All freedom vanish'd, The true men banish'd, Hetriumphs; maybe we shall stand alone. Britons, guard your own. His soldier-ridden Highness might incline To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine: Shall we stand idle, Nor seek to bridle Peace-lovers we- sweet Peace we all His rude aggressions, till we stand alone! desire Make their cause your own. That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. May freedom's oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day; That man's the best Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. Hands all round! God the tyrant's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. A health to Europe's honest men ! Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den, From iron limbs and tortured nails! We curse the crimes of southern kings, God the tyrant's cause confound! To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round What health to France, if France be she, Than vanquish all the world in arms. Her frantic city's flashing heats But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee and we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers To fight thy mother here alone, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsman in the West, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. THE WAR. * THERE is a sound of thunder afar, Storm of battle and thunder of war, Form! form! Riflemen form! Be not deaf to the sound that warns ! Let your Reforms for a moment go, Form form! Riflemen form! Form, be ready to do or die! ON A SPITEFUL LETTER.* HERE, it is here- the close of the year, And with it a spiteful letter. My fame in song has done him much wrong, For himself has done much better. O foolish bard, is your lot so hard, I think not much of yours or of mine: This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief? O faded leaf, is n't fame as brief? And I shall live to see it. O summer leaf, is n't life as brief? 1865-1866.+ I STOOD on a tower in the wet, tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? Form in Freedom's name and the Science enough and exploring, Queen's ! True, that we have a faithful ally, But only the Devil knows what means. Wanderers coming and going, Form form! Riflemen form! Ready, be ready to meet the storm! Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form! T. • London Times May 9, 1859. • Once a Week, January 4, 1868. ↑ Good Words, March, 1868. THE WINDOW OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS. WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC. THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN. FOUR years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as "Orpheus with his lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. December, 1870. A. TENNYSON. And women's love and men's! THE mist and the rain, the mist and the rain ! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? And never a glimpse of her window-pane! And I may die but the grass will grow, And the grass will grow when I am gone, And the wet west wind and the world will go on. Ay is the song of the wedded spheres, No will push me down to the worm, And when I am there and dead and gone, The wet west wind and the world will go on. The wind and the wet, the wind and the wet! Wet west wind, how you blow, you blow! And never a line from my lady yet! Is it ay or no? is it ay or no? Blow then, blow, and when I am gone, And you my wren with a crown of gold, The wet west wind and the world may You my Queen of the wrens ! go on. |