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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=472527" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Shakespeare</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION</div><div style="margin:10px 0">APRIL 23, 1864</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown,<br>Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep,<br>Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?<br>Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep;<br>Shall warring aliens share her holy task?'<br>The Old World echoes ask.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">O land of Shakespeare! ours with all thy past,<br>Till these last years that make the sea so wide;<br>Think not the jar of battle's trumpet-blast<br>Has dulled our aching sense to joyous pride<br>In every noble word thy sons bequeathed<br>The air our fathers breathed!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">War-wasted, haggard, panting from the strife,<br>We turn to other days and far-off lands,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Live o'er in dreams the Poet's faded life,<br>Come with fresh lilies in our fevered hands<br>To wreathe his bust, and scatter purple flowers,--<br>Not his the need, but ours!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We call those poets who are first to mark<br>Through earth's dull mist the coming of the dawn,--<br>Who see in twilight's gloom the first pale spark,<br>While others only note that day is gone;<br>For him the Lord of light the curtain rent<br>That veils the firmament.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The greatest for its greatness is half known,<br>Stretching beyond our narrow quadrant-lines,--<br>As in that world of Nature all outgrown<br>Where Calaveras lifts his awful pines,<br>And cast from Mariposa's mountain-wall<br>Nevada's cataracts fall.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet heaven's remotest orb is partly ours,<br>Throbbing its radiance like a beating heart;<br>In the wide compass of angelic powers<br>The instinct of the blindworm has its part;<br>So in God's kingliest creature we behold<br>The flower our buds infold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With no vain praise we mock the stone-carved name<br>Stamped once on dust that moved with pulse and breath,<br>As thinking to enlarge that amplest fame<br>Whose undimmed glories gild the night of death:<br>We praise not star or sun; in these we see<br>Thee, Father, only thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thy gifts are beauty, wisdom, power, and love:<br>We read, we reverence on this human soul,--<br>Earth's clearest mirror of the light above,--<br>Plain as the record on thy prophet's scroll,<br>When o'er his page the effluent splendors poured,<br>Thine own 'Thus saith the Lord!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This player was a prophet from on high,<br>Thine own elected. Statesman, poet, sage,<br>For him thy sovereign pleasure passed them by;<br>Sidney's fair youth, and Raleigh's ripened age,<br>Spenser's chaste soul, and his imperial mind<br>Who taught and shamed mankind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Therefore we bid our hearts' Te Deum rise,<br>Nor fear to make thy worship less divine,<br>And hear the shouted choral shake the skies,<br>Counting all glory, power, and wisdom thine;<br>For thy great gift thy greater name adore,<br>And praise thee evermore!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In this dread hour of Nature's utmost need,<br>Thanks for these unstained drops of freshening dew!<br>Oh, while our martyrs fall, our heroes bleed,<br>Keep us to every sweet remembrance true,<br>Till from this blood-red sunset springs new-born<br>Our Nation's second morn!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Oliver+Wendell+Holmes">Oliver Wendell Holmes</a><div class=q>
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APRIL 23, 1864

'Who claims our Shakespeare from that realm unknown,
Beyond the storm-vexed islands of the deep,
Where Genoa's roving mariner was blown?
Her twofold Saint's-day let our England keep;
Shall warring aliens ..."></div>
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