Poem by William Watson

To Lord Tennyson

      (WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE)

Master and mage, our prince of song, whom Time,
  In this your autumn mellow and serene,
  Crowns ever with fresh laurels, nor less green
Than garlands dewy from your verdurous prime;
Heir of the riches of the whole world's rhyme,
  Dow'r'd with the Doric grace, the Mantuan mien,
  With Arno's depth and Avon's golden sheen;
Singer to whom the singing ages climb,
Convergent;—if the youngest of the choir
  May snatch a flying splendour from your name
Making his page illustrious, and aspire
  For one rich moment your regard to claim,
Suffer him at your feet to lay his lyre
  And touch the skirts and fringes of your fame.

1. In Laleham Churchyard
2. On Landor's “Hellenics”
3. Mensis Lacrimarum
4. England to Ireland
5. Art Maxims

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