Ye massive pillars! Which have viewed the spray
Far, far away upon the impulsive tide
For countless years—ye too must pass away.
For at His fiat who shall then abide?
And He who changeth not, He who hath made
All things of earth we love to change and die,
Hath made thee beautiful, that ’neath thy shade
Vain man may muse upon his immortality.
THE POET LAUREATE.
ALFRED AUSTIN.
The lyre is mute, the strings unstrung,
The muse hath left the song unsung;
He weareth on his poet’s brow
A fairer wreath than men bestow
Or fame may give.
As leaves are scattered o’er the mould,
Unheeded by the world so cold,
Yet, traced indelibly on stone,
Their shapes remain through ages flown,
So sweet words live.
His pleasure was a healthy mind,
Teaching man’s duty to mankind;
No thought of glory or of gain
Centred within that brilliant brain
But love to men.
Oh, life! Oh, death! Thou hast no sting!
Swiftly upon thy glorious wing,
Trembling, within the golden maze,
He passed to pour his sweetest lays
Beyond our ken.
His ivory casket lies at rest
In that dear island of the west;
His song hath ceased, his rest is won,
And peace is his at set of sun,
For he hath led
Some weary mortals to the spheres
Of fancy, far from pensive tears,
Where, in imagination’s bliss,
They hung upon a poet’s kiss.
Oh, happy dead!
And Britain mourns him not alone,
And not because of sculptured stone,
Or tributes great, or elegy,
Will her laureate remembered be,
But in her heart.
Though rugged be the path to fame,
Yet history hath writ his name
A star of magnitude that shines;
For fame, whose lustre few entwines,
Hath crowned his art.
