To Shakespeare

Most tuneful singer, lover tenderest, Most sad, most piteous, and most musical, Thine is the shrine more pilgrim-worn than all The shrines of singers; high above the rest Thy trumpet sounds most loud, most manifest. Yet better were it if a lonely call Of woodland birds, a song, a madrigal, Were all the jetsam of thy sea's unrest. For now thy praises have become too loud On vulgar lips, and every yelping cur Yaps thee a paean ; the whiles little men, Not tall enough to worship in a crowd, Spit their small wits at thee. Ah ! better then The broken shrine, the lonely worshipper.