ON THE DEATH OF ALFRED TENNYSON by CONDE BENOIST PALLEN

Who took the laurel from the brow
Of him, who uttered nothing base,
And ever bore it in the vase
Of purity, O Master, thou,

Of virgin song, when round thee beat
The lustful rhythm of a time,
That welds false passion with false rhyme
Like some fierce Titan in the heat

Of unregenerate desire;
Thou, turning to sublimer spheres,
Made measure of the changing years
With chastest song, and, all afire

With vestal passion fed the flame
Of poesy with holy oils;
And kept unsullied from the toils
Of grosser things the hallowed name

Of poet. We who love thy fame
And follow still thy luminous star,
A beacon light beyond the bar,
Pray now for thee the sweet acclaim

Of Avalon saluting there
Tumultuously the pure of heart,
Whose song e'er scorned the baser part,
And kept the lily's whiteness fair.

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