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TO LORD TENNYSON.

_ON HIS EIGHTY-SECOND BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6, 1891._

Ay! "After many a summer dies the Swan."[1]
But singing dies, if we may trust the Muse.
And sweet thou singest as when fully ran
Youth's flood-tide. Not to thee did Dawn refuse
The dual gift. Our new Tithonus thou,
On whom the indignant Hours work not their will,
Seeing that, though old age may trench thy brow,
It cannot chill thy soul, or mar thy skill.
Aurora's rosy shadows bathe thee yet,
Nor coldy. "Give me immortality!"
Tithonus cried, and lingered to regret
The careless given boon. Not so with thee.
Such immortality is thine as clings
To "happy men that have the power to die."
The Singer lives on whilst the Song he sings
Charms the world's heart. Such immortality
Is better than unending lapse of years.
For that the great god-gift, Eternal Youth,
Accompanies it; the failures, the chill fears
Tithonus knew thou may'st be spared in truth,
Seeing that thine Aurora's quickening breath
Lives in thee whilst thou livest, so that thou
Needst neither dread nor pray for kindly Death,
Like "that grey shadow once a man." And now,