TRIBUTES TO TENNYSON. To-day is dole in Astolat, and dole In Celidon; the forest dole and tears In joyous garb blackhooded lean the spears, A wailing cometh from the shores that veil Looms through the mist and wet winds weeping blear A dusky barge, which without oar or sail Fades to the far-off fields where falls nor snow nor hail. Of all his wounds he will be healed now; Wounds of harsh time and vulnerable life, Fatigue of rest and weariness of strife, Doubt and the long deep questionings that plough The forehead of age but bring no harvest to the brow. And there he will be comforted; but we Must watch like Percival the dwindling light That slowly shrouds him darkling from our sight. From that great deep to the great deep hath he passed, And if now he knows, is mute eternally. From Somersby's ivied tower there sinks and swells And many a sinewy youth on Cam to-day, Suspends the dripping oar and lets his boat The bole of the broad oak whose knotted knees, In many a vicarage garden dense with age, The haunt of pairing throstles; many a grange Moted against the assault and siege of chance, Fair eyes consult anew the cherished sage, And now and then a tear falls, blistering the page. April will blossom again. Again will ring With cuckoo's call and yaffel's flying scream And in veiled sleep the nightingale will dream, 103 Warbling as if awake, but what will bring His sweet note back? He mute, it scarcely will be spring. The season's sorrow for him and the hours Droop like to bees belated in the rain. In English gardens fringed with English foam And England's glories stirred him, as the swell So England mourns for Merlin, though its tears For hath England lacked a voice to sing Her fairness and her fame, nor will she now. Silence awhile may brood upon the bough, But shortly once again the isle will ring With wakening winds of March and rhapsodies of spring. From Arthur unto Alfred, Alfred crowned Monarch and minstrel both, to Edward's day; Of valor and love hath never ceased to sound; Transmitting through his stock the sacred strain, When fresh renown prolongs Victoria's reign, Some patriot hand will sweep the living lyre And prove with native notes that Merlin was his sire. ALFRED AUSTIN. TENNYSON. No moaning on the bar; sail forth strong ship, And praise, abounding praise, and fame's faint starlight, These were his recreations, These were the inspirations He drew from field and farm; But at the quick alarm, The cry of hearts a-bleeding, He left his cattle feeding, His uplands and the stillness of the morn, And with a heart new born As to redress man's wrong, He forged his song anew, Making it firm and true, To shield the weak and helpless from the strong. O, knightly hand, That dared to grasp the dark, soiled hand Which others spurned! O, tender heart, That ever longed to bear the sufferers' part, Ye now are, mid the sufferer's sorrow, laid at rest. Defender of the oppressed! Stout hater of the wrong! White soul, that burned With all a poet's fire To raise the Nation higher Into God's purer light,— On wings of lofty flight, Which oft have borne thee through the realm of song, Thou now has sought thy rest upon Death's holier height, From which descending to a sunny land, Thou yet shall greet the children on the strand Of a bright golden sea, Bringing a crown for thee, Great, simple singer of the People's heart! ALLEN EASTMAN CROSS. -New England Magazine, November, 1892. TO WHITTIER. ON READING "AN AUTOGRAPH." If thou, O friend, canst say thy name is traced On sands by waves o'errun, or frosted pane, Then why should any seek far heights to gain? What human name but must be swift effaced? 'Tis true, not all the favored sons of Fame Can hope to wear her guerdon through the years; But thy beloved name is writ with tears Through all our nation's life, through doubt, through blame; Through hope, despair; through blood of sacrifice, Deep-graven where no sands from any shore, Nor frosts of time, can touch, forevermore— Beloved bard, upon our heart it lies! JEANIE OLIVER SMITH. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. BORN DECEMBER, 1807. DIED 7TH SEPTEMBER, 1892. FRIEND, thou and I had known each other long I mourn as for a father loved and dear. "The Eternal Gate" is passed, a Freeman thou The fadeless green leaf round thy sunlit brow. "Among the Hills" or on "The Beach" with thee At Nature's shrine I still will bow the knee. "Voices of Freedom" these the nation's heart Stirred to its depths, as for the poor slave sold And scourged, and when but few would take his part, Thou, his true friend, right fearlessly and bold TO J. G. WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH FRIEND, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek Burned in, the flush of manhood's manliest year; Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near! Close on thy footsteps mid the landscape drear Look backwards! from thy lofty height survey |