POETRY.
IN MEMORIAM: ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. [OCTOBER 12Ta, 189?.]
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LAST left of the great Immortals, art thou too mortal at last, Best part so long of the present, must thou too pass to the past ?
Thou halt slept in the moonlight and lapsed in a glory from rest into rest, And still is the teeming brain, and the warm heart cold in the breast, And frozen the exquisite fancy, and mute the magical tongue From our century's tuneful morn to its hushing eve that had sung.
Crowned poet and crown of poets whose wealth and whose wit could combine Great echoes of old-world Homer, the grandeur of Milton's line, The sad sweet glamour of Virgil, the touch of Horace divine, Theocritus' musical sigh, and Catullus daintily fine !
Poet of Art and of Nature, of sympathies old and new, Who read in the earth and the heavens, the fair, and the good and the true, And who wrote no line and no word that the world will ever rue !
Singer of God, and of men, the stars were touched by thy brow, But thy feet were on English meadows, true singer of England thou!
We lose thee from sight, but thy brothers with honour receive thee now, From earliest Chaucer and Spenser to those who were nearer allied, The rainbow-radiance of Shelley and Byron's fiery pride, Rich Keats and austere Wordsworth, and Browning who yesterday died By sunny channels of Venice, and Arnold from Thames' green side.
Wreaths be strung, and dirges be sung for the laurelled hearse, Our tears and our flowers fall scarce more fast than our transient verse, For even as the refluent crowds from the glorious Abbey disperse, They are all forgotten, and we go back to our little lives ; But we are the dying and thou the living whose work survives The sum and the brief of our time, to report to the after-years Its thoughts and its loves and its hopes and its doubts and its faiths and its fears; They live in thy lines for ever, and well may our era rejoice To speak to the ages to come with so sweet and so noble a voice.
T. HERBERT WARREN.
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