To the Author of "Ion"

I could not come to shed a man's rare tears With those who honour'd, and who lov'd, thy play; My heart said "yes," but the sick room said "nay," And the good doctor with his earnest fears. Yet I was with thee,—saw thine high compeers, Wordsworth and Landor,—saw the piled array, The many-visag'd heart, looking one way, Come to drink beauteous truth at eyes and ears.

Now said I to myself,—The scenes arise; Now comes the sweet of name whom great Love sunders From love itself; now, now he gives the skies The heart they gave (sweet thought 'gainst bitter wonders!) And ever and aye, hands, stung with tear-thrill'd eyes, Snapping the silence, burst in crashing thunders.

Yes, I beheld the old accustom'd sight, Pit, boxes, galleries; I was at "the play;" I saw uprise the stage's strange floor-day, And music tuning as in tune's despite; Childhood I saw, glad-faced, that squeezeth tight One's hand, while the rapt curtain soars away,— And beauty and age, and all that piled array— Thousands of souls drawn to one wise delight.

A noble spectacle!—Noble in mirth— Nobler in sacred fellowship of tears! I've often ask'd myself what sight on earth Is worth the fancying of our fellow spheres; And this is one—whole hosts in love with worth, Judging the shapes of their own hopes and fears.

Fine age is ours, and marvellous—setting free Hopes that were bending into grey despairs, Winnowing iron like chaff, outspeeding the airs, Conquering with smoky flag the winds at sea, Flinging from thund'rous wheels, immeasurably, Knowledge like daily light: so that man stares, Planet struck with his work-day world, nor dares Repeat the old babble of what "shall never be."

A great good age!—Greatest and best in this,— That it strikes dumb the old anti-creeds, which parted Man from the child—prosperity from the bliss Of faith in good—and toil of wealth unthwarted From leisure crown'd with bay, such as thine is, Talfourd a lawyer prosperous and young-hearted.