FROM TALBOT'S HAWKS, A ROMANCE

Beneath the roots of these old trees
That shade the river bends,
There lie the buried images
That once were Shakespere's friends;
As still as in his theatre,
Beside their thrilling dames,
They never stir, beneath the fir,
That lulls the river James.

The vine, whose dye of royal red,
The locust tree ascends,
Takes splendor from the perished
That once were Shakespere's friends:
His mind luxuriant seems to bloom,
His ardent nature flames,
And from their charnel sheds perfume
Along the river James.

Around their rest no hates endure,
His noble mind forfends —
The holy rites of Literature
Were said o'er Shakespere's friends;
They talked the lofty style he wrote
And coursed heroic fames,
And through the Tempest sailed their boat
Unto the river James.

These saw the bard a man, like them,
Though so his scope transcends
That we would think his garment's hem
Was kissed by Shakespere's friends;
But poor disciple fishermen,
That fancy lifts to fames,
Were no more apostolic, then,
Than those who fished the James.

If men would of his Scripture learn
Life's universal ends, —
Bend o'er this old colonial urn,
That once held Shakespere's friends!
There is for each his own career,
But dust for all our aims, —
Imagination bounds our sphere;
Life is the city, James.

Yet far, afar, dissolving forms
Will find infinite blends,
Like to the moisture in the storms,
The dew of Shakespere's friends;
The globe, evaporate, goes on,
Itself the mote reclaims,
And nought is lost when all is gone:
Bloom on! O city James!