To Lord Tennyson.
[On hia Eightieth Birthday, August 6,1859.] Master and friend f too swift on noiseless feet Thy hurrying decades fleet with stealthy pace; Yet not the less thy voice is clear and sweet; And still thy genius mingles strength with grace.
Oh thy broad brow alone and reverend face Thy fourscore winters show, not on thy mind. Stay, Time, a little while thy headlong chase; Or passing, one Imzuoital leave behind, For we are weak, and changeful as the wind. For him long since the dying swan would ning. The dead soul pine in splendid misery; He winged the legend of the blameless King, And crossed to Lotnsland the enchanted sea. Heard the twin voices strive for mastery; Faithful and faithless, and with prescient thought Saw Woman iking in the days to be To heights of knowledge in the past unsought; These his eye marked and those his wisdom taught
And he it was whose musing ear o’erheard The love-tale sweet in death and mndfippa end; Who sang the deathless dirge, whose every word
Fashions a golden statue for his friend. May all good things his waning years attend! Who sang of Kizpah mourning for her dea'i, Or in verse sweet as pitying ruth could lend The childish sufferer on her hopeless bed Thoughts pure and high, of precious fancy hrrA His it is still to scan with patient eye The book of Nature, writ with herb an* l * ree » The buds of March unfold, the lush floy drß die When sighs of Autumn wail o’er lav Bn d sea. Aui the great oiks which wheel fr s ® *S° to age, 7 Gold, unregarding fires that Might All yearning hope and chill all ur le ta K» » And yet were dead, and r'M, may be, of light, Till first they swam upop a'mortal’s sight. Master and sear, stay yet, for there isnone Worthy to take thy place to-day, or wear Thy laurel when thy singing days are done. A a yet the balls of song are mute and bare, Nor voice melodious wakes the tuneless air. Save some weak faltering accents faintly beard. Hay with us,* ’neath thy spell the world grows fair. Our hearts revive, cur inmost souls are stirred, And all our English race awaits thy latest word! Lewis Morris.
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To Lord Tennyson., Evening Star, Issue 8024, 28 September 1889, Supplement
To Lord Tennyson. Evening Star, Issue 8024, 28 September 1889, Supplement
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