[anon.], "The Infant Shakespeare." in The Bijou; (London: William Pickering , 1828)
   
      
         
            
               The Bijou; 
               or Annual of Literature and the Arts
            
            compiled by William Fraser
            
            
               
                  William Pickering
               
               London
            
            1828
            
               
                  pp. 195-197
               
            
         
      
      
         
             195 
            
               The Infant Shakespeare
            
            
               By Unknown
            
            
               BY the living waterspring,
               By the grass- green fairy ring,
               Pillowed on the rathe primrose,
               Lies a boy in rich repose.
               Yet, though honey- dews of sleep
               All his crimson beauty steep — 
               Though like languid lily- bands,
               Fall on earth his infant hands;
               And the veiling eyelids win
               From us all the light within;
               And, but for a passing glow,
               Sculptured stone might seem his brow.
               Yet that marble brow beneath,
               Dreams are born too strong for death;
               Thoughts, as with the stroke of lightning,
               Soul- pervading, smiting, brightning.
               Mighty visions are awake,
               That shall yet the nations shake;
                196 
               In that sleeping form enshrined,
               Powers, and mysteries of mind;
               That shall utter more than spell
               Of a more than Oracle!
            
            
            
               Now, on his enchanted sleep,
               See the rich creations sweep;
               Mark the lifting of his hand,
               It has grasped a fancied wand;
               Spirits, to its waving bowed,
               Spring from earth, and fire and cloud.
            
            
            
               Now he smiles! a kingly pomp
               Comes with shout and silver tromp;
               Or along the burnished waters
               Float some fairy island's daughters
               Or, as day's empurpled smile,
               Fades on the cathedral pile;
               Incense- winged the evening prayer,
               Rises on the dewy air.
            
            
            
               See, the sudden writhing brow!
               See, the stealing tear below!
               From his lip has gone the word,
               Darkness from its depths is stirred;
               And on fiery blasts are born,
               Howling terrors, shapes forlorn.
            
            
             197 
            
               But again the laughing lip
               Quivers with the matchless quip;
               Wit, with diamond point and play,
               Bright for ever and for aye:
               Boy, to witch the world — arise!
               On that rose bank — SHAKSPEARE lies!