The Song of Tennyson

His song's abounding, clear, and tranquil river
Flows through the land, beneficently broad,
Flows fertilising ; mirrors in its journey
Whate'er pertains to our imperial race
Of a most ancient Order's pillared state,
Time-tinttd Custom, firm palatial Law,
Reverend spires of hoar consoling Faith,
And comfortable homes of wedded Peace
On daisied lawn a-flower ; the grange, the glebe,
The lordly park, where wander English girls,
Beautiful, pure, in play linked, or with youths,
Ruddy and stalwart, loyal gentlemen
Of cleanly life, their lovers ; village maidens ;
Bucolic men, dry humour in their talk.
His flowing music haunts the murmuring grove.
Full-flowered meadow, fields alive with corn,
The gentle hills and dewy vales we love,
Where dainty, delicate birdnotes meander,
With lyric warble of the woodland rill.
More subtle-toned than bird, or rippling rill,
This human strain of Tennysonian song.
Our loveliest looser of brief flights of song.
Free-floater of toy navies of light ditty
Was he, on whose deep, ample-bosomed river
Of clearest English undefiled there shine
Barges rich wrought from realms of old
Romance,
Carrying goodly crews of armoured men,
With armour chased, enamelled in bright hues.
Fair dames in samite raimented ; the knights
Have port of heroes ; holy fires illume
Their eyes, on quests ideal bound ; behold !
Guinevere, Arthur, Galahad ; and poised
Over fantastic gold of dragon-prows
A wondrous Vision, like the Holy Grail !

But these there follow gallant ships that sail.
Or steam, from English harbours proudly launched,
In the full searching light of History,
With scarlet clothed, and blue ; their companies
Show mettle high, indomitable ; aims
Heroic throned on homely weathered faces
Of soldier, sailor, who hath greatly dared
For England ; grand as any Lancelot,
Or Arthur, knights, who loom through mists of time.
And myth colossal. Ah ! what glows of colour.
As from deep-burning airs of orient,
Emblazoning the limpid lapse of song !
Dream figures from the legendary past,
Awake to our new Merlin's waving wand.
And forms familiar of fair famous women
Are mirrored lifelike in the magic glass,
Each at the flowering moment of her fate,
The soul-disclosing hour of her career.
But now Night falls, and starlight flickers cool
Upon the stream ; some piercing tragic cry
From sorrow-rended, living human heart
Disturbs that even flow of the wan water,
And some far sound of rapids breaks the calm.
Then wails a dirge of solemn measured woe,
And wildered question ; yon dark Infinite,
With subtly-woven mysteries of cloud.
Descends within the bosom of the wave,
And hallowed Wisdom finds her dwelling there.
Pale twilight dawns, as of a rising moon,
While Faith uplifts faint pinions of the dirge
That drooped so wearily — the moon hath risen
Upon our Bard's last slumber ! lo ! how grand
He lies, pale marble, warrior gone to rest,
Black-bearded, stately-featured, lofty-browed,
The long life-battle fought, the victory won.

1893.