GOLD AND GOSSAMER

Whence is thy song,

Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!

Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;

The dews of eve; the mists of morn;

The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;

Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;

Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong —

Ah! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng?—

Thence is thy song!

Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,

The passionate love of Juliet;

Thy villainous art can weave a net

With shreds of song, that never yet

Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure.

Ophelia's broken heart is thine,

And Desdemona's, true and good;

Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of blood

That will not out in stain or line!

Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!

And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!

Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?

Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!