The Passing of Tennyson
s his own Arthur fared across the mere,With the grave Queen, past knowledge of the throng,
Serene and calm, rebuking grief and tear,
Departs this prince of song.
Whom the gods love, Death does not cleave nor smite,
But like an angel, with soft trailing wing,
He gathers them upon the hush of night,
With voice and beckoning.
But like an angel, with soft trailing wing,
He gathers them upon the hush of night,
With voice and beckoning.
The moonlight falling on that august head,
Smoothed out the mark of time’s defiling hand,
And hushed the voice of mourning round his bed—
“He goes to his own land.”
Smoothed out the mark of time’s defiling hand,
And hushed the voice of mourning round his bed—
“He goes to his own land.”
Beyond the ramparts of the world, where stray
The laurelled few o’er fields Elysian,
He joins his elders of the lyre and bay,
Led by the Mantuan.
The laurelled few o’er fields Elysian,
He joins his elders of the lyre and bay,
Led by the Mantuan.
We mourn him not, but sigh with Bedivere,
Not perished be the sword he bore so long,
Excalibur, whom none is left to wear—
His magic brand of song.
Not perished be the sword he bore so long,
Excalibur, whom none is left to wear—
His magic brand of song.
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