LORD TENNYSON

Thou makest thine appeal to me:

I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath :

I know no more.' And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,

Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw

With ravine, shriek'd against his creed

Who loved, who sufFer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust,

Or seal'd within the iron hills ?

No more ? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime,

Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail !

O for thy voice to soothe and bless !

What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil.

��Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down ; Unloved, that beech will gather brown,

This maple burn itself away ;

�� �