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DEDICATION. To IDYLLs of THE KING.
THESE to His memory—since he held them
dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself—I dedicate, I dedicate, I consecrate with tears— These Idylls.
And indeed He seems to me Scarce other than my own ideal knight, “Who reverenced his conscience as his king; Whose glory was redressing human wrong; Who spake no slander, no, nor listen’d to it; Who loved one only, and who clave to her—” Her—over all whose realms to their last isle, Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse, Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone: We know him now: all narrow jealousies Are silent; and we see him as he moved, How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, With what sublime repression of himself, And in what limits, and how tenderly; Not swaying to this faction or to that; Not making his high place the lawless
perch Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantageground For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot: for where is he, Who dares foreshadow for an only son A lovelier life, a more unstain'd, than his 2 Or how should England, dreaming of his sons, Hope more for these than some inheritance Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine,
Thou noble Father of her Kings to be, Laborious for her people and her poor— Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day— Far-sighted summoner of War and Waste To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace— Sweet Nature gilded by the gracious gleam Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name, Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good?
Break not, O woman's heart, but still
May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o’ershadow Thee, The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee, The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee, The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,
Till God's love set Thee at his side again. ALFRED TENNYSON.
YoU lay a wreath on murder'd Lincoln's
bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrow'd face,
His gaunt, gnarl’d hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please;
You, whose smart pen back'd up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain;