MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS [1542-1587] WHEN the young hand of Darnley locked in hers The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters, Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown Charles Tennyson Turner [1808-1879] THE ANGELUS [JEAN FRANÇOIS MILLET, 1814-1875] Nor far from Paris, in fair Fontainebleau, A lovely memory-haunted hamlet lies, Whose tender spell makes captive, and defies Ah, Barbizon! With thorns, not laurels, crowned, In Memory of "Barry Cornwall" 3413 UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON THREE Poets, in three distant ages born, John Dryden [1631-1700] IN MEMORY OF "BARRY CORNWALL" [BRYAN WALLER PROCTER, 1787-1874] In the garden of death, where the singers whose names are deathless, One with another make music unheard of men, Where the dead sweet roses fade not of lips long breathless, And the fair eyes shine that shall weep not or change again, Who comes now crowned with the blossom of snow-white years? What music is this that the world of the dead men hears? Beloved of men, whose words on our lips were honey, Whose name in our ears and our fathers' ears was sweet, Like summer gone forth of the land his songs made sunny, To the beautiful veiled bright world where the glad ghosts meet, Child, father, bridegroom and bride, and anguish and rest, No soul shall pass of a singer than this more blest. Blest for the years' sweet sake that were filled and brightened, As a forest with birds, with the fruit and the flower of his song; For the souls' sake blest that heard, and their cares were lightened, For the hearts' sake blest that have fostered his name so long; By the living and dead lips blest that have loved his name, And clothed with their praise and crowned with their love for fame. Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers that close not, That shrink not by day for heat or for cold by night, As a thought in the heart shall increase when the heart's self knows not, Shall endure in our ears as a sound, in our eyes as a light; Shall wax with the years that wane and the seasons' chime, As a white rose thornless that grows in the garden of time. The same year calls, and one goes hence with another, And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake; The same year beckons, and elder with younger brother Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all shall take. They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come; And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsang them dumb. Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous, To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death; But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame us, Nor the lips lack song forever that now lack breath. For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell, Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell. Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909] IN MEMORIAM [LORD RAGLAN, 1788-1855] Aн, not because our Soldier died before his field was won; Ah, not because life would not last till life's long task were done, Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief,—of all our hosts that led Not last in work and worth approved, Lord Raglan lieth dead. In Memoriam 3415 His nobleness he had of none, War's Master taught him war, And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips can mar; Gone to his grave, his duty done; if farther any seek, 'Twas his to sway a blunted sword,-to fight a fated field, While idle tongues talked victory, to struggle not to yield; Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan a field for fight, Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that field aright. Tears have been shed for the brave dead; mourn him who mourned for all! Praise hath been given for strife well striven, praise him who strove o'er all, Nor count that conquest little, though no banner flaunt it far, That under him our English hearts beat Pain and Plague and War. And if he held those English hearts too good to pave the path To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hath? Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and 'mid his soldiers seen, His work was aye as stern as theirs; oh! make his grave as green. They know him well,-the Dead who died that Russian wrong should cease, Where Fortune doth not measure men,—their souls and his have peace; Aye! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody strife, For English Homes our English Chief gave what he had his life. Edwin Arnold [1832-1904] TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US [1564-1616] To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, While I confess thy writings to be such As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. I therefore will begin: Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! |