ODE TO THE MEMORY Of TENNYSON.

Otago Witness, Issue 2085, 8 February 1894, Page 39

ODE TO THE MEMORY Of TENNYSON.

Dark are the heavens, all wrapped in funeral

black, Darkly the long seas break upon the shore, All earthly things their wonted beauty lack, Mourning because our greatest is no more. Oh ! faint about the city walls the rich, dim mists

are flying, Oh ! faintly in the magic halls the deep, sad music

dying, Oh 1 wild along the drear, dark shore the souls of

men are crying, Oh . softly from the night-gvey strand the blackdraped barge is creeping, Oh t sadly on tne heights above the multitude are weeping, For the singer who made our minds his throne And a hundred thousand hearts his own His last long sleep is sleeping. He is gone from us forever, silent is the voice that seemed so great. There is none to follow like— him none, and loud

we murmur at our fate. Greater singers may arise— greater, stronger, in the golden days to be, But to-day he seems the grandest, and he will be evermore to me. I, who lingered long and sadly ocr the In Memoriam's" pregnant lines ; Sate with lone CEnone far in Ida, 'mid the

whispering mountain pines ; Loved with him the " Miller's Daughter, loved with him the passionate, graceful Maud, Raved with him in cells of madness, turned with him to faith and hope and God ; Heard the mighty thunder of the distant battle roll adown the wind, Saw the golden future dawning, and the winding ways of human mind ; Revelled in the woman's quaint, prophetic rising

'gainst the rule of man, Saw the promise almost finished in the half of life's allotted span ; Heard the merry music dancing in the love songs at the window quaint, Heard the echo of a world of sorrow through the

living lyric's dying faint ; Read the simple grand old idylls—" Enoch Arden,' " Dora," " Aylmerß Field," And the song of songs, that sang the soul armed against the flesh with lance and shield : Song of songs— the saddest, tenderest epic any language ever knew, Deeper than the ocean voice of Milton— deeper, sweeter, and more true. Grandest, and the purest type, thine Arthur, of the monarch and the map. Brightest, noblest, truest spirit all of earth since firfat the world began ; Terror of the heathen battle, lightnings playing

on his silver helm. Kindly judge and noble victor, dealing out redress to all his realm. Then majestic in his sadness, moving on towards his final doom, Pardoning that deepest treason, moving hence a ghost amid the gloomGhost for gloomy eyes, now no longer ghost, but living, breathing king, Borne aloft above the shadows on the song's broad-spread, eternal wing. Let us wander o'er the Penland round about his boyhood's ways, Where his soul was wont to linger in the morning of his days ; Let us look across the meadows, taste his hope and dream his dream, Learn how oft the dream is real and the things that are but seem ; See with him the heavens brightening with the

promise of the dawn, Hear with him the voice that echoes from the

mountain far withdrawn, Answering in no tongue of man the plaintive voice upon the slope, Up from Sin's dark shadowed valley, crying, Is

there any hope ? " In no tongue of man the answer, but the awful rose of dawn, With its promise of a noonday brightening, ever on and on. , Ah 1 that promise of the noonday, never more to sink in night, Teeming harvests of the earth to gather in the J 3: endless light; Harvest of the mine and cornland, harvest of the mighty deep, Harvest of the human mind and heart, to ripen and to reapNay, the harvest of the heart we reap to day with toil and tears, Then with ease a fuller measure in the summer of the years. See the fertile valley opening out above the misty wood, . All the individual withered in the common human good — War drums silenced, nations mingled, enmities of old forgiven, Tyrants crushed and minds enfranchised, earth become a second heaven ; Wonders of the land and ocean never dreamt of in our day, Earth he told us yet aninfant, gaining strength in idle play. No 1 not idle— for the Blower ever is the surer change, Wings that are at first but feeble learn at length their wider range. Ah I he saw the glory dawning, saw the hope, but feared its fall, Taught us all to dream the dream and made us ready for the call ; Ready for the call to battle for the truth and for the right, For tho future that he painted all in words of living light. Oh ! earth shall miss the singer's voice, That made the downs of old rejoice, ] That painted all with brightest fancies The woods and flower 3he made his choice. He wooed the lily and the rose, To wed his passion or repose, And made the bearded sea of barley Ripple and dance at summer's close. The sea-blue bird and glinting wren He drew from forest and from fen, And sought the lonely nightingale, To sing the sorrows and loves of men. He brought the sunrise tinta of morn, The robes by triple rainbow worn, And all the hues of the sky and ocean His many-coloured thought to adorn. He brought the wealth of agea past, He brought his store of fancies vast, ! And wove them all with subtle magic, A spell around our minds to cast. He made the hours of sunshine bright, He softened all the shades of night, He made the earth a fairy kingdom Of ever-changing sound and sight. Light sound, it is no time for the, No more shall his bright music dance, Or with new dreams our minds entrance : His ship is on the boundless sea. The bar i 3 crossed, he comes no more, He moves with all his canvas spread Across the ocean of the dead To some far, heavenly island shore. Yet he has left us all his best, And earned both heaven and earth s "Well done ! " In clouds of glory sinks his sun— Well has he earned his meed of rest. For none has left such perfect song In all the' diverse ways he chose— From morning to the sunset close His voice was ever pure and strong. No cleaner page than his can be. No passion deeper than he told, No warmer tints of red and gold, And yet from all pollution free. Bury the singer of all the years Deep amid wreathed flowers and tears : The flowers he loved, the teara were his to command, He shaped our joy and sorrow ; But to-morrow and to-morrow His voice, is silent in the land,

Come away, he is not here, His spirit lives with God oh high ; Shed but a single passing tear, Breathe but a single sigh. His soul is in the page he gave, The song ia great beyond the grove, Perchance it shall be given By the white-robed seraph choir, Accompanied in dome and spire By some mighty organ pealing— Angel notes of triumph stealing — Or stored in the eternal libraries of heaven. Ours the loss and his the gain, Selfish is the throb of pain, Honour him for what he wrought, Take the wealth of all his thought, And thank the God who sent the prophet sage To lead us upward to the golden age ! —David M'Kee Wut Table Tops, Hakateramea Valley. gut.