Shakespeare Himself: For The Unveiling Of Mr. Partridge'S Statue Of The Poet.

The body is no prison where we lie     Shut out from our true heritage of sun;     It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly.     Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon,     No ray of light had reached the caverned mind,     No thrill of pleasure through the life had run,     No love of nature or of humankind,     Were it but love of self, had stirred the heart     To its first deed. Such freedom as we find,     We find but through its service, not apart.     And as an eagle's wings upbear him higher     Than Andes or Himalaya, and chart     Rivers and seas beneath; so our desire,     With more celestial members yet, may soar     Into the space of empyrean fire,     Still bodied but more richly than before.     The body is the man; what lurks behind     Through it alone unveils itself. Therefore     We are not wrong, who seek to keep in mind     The form and feature of the mighty dead.     So back of all the giving is divined     The giver, back of all things done or said     The man himself in elemental speech     Of flesh and bone and sinew utterd.     This is thy language, Sculpture. Thine to reach     Beneath all thoughts, all feelings, all desires,     To that which thinks and lives and loves, and teach     The world the primal selfhood of its sires,     Its heroes and its lovers and its gods.     So shall Apollo flame in marble fires,     The mien of Zeus suffice before he nods,     So Gautama in ivory dream out     The calm of Time's untrammelled periods,     So Sigurd's lips be in themselves a shout.     Mould us our Shakespeare, sculptor, in the form     His comrades knew, rare Ben and all the rout     That found the taproom of the Mermaid warm     With wit and wine and fellowship, the face     Wherein the men he chummed with found a charm     To make them love him; carve for us the grace     That caught Anne Hathaway in Shottery-side,     The hand that clasped Southampton's in the days     Ere that dark dame, of passion and of pride     Burned in his heart the brand of her disdain,     The eyes that wept when little Hamnet died,     The lips that learned from Marlowe's and again     Taught riper lore to Fletcher and the rest,     The presence and demeanor sovereign     At last at Stratford calm and manifest,     That rested on the seventh day and scanned     His work and knew it good, and left the quest     And like his own enchanter broke his wand.     No viewless mind! The very shape, no less,     He used to speak and smile with, move and stand!     God is most God not in his loneliness,     Unfellowed, discreationed, unrevealed,     Nor thundering on Sinai, pitiless,     Nor when the seven vials are unsealed,     But when his spirit companions with our thought     And in his fellowship our pain is healed;     And we are likest God when we are brought     Most near to all men. Bring us near to him,     The gentle, human soul whose calm might wrought     Imperious Lear and made our eyes grow dim     For Imogen,--who, though he heard the spheres     "Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim,"     Could laugh with Falstaff and his loose compeers     And love the rascal with the same big heart     That o'er Cordelia could not stay its tears.     For still the man is greater than his art.     And though thy men and women, Shakespeare, rise     Like giants in our fancy and depart,     Thyself art more than all their masteries,     Thy wisdom more than Hamlet's questionings     Or the cold searching of Ulysses' eyes,     Thy mirth more sweet than Benedick's flouts and flings,     Thy smiling dearer than Mercutio's,     Thy dignity past that of all thy kings,     And thy enchantment more than Prospero's.     For thou couldst not have had Othello's flaw,     Not erred with Brutus,--greater, then, than those     For all their nobleness. Oh, albeit with awe,     Leave we the mighty phantoms and draw near     The man that fashioned them and gave them law!     The Master Poet found with scarce a peer     In all the ages his domain to share,     Yet of all singers gentlest and most dear!     Oh, how shall words thy proper praise declare,     Divine in thy supreme humanity     And near as the inevitable air?     So he that wrought this image deemed of thee;     So I, thy lover, keep thee in my heart;     So may this figure set for men to see     Where the world passes eager for the mart,     Be as a sudden insight of the soul     That makes a darkness into order start,     And lift thee up for all men, fair and whole,     Till scholar, merchant farmer, artisan,     Seeing, divine beneath the aureole     The fellow heart and know thee for a man.