Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MARY ARDEN, by ERIC MACKAY First Line: O thou to whom, athwart the perished days Last Line: And call thee england's pride forevermore! Subject(s): Arden, Mary (d. 1608); Dramatists; Mothers; Plays & Playwrights; Poetry & Poets; Shakespeare, William (1564-1616) | ||||||||
O THOU to whom, athwart the perished days And parted nights, long sped, we lift our gaze, Behold! I greet thee with a modern rhyme, Love-lit and reverent as befits the time, To solemnize the feast-day of thy son. And who was he who flourished in the smiles Of thy fair face? 'T was Shakespeare of the Isles, Shakespeare of England, whom the world has known As thine, and ours, and Glory's, in the zone Of all the seas and all the lands of earth. He was unfamous when he came to thee, But sound, and sweet, and good for eyes to see, And born at Stratford, on St. George's Day, A week before the wondrous month of May; And God therein was gracious to us all. He loved thee, lady! and he loved the world; And, like a flag, his fealty was unfurled; And kings who flourished ere thy son was born Shall live through him, from morn to furthest morn, In all the far-off cycles yet to come. He gave us Falstaff, and a hundred quips, A hundred mottoes from immortal lips; And, year by year, we smile to keep away The generous tears that mind us of the sway Of his great singing, and the pomp thereof. His was the nectar of the gods of Greece, The lute of Orpheus, and the Golden Fleece Of grand endeavor; and the thunder-roll Of words majestic, which, from pole to pole, Have borne the tidings of our English tongue. He gave us Hamlet; and he taught us more Than schools have taught us; and his fairylore Was fraught with science; and he called from death Verona's lovers, with the burning breath Of their great passion that has filled the spheres. He made us know Cordelia, and the man Who murdered sleep, and baleful Caliban; And, one by one, athwart the gloom appeared Maidens and men and myths who were revered In olden days, before the earth was sad. Ay! this is true. It was ordained so; He was thine own, three hundred years ago; But ours to-day; and ours till earth be red With doom-day splendor for the quick and dead, And days and nights be scattered like the leaves. It was for this he lived, for this he died: To raise to Heaven the face that never lied, To lean to earth the lips that should become Fraught with conviction when the mouth was dumb, And all the firm, fine body turned to clay. He lived to seal, and sanctify, the lives Of perished maids, and uncreated wives. And gave them each a space wherein to dwell; And for his mother's sake he loved them well And made them types undying of all truth. O fair and fond young mother of the boy Who wrought all this -- O Mary! -- in this thy joy Didst thou perceive, when, fitful from his rest, He turned to thee, that his would be the best Of all men's chanting since the world began? Didst thou, O Mary! with the eye of trust Perceive, prophetic through the dark and dust Of things terrene, the glory of thy son, And all the pride therein that should be won By toilsome men, content to be his slaves? Didst thou, good mother! in the tender ways That women find to fill the fleeting days, Behold afar the Giant who should rise With foot on earth, and forehead in the skies, To write his name and thine among the stars? I love to think it; and in dreams at night I see thee stand, erect, and all in white, With hands out-yearning to that mighty form, As if to draw him back from out the storm -- A child again, and thine to nurse withal. I see thee, pale and pure, with flowing hair, And big, bright eyes -- far-searching in the air For thy sweet babe -- and, in a trice of time, I see the boy advance to thee, and climb, And call thee "Mother!" in ecstatic tones. Yet if my thought be vain -- if, by a touch Of this weak hand, I vex thee overmuch -- Forbear the blame, sweet Spirit! and endow My heart with fervor while to thee I bow Athwart the threshold of my fading dream. For -- though so seeming-bold in this my song -- I turn to thee with reverence, in the throng Of words and thoughts, as shepherds scanned afar The famed effulgence of that eastern star Which ushered in the Crowned One of the heavens. In dreams of rapture I have seen thee pass Along the banks of Avon, by the grass, As fair as that fair Juliet whom thy son Endowed with life, but with the look of one Who knows the nearest way to some new grave. And often, too, I've seen thee in the flush Of thy full beauty, while the mother's "Hush!" Hung on thy lip, and all thy tangled hair Re-clothed a bosom that in part was bare Because a tiny hand had toyed therewith! Oh! by the June-tide splendor of thy face When, eight weeks old, the child in thine embrace Did leap and laugh -- O Mary! by the same, I bow to thee, subservient to thy fame, And call thee England's Pride forevermore! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 1. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 2. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL YOUR SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL TO AN ARTIST, TO TAKE HEART by LOUISE BOGAN THE SAVING WAY by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE EXPENSE OF SPIRIT by ALICE FULTON YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE SAY by JAMES GALVIN SHAKESPEARE'S GRAVE by ROBINSON JEFFERS |
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