Punch (89.1885)

December 26, 1885.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Scene—An Olive Glade under " The Heliconian Ridge." Interlocutors—Lord Tenhtson, Tibesias, and Mr. PCKCH.

Punch.

Tiresias.

Punch.

Tiresias.
Tennyson.

Punch. Fear not, my mellifluous Alfred, we Englishmen know you of old,

With the true knightly steel in your temper, for all that your lips are of gold,

A patriot valiant and wise as that other great Alfred, who smote

The Danes, flew the Dragon-flag sea-ward, and silenced the Raven's hoarse throat.

A story your lips should have sung, as they sung the Arthurian lay.

But, Baron, your ballads have dropt on a barren and bellicose day

1 he olive-glade, my i He ban, ana tne peaii !
But from the watery hollow, clear and cool,
Pallas Athene climbs not.

Better so.

Your blindness were the eclipse of Britain's sun,
In days when darkness dominates o'ermuch
Her " men of light and leading."

Never fear!

Not " gaz:ng on divinity disrobed "

Will dull my patriot vision. Eh, my Bard ?
Like green in winter, music midst the storm,
Comes, ever vernal in despite of time,

Melodious still through Faction's fiercest roar,
Your Muse's latest gift!

The Golden Bough
Bare never mellower fruit since Sappho sang.
Thanks ! Yet I loathe the Lydian flute,

That tootles an effeminate song,

With sickly sweetness making mute

Firm manhood's clarion clear and strong.
I would that through my daintiest Art

Should thrill, with true Tyrlsean might,
" The song that nerves a Nat-ion's hearf,"
And fires the patriot plumed for fight.