POETRY.

TO MARY ARDEN.

(WRITTEN ON SEEING THE ROOM IN WHICH SHAKESPEARE WAS BORN, APRIL 23RD, 1564.) HERE in this room, upon an April day, After a night of groans, her anguish past, A happy mother sank to rest at last, And in her arms her new-born baby lay.

How hushed and still, save for the rumbling wain Or passing voices in the street below !

The gossip moves soft-footed to and fro And draws the curtain o'er the window-pane.

She sleeps ! But wakes and clasps her child again, What rapture fills her heart and lights her eyes! Beyond the joy of womanhood, that cries "A man is born! I have forgot my pain."

Ah, blissful Mary! Lesser, yet more great, Than that imperial Virgin in her pride,* For no fair son shall nestle by her side, Nor after share the splendour of her state.

What though no Queen, thou haat brought forth to-day A kinglier son than that bright Queen shall bear, That crowned Mary,f though he be the heir Of twofold-ball and treble-sceptred sway.

Gazing with awe and love, canst even now, Oh, mother ! with thy finer vision, see The shadow of that round of sovereignty Encompassing his tender baby brow ?

King of an ever-widening vast domain Whose boundaries are not set by Time and Space !

But onward born by this great island-race, Their speech his royal robe of purple grain.

We know thee not, sweet Lady, for in sooth Thine empty name is echoed by Renown.

We see thee from no canvas smiling down, Sitting in beauty and immortal youth.

No poet sang of thee, no page or stone Records thy worth; a heedless nation pays To thee no meed of thankfulness or praise Whose mettle hath composed so great a son.

Thou haat no need of praise, for still thou art A living power amid the world of men, We feel thy gracious influence even as when Thy life-blood beat within his mighty heart.

Unknowing, yet we love thee, noble dame !

We hear thy voice that his young accents taught, Still breathes on us thy spirit finely wrought ; Thou dwell'st eternal, shrined within his fame.

E. P. ROBERTS.