little do they suspect what is to befal them. Two hundred miles! and she never sleeps in a carriage! Well, patience be with them, and comfort and peace! A pleasant journey to them! And to her all happiness! She is a most kind and excellent person, one for whom I would do anything in my poor power-ah, even were it to listen to her another four days. SHAKSPEARE. BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. purer Deeply reverent as are now the countless worshippers of Shakspeare, there breathed not one, perhaps who worshipped the bard with a more ardent and feeling, than Laman Blanchard; in proof of which let these lines testify, which were written-On the first page of a volume intended for the reception of essays and drawings illustrative of Shakspeare: LIKE one who stands On the bright verge of some enchanted shore, As if the tranced listener to invite Into that world of light. Thus stood I here, Musing awhile on these unblotted leaves, Entwined the volume-fill'd with grateful lays, No sound I heard, But echoed o'er and o'er our Shakspeare's name, Whose song is still the same; Or each was as a flower, with folded cells For Plucks and Ariels! Visions not brief, though bright, which frosted age Hath failed to rob of one diviner hue, Making them more familiar, yet more new These flashed into the page; A group of crowned things-the radiant themes Of crowned things (Rare crowns of living gems and lasting flowers), Some in the human likeness, some with wings Dyed in the beauty of ethereal springs Some shedding piteous showers Of natural tears, and some in smiles that fell Here Art had caught The perfect mould of Hamlet's princely form - The frantic Thane, fiend-cheated, lived, methought; Here Timon howl'd; anon, sublimely wrought, Stood Lear amid the storm; There Romeo droop'd, or soared, while Jacques, here, Still watched the weeping deer. And then a throng Of heavenly natures, clad in earthly vest, The rich lipp'd Rosaline, all light and song, Low-voed Cordelia, with her stifled sighs, The page, turned o'er, Show'd Kate - or Viola-my Lady Tongue,' The lost Venetian, with her living Moor; Till on a poor, love-martyr'd mind I look — With sweet Anne Page The bright throng ended; for, untouched by time, Crowded the leaf, to vanish at a swoop, Here sate, entranced, Malvolio, leg trapp'd; - he who served the Jew With Bottom and his crew; Mercutio, Benedick, press'd points of wit, At these, ere long, Awoke my laughter, and the spell was past; The altar has been rear'd, an offering fit- O! who now bent In humble reverence, hopes one wreath to bind Who stood alone, but not as one apart, 11 |