The hushed repose of some fair temple's shade
Falls on the pilgrim when he treads the ways
Where first the world to Shakespeare's childish gaze
Disclosed its wonders when his footsteps strayed;
Where, fired with love, he roamed the forest glade,
Storing clear memories for other days;
And where, at last, acclaimed and crowned with bays,
He dropped the lyre no other hand has played.
Fame watches o'er the deathless poet's sleep,
Her fanfares echoing still their wild applause,
While sweet Melpomene and Thalia weep,
For theirs no more the grandest flight that soars,
But lower planes where smaller spirits sweep,
Whose whispers sound like waves on distant shores.