TO LORD TENNYSON

Master and mage, our prince of song, whom Time,

In this your autumn mellow and serene,

Crowns ever with fresh laurels, nor less green

Than garlands dewy from your verdurous prime;

Heir of the riches of the whole world's rhyme,

Dow'r' d with the Doric grace, the Mantuan mien,

With Arno's depth and Avon's golden sheen;

Singer to whom the singing ages climb,

Convergent;— if the youngest of the choir

May snatch a flying splendour from your name

Making his page illustrious, and aspire

For one rich moment your regard to claim,

Suffer him at your feet to lay his lyre

And touch the skirts and fringes of your fame.