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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,
That dry'd the inke, wherewith he wrote, with fand
Shedde from the houre-glasse of admiring Time.
His birth alone had ftamp'd the nation great
Where he was nurtur'd; for indeed he was
Humanitie's bright effence. None e'er liv'd
Compeere to him, or will; for he made all
His owne, that is. Eche moneth he lay within
His mother's wombe, a feverall Mufe did beare
Her fweeteft companie; thus was he fram'd
To fuch nice fympathyes; and on the daie
He first did stretche his dimpling finger tow'rd
Earth's waving flow'res, Apollo left his throne
To vifit him and kiffe his fmiling brow

In feale of promife. That yere laurells bloom'd
Before their time in this our Britain's ifle.

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,
His cheeks were Autumn roses capt with fnow,
age the Christmas of a happy child

In thought and afpect; fraught with laughter clear,
Full of fweet mirth, quaint humour, fparkling jeft.
In anger quick 'gainst Tyranny-to Grief

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,
Mirth fhone, beneath the sunshine of his eyes,
In every eye around. When he came not,
'Twas like the fhadow of the fhade now fallen
On us who mifs him fo; and shall for all
The fadden'd remnant of our years to come.

'Tis like a draught of rare Elixir fpilt,

When we are met without him. Each fhall oft,
Forgetful, in too vivid memories, fcan

The form of every entering visitant,

Saying, ""Tis late, he comes not!" Then the mist
Shall from yon hufht and fylvan Churchyard scene

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
Whereon he travell'd, whom a little duft
Hides from us now.

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!
Carlyle first Cromwell with full greatness graced―
Genius that Portrait on the stage has placed.

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
Urban Club,

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
And the blaft of the tempeft was lodg'd in his breast;

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
Of the learning they've gathered fink down to their reft;
We, fimpler than they, trace his magical lore

To the strange HUMAN HEART! It was that he
knew beft.

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 wandered and wondered, like one of the bleft;
But the place where he rested, to leave us his name,
Was the strange HUMAN HEART! For 'twas that
he knew beft.

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.

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