The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson Edited, with an introduction, by Desmond Flower |
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| HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED POEMS |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson |  |
HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED POEMS
169
THE PASSING OF TENNYSON
As 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.
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 doth 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 laureled few o'er fields Elysian,
He joins his elders of the lyre and bay,
Led by the Mantuan.
The laureled 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.
170
FANTASIE TRISTE
To my first love
Loved all above;
In late spring;
Pansies, pansies
Such strange fancies
Was all I had to bring.
Loved all above;
In late spring;
Pansies, pansies
Such strange fancies
Was all I had to bring.
To my last love
Loved all above:
At evening
Of autumn
One chrysanthemum
Is all I have to bring.
Loved all above:
At evening
Of autumn
One chrysanthemum
Is all I have to bring.
O first, be last
In a dim past!
With the dead flowers
And the strayed hours
There are no flowers left to bring
There are no songs left to sing
Let be at last.
In a dim past!
With the dead flowers
And the strayed hours
There are no flowers left to bring
There are no songs left to sing
Let be at last.
| The Poetical Works of Ernest Christopher Dowson | |