SONNET BY THE LATE COL. ALFRED BATE RICHARDS, Written for the Anniversary Dinner, April 23, 1866, AND RECITED BY DR. JOHN DORAN, F.S.A. (Afterwards published in the Religio Anima by Col. A. B. RICHARDS.) HIS PRAYSE.-1664. Fayre Wifdome's Bridegroome, married to her yong, In feale of promife. That yere laurells bloom'd Colonel Alfred Bate Richards died on the 12th of June, 1876, aged 57 years, and was interred, by his fpecial request, beside the remains of his bofom friend and companion, Frederick Guest Tomlins, in Croydon Parish Churchyard. At page 27, I have reprinted the beautiful lines written by Colonel Richards in memory of his friend. They were originally printed and circulated by my esteemed friend Mr. Effingham Wilfon, to whom I am indebted for the following tribute to the worth and character of Colonel Richards : "Colonel Richards was a man of no common or every-day power, poffeffed of no common or ordinary force, but one who, like a star 'the darkest night, fticks fiery off indeed.' His was a nature towards which little children yearned, that women adored, and that men admired, being indeed an altogether exceptional inftance of great mental and physical strength, combined with fingular gentleness and tenderness -at once bold and refolute, and confiderate and loving. As poet, as dramatift, as a fearless and able journalist, as originator of great national movements, and, above all, as a patriot, he has alike made his high and enduring mark upon the time in which he lived." His TOMLINS. Died Sept. 21, 1867, aged 63 years. NE, who ne'er aged in spirit to the last; Though Winter's finest frostwork blanch'd his head, In thought and afpect; fraught with laughter clear, And Poverty as tender as the touch Of mother on her babe. Whene'er he came Into the place where those who knew him fat, 'Tis like a draught of rare Elixir fpilt, When we are met without him. Each fhall oft, The form of every entering visitant, Saying, ""Tis late, he comes not!" Then the mist Rife like a curtain, and with hollow tone Death, sternest Prompter of this worldly stage, The cue give back of truth. IIE will ne'er chide In playful glee, or fmile on us again. Friends! mourn not more than he would have us mourn, Could he the limits of our grief prescribe; Not as Immortals, but as mortals frail, Left a few ftages on the felf-fame road Meanwhile we'll think he fits At SHAKESPEARE's feet, and cheerful bid "Good-night" Unto that genial Spirit fhrined in joy Such as, perchance, he dreamt of, times agone. November, 1867. A. B. RICHARDS. Sonnet, BY EFFINGHAM WILSON, ESQ. COLONEL RICHARDS'S "CROMWELL." T laft our day of long and yearning queft, Beholds a great stage-aim most nobly urged, Thought from the foulless darkness hath emerged, In which our drama all debafed did reft. A lofty spirit, dealing with the past— The God-moved paft that wrought out England's good Has feized creatively its grandeft mood, And bodied forth what Years shall prove will last. 66 Cromwell, our chief of men" (faith Milton's rhyme), Lifted this dear land into high renown, Free Confcience bade our island glory crown, And England left-a broader Thought through Time! From "The South London Prefs." THE STORY OF SHAKESPEARE WRITTEN AND READ BY DR. B. W. RICHARDSON, M.A., F.R.S., For the occafion of the SHAKESPEAREAN FESTIVAL, held at the ST. JOHN'S GATE, CLERKENWELL, APRIL 23rd, 1873. E. L. BLANCHARD, ESQ., Prefident. W. SAWYER, Esq., Vice-President. W I. HEN our Shakespeare was born, in the Sun was a storm But the fire enkindled was tempered to form By the strange HUMAN HEART! So 'twas that he knew beft. II. ET his fcholars grow old, and beneath the rich store To the strange HUMAN HEART! It was that he III. ROM Nature, wherever he met her, he stole Some fecret she never before had confeft. Her treasures were his; but the tell-tale of Soul, The strange HUMAN HEART! It was that he knew beft. IV. ROM the earth to the Heaven, in radiance of flame, HE true worship of the genius of the "Sweet Swan of Avon," as "rare Ben Jonfon" fo lovingly addreffed the great Dramatist, is thus carried out by the members of this literary brotherhood, and De Quincy and Washington Irving, could they revifit the land where William Shakespeare lived, and the fpots in Stratfordupon-Avon and London that have become hallowed by affociation with his name and movements, would, I am sure, write one more delightful effay on his sweetness, and recount once more the never-fading traditions that have grown around the name of the Bard, and lent the charm of the myrtle and the fragrance of the rofe, to the noble growth that is the delight of all men to behold. The annual homage paid by the Urban Club would affuredly come in for their encomiums, and to those who have had the privilege and honour of being prefent at these celebrations, this statement is no mere affertion. The eloquent fpeeches, or better, effays, on the Immortal Memory of Shakespeare, the claffical difquifitions on the ancient and modern drama, the anecdotal autobiography of the prefident for the time being, are events never to be forgotten. The high-toned intellects who mufter in great force on these occafions, and indeed at the ordinary meetings, have made this Club one of the foremost literary affociations of England. |