So died the Old: here comes the New. Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys And shook a mane en papillotes. And once you tried the Muses too; But men of long-enduring hopes, An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, Is more than all poetic fame. But you, Sir, you are hard to please ; With moral breadth of temperament. And what with spites and what with fears, "They call this man as good as me.” What profits now to understand You talk of tinsel! why, we see That spilt his life about the cliques. A TIMON you! Nay, nay, for shame : STANZAS.* WHAT time I wasted youthful hours, One of the shining wingéd powers, Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers. • The Keepsake. 1851. All freedom vanish'd, The true men banish'd, He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone. Britons, guard your own. His soldier-ridden Highness might in- To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: Nor seek to bridle Peace-lovers we- -sweet Peace we all His rude aggressions, till we stand alone? desire Peace-lovers we- - but who can trust a liar?- Of shameless traitors, We hate not France, but this man's heart Make their cause your own. No man to bear it Swear it! we swear it! Although we fight the banded world alone, We swear to guard our own. Rome's dearest daughter now is captive We love not this French God, this child That man 's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. May freedom's oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day; That man's the best Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. Hands all round! God the tyrant's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. A health to Europe's honest men ! Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den, From iron limbs and tortured nails! We curse the crimes of southern kings, The Russian whips and Austrian rods— We likewise have our evil things; Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods. Yet hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round What health to France, if France be she, Than vanquish all the world in arms. Her frantic city's flashing heats But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, God the tyrant's cause confound! And the great name of England, round and round. THE WAR.* THERE is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the Storm of battle and thunder of war, Form! form! Riflemen form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Form form! Riflemen form! Form, be ready to do or die! ON A SPITEFUL LETTER.* HERE, it is here- the close of the year, My fame in song has done him much For himself has done much better. O foolish bard, is your lot so hard, I think not much of yours or of mine: This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief? O faded leaf, is n't fame as brief? Greater than I-is n't that your cry? O summer leaf, is n't life as brief? 1865-1866.+ I STOOD on a tower in the wet, Have ye aught that is worth the know- Form in Freedom's name and the Science enough and exploring, Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally, means. Wanderers coming and going, he But aught that is worth the knowing?" Form form! Riflemen form! • London Times, May 9, 1859. T. Once a Week, January 4, 1868. + Good Words, March, 1868. THE WINDOW OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN. FOUR years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as "Orpheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. A. TENNYSON. December, 1870. I. ON THE HILL. THE lights and shadows fly! Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane, When the winds are up in the morning? Clouds that are racing above, And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still, All running on one way to the home of my love, You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill, And the winds are up in the morning! Follow, follow the chase! And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face! And my heart is there before you are come and gone, When the winds are up in the morning! Follow them down the slope! And I follow them down to the windowpane of my dear, And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope, And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear, And the winds are up in the morning. II. AT THE WINDOW. VINE, vine and eglantine, Vine, vine and eglantine, GONE! III. GONE! Gone till the end of the year, Gone, and the light gone with her and left me in shadow here! |