The Death of Tennyson

The last of all our mighty bards is low,
And who is left to wear the conqueror's crown ?
Bays all too ample for a lesser brow.
I mourn the Master- singer and the friend.
In at the oriel, as he passed, the moon
Shone at her full ; the stars looked ; but no light
Kindled by human hands confused the beam
Wherewith God ushered him to worlds unknown.
After the day's long task, accomplished well.
He with the failing sense of one who faints
From life to life beheld them, and the lands
In elf-light lying, field, moor, autumn wood
Meet emblems of a fortune-favoured life,
And ordered art, a fair, serene domain.

So that loud-pealing thunderstorm which rapt
The eagle soul of Byron from our ken
In yon far land, -in Greece, with birth-throes torn
Of revolution, 'mid the clash and clang
Of turbulent war, was emblem meet for him,
Who from hot heart and idol-shattering soul
Rolled the wild torrent of impetuous song,
'Whelming old landmarks ; exile young and broken,
Whose dying lips might frame not their last wish
To that one hired dependent ; ah ! not so
Our later master, Tennyson, went forth
From us but now ; for he, from that pure home
Deserved success had made for him, went forth,
Whispering words of love from his true heart
To her true heart who loved him through the years.
One hand on the dear volume he had opened,
His Shakespeare; slept, well worn with noble use,
Gently as when a child he fell asleep,
His mother keeping her love-vigil o'er him.
Then the moon hallowed that sublime repose,
As of pale marble in cathedral gloom.

1892.