II

Glory beyond all flight of warlike fame
  Go with the warrior’s memory who preferred
  To praise of men whereby men’s hearts are stirred,
And acclamation of his own proud name
With blare of trumpet-blasts and sound and flame
  Of pageant honour, and the titular word
  That only wins men worship of the herd,
His country’s sovereign good; who overcame
Pride, wrath, and hope of all high chance on earth,
For this land’s love that gave his great heart birth. 
  O nursling of the sea-winds and the sea,
Immortal England, goddess ocean-born,
What shall thy children fear, what strengths not scorn,
  While children of such mould are born to thee?

SONNETS

ON

ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS

(1590-1650)

I

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

Crowned, girdled, garbed and shod with light and fire,
  Son first-born of the morning, sovereign star! 
  Soul nearest ours of all, that wert most far,
Most far off in the abysm of time, thy lyre
Hung highest above the dawn-enkindled quire
  Where all ye sang together, all that are,
  And all the starry songs behind thy car
Rang sequence, all our souls acclaim thee sire.

“If all the pens that ever poets held
  Had fed the feeling of their masters’ thoughts,”
  And as with rush of hurtling chariots
The flight of all their spirits were impelled
  Toward one great end, thy glory—­nay, not then,
  Not yet might’st thou be praised enough of men.

II

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

Not if men’s tongues and angels’ all in one
  Spake, might the word be said that might speak Thee. 
  Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, mountains, yea, the sea,
What power is in them all to praise the sun? 
His praise is this,—­he can be praised of none. 
  Man, woman, child, praise God for him; but he
  Exults not to be worshipped, but to be. 
He is; and, being, beholds his work well done. 
All joy, all glory, all sorrow, all strength, all mirth,
Are his:  without him, day were night on earth. 
  Time knows not his from time’s own period. 
All lutes, all harps, all viols, all flutes, all lyres,
Fall dumb before him ere one string suspires. 
  All stars are angels; but the sun is God.

III

BEN JONSON

Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform,
  With many a valley impleached with ivy and vine,
  Wherein the springs of all the streams run wine,
And many a crag full-faced against the storm,
The mountain where thy Muse’s feet made warm
  Those lawns that revelled with her dance divine
  Shines yet with fire as it was wont to shine
From tossing torches round the dance aswarm.