The shoulders sink beneath new-rising cause,
And the fine thought has lost its moving charm;

Because of these shall puny sages shake
Their heads, and haste to mock the failing one,
Who in his strength could make the nations quake;

Prophet like Daniel, King like Solomon!
In this full time we have seen mockers run
About the throne of such as Tennyson.






TENNYSON

Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?
Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old,
His sceptre falls? Oh, carpers rude and bold,
You who have fed upon the gracious benison

Scattered unstinted by him, do you now
Dispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous
'Neath fingers overworn for all of us?
You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.

He lives above your idle vaunts and fears,
Enthroned where all master souls stand up