eet and sour forever blent,
While vice and virtue side by side
Exist in every continent.
The poison vine that climbs the tree,
Is just as great in Nature's plan
As every mount and every sea
Displayed below for little man.
And every ant and busy bee
Shall teach us how to build and toil
If we would mingle with the free,
Who plough the seas or till the soil._

I shall never forget the visit Shakspere and myself paid to the cloistered,
columned, pinnacled proportions of Westminster Abbey.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon of the 24th of December, 1592.

The living London world was rushing in great multitudes by alley, lane,
street and park preparing for the celebration of Christmas Eve.

Vanity Fair was decked off with palm, spruce, pine, myrtle, ivy and holly
to garnish home, hall and shop in honor of Jesus, who had been crucified
nearly sixteen hundred years before for telling the truth and tearing down
the vested arrogance of religious tyranny.

A bright winter sun was gilding the tall towers of the Abbey with golden
light, and the mullioned windows were blazing over the surrounding
buildings like flashes of fire.

We entered the court of Westminster through the old school by way of a
long, low passage, dimly lighted corridors, with glinting figures of old
teachers in black gowns, moving like specters from the neighboring tombs.

As we passed along by cloistered walls and mural monuments to vanished
glory, we were soon within the interior of the grand old Abbey.

Clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with lofty arches springing from
wall to nave met the eye of the beholder, and stunned by the solemn
surroundings, vain man wonders at his own handiwork, trembling with doubt
amid the monumental glory of Old Albion.

The Abbey clock struck the hour of five as William and myself stood in deep
contemplation at Poets' corner.

The reverberating tones of time echoed from nave to floor, through
cloistered walls and columned aisles, noting the passing hour and ages,
like billows of sound rolling over the graves of vanished splendor.

Here crumble the dust and effigies of courtiers, warriors, statesmen,
lords, dukes, kings, queens and authors; and yet, there is no spot in the
Abbey that holds such an abiding interest for mankind as the modest corner
where lie the dust of noted poets and philosophers.

The great and the heroic of the world may be bravely admi