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I REVIEW OF THE BRITISH CORNI…

MARKETS.I

TIDY FARMING.

LOCAL FAIRS FOR AUGUST.

STANDING JOINT COMMITTEES.

INFANT INSURANCES.

THE TONGUE.

LEWIS .MORRIS TO LORD TENNYSON.

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LEWIS .MORRIS TO LORD TENNYSON. ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6, 1889 Master and friend! too swift on noiseless feet Thy hurrying decades fleet with stealthy pace; Yet not the less thy voice is clear and sweet, And still thy genius mingles strength with grace. On thy broad brow alone and reverend face Thy fourscore winters show, not on thy mind. Stay, Time, a little while thy headlong chase; Or passing, one Immortal ieue behind, For we are weak, and changeful as a wind. For him long since the dying swan wonld sing, The dead soul pine in Bfftendid misery. He winged the legend of the blameless King, And crossed to Lotasland the enchanted sea, Heard the twin voices strive for mastery; Faithful and faithless, and with prescient thought Saw Woman rising in the days to be To heights of knowledge in the past unsought; These his eye marked, and those his wisdom taught. And he it was whose mnsing ear o'erheard The love-tale sweet in death and madness end; Who sang the deathless djtege, whose every word I, Fashions a golden statute for his friend. May all good things hi. waning years attend! Who sang of Rizpah mourning for her dead, Or in vetse sweet as pitying Ruth could lend The childish sufferer OA her hopeless bed Thoughts, pure and high, of precious faney bred. His it is still to scan with patient eye The book of Nature, writ with herb and tree; The bads' of March unfold, the lush flowers die, When sighs of Autumn wail o'erland and sea, And the great orbs whieh wheel from age to age. Cold, unregarding fires that seem to blight All yearning hope and chill all noble rage; And yet were dead, and void, may be, of light, Till first they swam upon a mortal's sight. Master and seer, stay yet, for there is none Worthy to take thy place to-day, or wear Thy laurel when thy singing-days are done. As yet the balls of song are mute and bare, Nor voice melodious wakes the tuneless air, Save some weak, faltering accents faintly heard. Stay with us; neath thy spell the world grows fair; Our hearts revive, our inmost souls are stirred, And all our English race awaits thy latest word

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