and tales of common things, Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths of kings, Of shore, and sea, and nature’s daily round, Of life that tills, and tombs that load the ground, His visions mingle, swell, command, pace by, And haunt with living presence heart and eye; And tones from him by other bosoms caught Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought, And the long sigh, and deep impassioned thrill, Rouse custom’s trance, and spur the faltering will. Above the goodly land more his than ours He sits supreme enthroned in skyey towers, And sees the heroic brood of his creation Teach larger life to his ennobled nation. O! shaping brain! O! flashing fancy’s hues! O! boundless heart kept fresh by pity’s dews! O! wit humane and blythe! O! sense sublime For each dim oracle of mantled Time! Transcendent Form of Man! in whom we read Mankind’s whole tale of impulse, thought, and deed; Amid the expanse of years beholding thee, We know how vast our world of life may be; Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as thine, Small tasks and strengths may be no less divine. _Poems._ 1839, p. 151. HENRY HALLAM, 1839 (1777-1859)