That man 's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. May freedom's oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day;' That man's the best Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. Hands all round! God the tyrant's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. A health to Europe's honest men ! Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den, From iron limbs and tortured nails! We curse the crimes of southern kings, God the tyrant's cause confound! To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round What health to France, if France be she, Than vanquish all the world in arms. Her frantic city's flashing heats But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee and we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood? But let thy broadsides roar with ours. God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. THERE is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the Storm of battle and thunder of war, Form! form! Riflemen form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! Form form! Riflemen form! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Form form! Riflemen form! Form, be ready to do or die! ON A SPITEFUL LETTER.* HERE, it is here- the close of the year, My fame in song has done him much For himself has done much better. O foolish bard, is your lot so hard, I think not much of yours or of mine: This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief? I STOOD on a tower in the wet, Have ye aught that is worth the know- Form in Freedom's name and the Science enough and exploring, Queen's ! True, that we have a faithful ally, Wanderers coming and going, But only the Devil knows what he But aught that is worth the knowing?" means. Form form! Riflemen form! London Times, May 9, 1859. T. Seas at my feet were flowing, * Once a Week, January 4, 1868. FOUR years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as "Orpheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. December, 1870. A. TENNYSON. I. ON THE HILL. THE lights and shadows fly! Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain. A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye! O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane, When the winds are up in the morning? Clouds that are racing above, And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still, All running on one way to the home of my love, You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill, And the winds are up in the morning! Follow, follow the chase! And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on. O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face? And my heart is there before you are come and gone, When the winds are up in the morning! Follow them down the slope! And I follow them down to the windowpane of my dear, THE mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? And never a glimpse of her window-pane! And I may die but the grass will grow, And the will grass grow when I am gone, And the wet west wind and the world will go on. Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, No will push me down to the worm, And when I am there and dead and gone, The wet west wind and the world will go on. The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet! Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow! And never a line from my lady yet! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, And you my wren with a crown of gold, The wet west wind and the world may You my Queen of the wrens ! go on. MARRIAGE MORNING. LIGHT, so low upon earth, All my wooing is done. O the woods and the meadows, Woods where we hid from the wet, You flash and lighten afar : By meadow and stile and wood : O lighten into my eyes and my heart, Into my heart and my blood! Heart, are you great enough For a love that never tires? Over the thorns and briers, And swallow and sparrow and throstle, Over the world to the end of it and have your desire! Flash for a million miles. |