A Fragment of an Idyll.
—So the stately bust abodeFor many a month, unseen, among the Dons.Nor in the lodge, nor in the library,Upon its pedestal appeared, to beA mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood,Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproofTo those who knew not Alfred, being hardAnd narrowed in their honour to old namesOf poets, who had vogue whentheywere young,And not admitting later bards; but now,Last week, a rumour widely blown about,Walking the windy circle of the Press,Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors,Who rule the destinies of Trinity,Had of the sanctuary barred accessUnto the bust of Alfred Tennyson,By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youthWho loved the Poet, hoped to see him setWithin the Library of Trinity,One great man more o' the house, among the great,Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row,Along the chequered marbles of the floor,Two stately ranks—to where the fragrant limesLook thro' the far end window, cool and green.A band it is, of high companionship,—Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam,And others only less than these in artsOr science: names that England holds on high.Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set,The living likeness of a living Bard,—Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate,Whom Trinity most loves of living sons.But other thought had Whewell and the Dons,Deeming such honour only due to thoseUpon whose greatness Death had set his seal.So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doorsUpon the living Poet: for, said one,'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase,Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it,Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?'As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:—'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try,Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.'Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill,Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.''I am not dead: of that I do repent.But to my living prayer, oh now relent.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.''Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide,Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!''Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet;I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.''No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'So sang the Laureate, while all stonily,Their chins upon their hands, as men that hadNo entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.
—So the stately bust abodeFor many a month, unseen, among the Dons.Nor in the lodge, nor in the library,Upon its pedestal appeared, to beA mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood,Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproofTo those who knew not Alfred, being hardAnd narrowed in their honour to old namesOf poets, who had vogue whentheywere young,And not admitting later bards; but now,Last week, a rumour widely blown about,Walking the windy circle of the Press,Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors,Who rule the destinies of Trinity,Had of the sanctuary barred accessUnto the bust of Alfred Tennyson,By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youthWho loved the Poet, hoped to see him setWithin the Library of Trinity,One great man more o' the house, among the great,Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row,Along the chequered marbles of the floor,Two stately ranks—to where the fragrant limesLook thro' the far end window, cool and green.A band it is, of high companionship,—Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam,And others only less than these in artsOr science: names that England holds on high.Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set,The living likeness of a living Bard,—Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate,Whom Trinity most loves of living sons.But other thought had Whewell and the Dons,Deeming such honour only due to thoseUpon whose greatness Death had set his seal.So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doorsUpon the living Poet: for, said one,'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase,Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it,Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?'As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:—'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try,Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.'Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill,Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.''I am not dead: of that I do repent.But to my living prayer, oh now relent.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.''Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide,Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!''Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet;I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.''No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'So sang the Laureate, while all stonily,Their chins upon their hands, as men that hadNo entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.
—So the stately bust abodeFor many a month, unseen, among the Dons.Nor in the lodge, nor in the library,Upon its pedestal appeared, to beA mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood,Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproofTo those who knew not Alfred, being hardAnd narrowed in their honour to old namesOf poets, who had vogue whentheywere young,And not admitting later bards; but now,Last week, a rumour widely blown about,Walking the windy circle of the Press,Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors,Who rule the destinies of Trinity,Had of the sanctuary barred accessUnto the bust of Alfred Tennyson,By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youthWho loved the Poet, hoped to see him setWithin the Library of Trinity,One great man more o' the house, among the great,Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row,Along the chequered marbles of the floor,Two stately ranks—to where the fragrant limesLook thro' the far end window, cool and green.A band it is, of high companionship,—Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam,And others only less than these in artsOr science: names that England holds on high.Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set,The living likeness of a living Bard,—Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate,Whom Trinity most loves of living sons.But other thought had Whewell and the Dons,Deeming such honour only due to thoseUpon whose greatness Death had set his seal.So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doorsUpon the living Poet: for, said one,'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase,Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it,Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?'As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:—'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try,Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.'Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:
—So the stately bust abode
For many a month, unseen, among the Dons.
Nor in the lodge, nor in the library,
Upon its pedestal appeared, to be
A mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood,
Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproof
To those who knew not Alfred, being hard
And narrowed in their honour to old names
Of poets, who had vogue whentheywere young,
And not admitting later bards; but now,
Last week, a rumour widely blown about,
Walking the windy circle of the Press,
Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors,
Who rule the destinies of Trinity,
Had of the sanctuary barred access
Unto the bust of Alfred Tennyson,
By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youth
Who loved the Poet, hoped to see him set
Within the Library of Trinity,
One great man more o' the house, among the great,
Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row,
Along the chequered marbles of the floor,
Two stately ranks—to where the fragrant limes
Look thro' the far end window, cool and green.
A band it is, of high companionship,—
Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam,
And others only less than these in arts
Or science: names that England holds on high.
Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set,
The living likeness of a living Bard,—
Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate,
Whom Trinity most loves of living sons.
But other thought had Whewell and the Dons,
Deeming such honour only due to those
Upon whose greatness Death had set his seal.
So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doors
Upon the living Poet: for, said one,
'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase,
Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it,
Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?'
As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:—
'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try,
Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.'
Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard:
'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill,Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'
'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill,
Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'
'I am not dead: of that I do repent.But to my living prayer, oh now relent.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'
'I am not dead: of that I do repent.
But to my living prayer, oh now relent.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.'
'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide,Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.''Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!'
'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide,
Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.'
'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!'
'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet;I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.''No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'
'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet;
I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.'
'No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!'
So sang the Laureate, while all stonily,Their chins upon their hands, as men that hadNo entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.
So sang the Laureate, while all stonily,
Their chins upon their hands, as men that had
No entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.