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Thy children are robbed, banished and murdered,
And cast away from native land, like leaves
Bestrewing forest wilds, bleak and lone.
Merged in lands of Liberty, thy children
Shall rise again, a new born glorious race-
Triumphant in home, church and State, honored,
Masters of War, Wit, Eloquence and Poetry.
Move out and move on, like the rising sun
Whose face so oft is clouded with shadows,
Yet, shall burst forth again in noonday splendor—
Irradiating a bleak and cruel world!




"I know a bank where the wild thyme blows;
Where ox-lips and the nodding violet grows;
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk roses and the eglantine.”

"Stony limits cannot hold love out;

And what love can do, that dares love attempt."

WE remained in Liverpool three days, and then determined to return to London by land, crossing through the inland shires, taking in Manchester, Sheffield, Derby, Birmingham, Coventry, Warwick, and on to Stratford, where clustered the dearest objects of our affection.

We were ten days walking, riding and resting at taverns, in our rural tour of Old Albion. The fields were furrowed for the grain, the birds sang from every hedge and forest domain, the cattle, sheep and swine grazed in lowing, bleating, grunting security along winding streams, public fields or on the velvet meadows of rich yeoman or lordly estates, while the men, women, boys and girls that we encountered seemed to be infused with the delights of May blossoms, forest wild flowers and re

freshing showers, all noting the practical prosperity of England.

How different these rural scenes to those we had recently encountered in poor down-trodden Ireland, the Niobe of nations, besprinkled with the tears of centuries for the loss of her crushed and exiled children.

Yet, the world is moving upward

To the heights where Freedom reigns;
Where the sunshine of redemption
Shall give joy for all our pains,
When the cruel hands of tyrants
Shall be banished from the land
With our God the only Master

Of Dame Nature true and grand!

We arrived in sight of Stratford as the sun set over the hills of Arden, and as the pigeons and rooks sought their nests for the night, a golden glow flashed over the evening landscape.

The last rays of Sol shone in dazzling splendor upon the pinnacle of old Trinity Church as we gazed with ravished eyes on the winding, glistening Avon, meandering through emerald meadows and whispering wild flowers to the silvery Severn.

The old tavern was still there, but the old host slept in God's acre near by, while the lads we knew ten years before, had, like ourselves, gone out into the world for fame and fortune.

William sought out his father and mother, and then Anne Hathaway and the children, who still resided at the old Hathaway cottage at Shottery. I remained at the tavern for contemplation.

Time and age mellow the most violent spirits; and the temper of Anne had become modified by family troubles, inducing an inward survey of self, which brings a reasonable person to the realization of the fact that he or she is not the only stubborn oak in the forest of humanity.

A practical stubborn wife and a lofty poet never can assimilate.

Shakspere had no equals or superiors. pere was simply SHAKSPERE.

At home he found a scolding wife,
Abroad he felt the joys of life,
While all his glory and renown
Were reaped at last in London town.
He looked for truth in crowds of men,
In field, in street, in tavern,

And mingled with the moving throng
To hear their story and their song,
He pictured life in colors true,
As brilliant as the rainbow hue,
And all his characters display
The pride and passion of to-day.
He cared not for the crowds of men-
As fierce as beasts within a den,
And looked alone to Nature's God
Displayed in heaven, in sea and sod,
And held the scales of justice high-
Uplifted to the sunlit sky,
Weighing the passions of mankind
With lofty and imperial mind.
The Puritan and Pope to him
Were overflowing to the brim


With bigotry and cruel spleen
That desolated every scene.

The midget minds of men in power
He satirized from hour to hour,
And on the stage portrayed the greed
Of those who live by crime and creed.
He tore the masks from royal brows
And showed their guilt and broken vows,
Exposing to the laughing throng
The horrid face of vice and wrong.
In every land and every clime,

He honored truth and punctured crime,
And down the years his god-like rhyme
Shall be synonymous with Time!

We remained among relatives and friends in Warwickshire until the middle of September, when we heard that the London plague had abated and the theatrical profession were busy preparing for a winter campaign of dramatic glory. Shakspere had several plays partly or nearly finished, and, as Burbage and Henslowe desired our immediate services, we took our departure from Stratford, with the friendship of the town echoing in our


The flowers and growing fields, the leafy forests and circling and singing birds seemed to say goodbye, good luck and God bless you!

We felt happy and hopeful ourselves, and consequently Dame Nature echoed the feeling of our souls. All was joy, song, feasting and laughter.

William, on our way to Oxford, in one of his original flights taken from an ode of Horace, impulsively exclaimed:

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