"NOT OT to be tuneless in old age!" Who, in his Winter's snow, Still sings with note as sweet and clear When the first violets blow! Blest!-but more blest, whom Summer's heat, Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat, Have taught no feverish lure; Whose Muse, benignant and serene, Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green Because his verse is pure! Lie calm, O white and laureate head! Since from the voiceless grave, Thy voice shall speak to old and young CHARLES GEORGE GORDON "RATHER be dead than praised," he said, That hero, like a hero dead, In this slack-sinewed age endued "Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we, Who loved thee, now that Death sets free Our pain Nay, let us hold, be mute. H VICTOR HUGO E set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow, The strife and stress of Nature's warring things, Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings. He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo! Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII. RIEF there will be, and may, GRI When King Apollo's bay Is cut midwise; Grief that a song is stilled, Not so we mourn thee now, Since thou thy song didst raise, Grief there may be, and will, Sinks in the song; When that the winged rhyme Fails of the promised prime, Not thus we mourn thee-we- Since, like a clearing flame, Nay-nor for thee we grieve Lost as the stars that set, Empty of men's regret, Rather we count thee one Who, when his race is run, Calm-through all coming days, Filled with a nation's praise, |