But when his soul shook off its clay, And hied, its labour done, to God, Throughout the land that he had trod, ’Twas felt “A King is dead to-day!” XXI. And now, when centuries have flown, Some shout, “Come, build a monument, For all arrears of poet-rent,”-- As if _he_ needed brass or stone! XXII. O man! how oft thy acts have lied! Thou crushest those who strive to live, And makest poor pretence to give Fame unto him thou can’st not hide. XXIII. And some are honoured, being dead, By those who coldly turned aside, And gave them, living, but their pride, When they, perhaps, were needing bread! XXIV. Yet not to all such honour comes-- Only a few bright names are known Of all the “simple, great ones gone”-- The most are only found on tombs. XXV. But one shall never pass away-- His, who was born in Stratford town, When brave Queen Bess wore England’s crown, Three hundred years ago to-day! SPRING. I. O grand, old Earth of God’s and ours, Once more thou doffest winter’s veil, Once more the budding trees and flowers And birds’ sweet music bid thee hail! II. Is it a time for joy or care, O Earth?--a time to laugh or weep? What myriads in thy bosom sleep, And we shall soon lie sleeping there! III. O Earth! ’tis hard to understand Why thou should’st thus thy children crave! For art thou not a mighty grave, Though strewn with flowers by God’s good hand? IV. Thou hearest not, amid thy mirth, Nor carest though thy children die, And senseless in thy bosom lie, Cold and unthought of, cruel Earth! V. And yet, O Earth! a little seed, Dropt by man’s hand within thy heart, Thou makest great, and dost impart To him again for every need! VI. O Earth! if seed that man lets fall Into thy heart, thou givest thus Back thirty, sixty-fold to us, Thou art not cruel, after all! VII. Nor dost thou, Earth, thy children crave; ’Tis God that sows them as His seed, And by and bye they shall be freed, As beauteous flowers for him who gave. VIII. O gay, Spring Earth of God’s and ours,-- Nay, rather, thou and we are His, And sun and stars and all that is,-- We bid thee hail with birds and flowers! IN MEMORIAM. I. Our days of happiness Time hurries by, As though in haste his envy found relief; But in our nights of anguish his cold eye Lingers upon us, gloating o’er our grief,-- Yet in the past we fain would live again, Forgetting, for the gladness, all the pain. II.