"CROSSING THE BAR."
"TWILIGHT AND EVENING BELL,
AND AFTER THAT THE DARK"
"AND MAY THERE BE NO SADNESS OF FAREWELL,
WHEN I EMBARK."—TENNYSON.
There is no harshness in that mellow note,
No blot upon those bays;
For loyal love and knightly valour rang
Through rich immortal music when he sang.
ARTHUR, his friend, the Modern Gentleman,
ARTHUR, the hero, his ideal Knight,
Inspired his strains. From fount to flood they ran
A flawless course of melody and light.
A Christian chivalry shone in his song
From Locksley Hall to shadowy Lyonnesse,
Whence there stand forth two figures, stately, strong,
Symbols of spirit's stress;
The blameless King, saintship with scarce a blot,
And song's most noble sinner, LANCELOT.
Lover of England, lord of English hearts,
Master of English speech, painter supreme
Of English landscape! Patriot passion starts
A-flame, pricked by the words that glow and gleam
In those imperial pæans, which might arm
Pale cowards for the fray. Touched by his hand
The simple sweetness, and the homely charm
Of our green garden-land
Take on a witchery as of Arden's glade,
Or verdant Vallombrosa's leafy shade.
The fragrant fruitfulness of wood and wold,
Of flowery upland, and of orchard-lawn,
Lit by the lingering evening's softened gold,
Or flushed with rose-hued radiance of the dawn;
Bird-music beautiful; the robin's trill,
Or the rook's drowsy clangour; flats that run
From sky to sky, dusk woods that drape the hill,
Still lakes that draw the sun;
All, all are mirror'd in his verse, and there
Familiar beauties shine most strangely fair.
Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,
To Beauty's Fairy World, in classic calm
Or rich romantic colour. Bagdat's shrine
By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,
Avilion's bowery hollows, Ida's peak,
The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields
Of amaranth! What may vagrant Fancy seek
More than thy rich song yields,
Of Orient odour, Faëry wizardry,
Or soft Arcadian simplicity?
From all, far Faëry Land, Romance's realm,
Green English homestead, cloud-crown'd Attic hill,
The Poet passes—whither? Not the helm
Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
Avilion's fair horizons, gleamed more bright
Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light.
Grave eye, and gracious brow
Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
To face the Light that floods him evermore.
Farewell! How fitlier should a poet pass
Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
Of poor earth's purest radiance? Love, alas!
Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream.
But we—we hear thy manful music still!
A royal requiem for a kingly soul!
No sadness of farewell! Away regret,
When greatness nears its goal!
We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
Divinely piloted beyond the bar!