THE INFANT SHAKSPEARE.

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;