Last, but ah! surely not least dear,
That blithe and buxom buccaneer,
Th' avenging goddess of her sex,
Born the base soul of man to vex,
And wring from him those tears and sighs
Tortured from woman's heart and eyes.
Ah! fury, fascinating, fair--
When shall I cease to think of _her_!
Paris, half Angel, half Grisette,
I would that I were with thee yet,
But London waits me, like a wife,--
London, the love of my whole life.
Tell her not, Paris, mercy me!
How I have flirted, dear, with thee.
[1] By kind permission of the Editor of _The Yellow Book_.
ALFRED TENNYSON
(WESTMINSTER, OCTOBER 12, 1892)
Great man of song, whose glorious laurelled head
Within the lap of death sleeps well at last,
Down the dark road, seeking the deathless dead,
Thy faithful, fearless, shining soul hath passed.
Fame blows his silver trumpet o'er thy sleep,
And Love stands broken by thy lonely lyre;
So pure the fire God gave this clay to keep,
The clay must still seem holy for the fire.
Poor dupes of sense, we deem the close-shut eye,
So faithful servant of his golden tongue,
Still holds the hoarded lights of earth and sky,
We deem the mouth still full of sleeping song.
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