And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers, In streams of gold and purple he is drowned; Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound; He scales a cloudy tower, His fast notes shower. Let every wind be hushed, that I may hear Back the gold gates again, All heaven to men ! So the victorious Poet sings alone, And fills with light his solitary home, And thro' that glory sees new worlds foreshown, And hears high songs and triumphs yet to come; He waves the air of time With thrills of golden chords, And makes the world to climb What if his hair be grey, his eyes be dim, If wealth forsake him, and if friends be cold; Wonder unbars her thousand gates to him, Truth never fails, nor beauty waxeth old; More than he tells, his eyes Behold, his spirit hears, Blest is the man who with the sound of song Of kings, tho' his be poor, Singing thou scalest heaven upon thy wings, Far up the sunny streams, I see his dreams. FREDERICK TENNYSON. FLOWER AND FRUIT. A LITTLE child lay on its mother's knee In shade of summer boughs; and that fond mother Waved in one hand the flowers of a wild tree, And a fair branch of fruitage in the other. Longing he lay, and glancing his blue eyes To fix its choice—he sighed his first-born sighs, Stretched out both arms, and would have clutched them both. A grey old man peeped thro' the leaves, and blessed That lovely child-then sadly turned apart, And, sitting down a little from the rest, Sighed, as he murmured thus to his own heart :— Within the violet's cup no nectar flows, Tho' its rich breath fills the delighted air; When the ripe fruit is glistening on the boughs The lovely blossom is no longer there: When the young sun is arming him at morn, When the swift heart of the enchanted boy And beauty all the treasures of the wise; But when the time-worn heart begins to bud Scarce stirring with the pulses that have been. Ah me! in what immortal hour of time, Nature, shall thy perfections meet together? When youthful hearts, rejoicing in their May, That brings the fruit, but takes away the flower? When Hope and Love, so lavish of delight, Shall laugh and sing, yet crown their early years With those rare buds, more odorous than bright, And that wise spirit, now the growth of tears ? Ah! vexed Life, there is no other wand But Death's cold finger-take him for thy friend; He leadeth Truth and Beauty hand in hand, He brings thee Youth and Knowledge without end. FREDERICK TENNYSON. I THE HONEYSUCKLE. PLUCKED a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair. Thence to a richer growth I came, All virgin lamps of scent and dew. SYMBOLS. DANTE G. ROSSETTI. I WATCHED a rosebud very long, Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower. Then, when I thought it should be strong, And fell at evensong. I watched a nest from day to day, Then, in my wrath, I broke the bough E |