CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS
WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead,Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts;He whose revered and silver-crownëd headLies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,Peer of the grandest of your race and state;Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!For, even while the trembling hand of ageDwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain soundSmote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,The Master-minstrel all your being found;Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,And charmed with music the high paths to truth.Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth riseAbove the grave where your great Laureate lies.The laurel wreath of Spencer should not graceA front less high than this majestic brow,The stamp imperial graved upon the face,Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;And with the outgrowth of a fertile heartBlooming and fruiting in the close of art.That hand whichmighthave grasped yon silent lyre,And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ranStrains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,Whom will ye find to wearhiswingëd helmOr ridehischarger down the lists of time?The new Pendragon—where can such be found?Alas, not one of all your Table Round!Let none the storied chords of that clear harpRestrike in service dissonant and vain;Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;Hang up the shining wires above his headAnd leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.
WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead,Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts;He whose revered and silver-crownëd headLies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,Peer of the grandest of your race and state;Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!For, even while the trembling hand of ageDwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain soundSmote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,The Master-minstrel all your being found;Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,And charmed with music the high paths to truth.Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth riseAbove the grave where your great Laureate lies.The laurel wreath of Spencer should not graceA front less high than this majestic brow,The stamp imperial graved upon the face,Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;And with the outgrowth of a fertile heartBlooming and fruiting in the close of art.That hand whichmighthave grasped yon silent lyre,And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ranStrains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,Whom will ye find to wearhiswingëd helmOr ridehischarger down the lists of time?The new Pendragon—where can such be found?Alas, not one of all your Table Round!Let none the storied chords of that clear harpRestrike in service dissonant and vain;Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;Hang up the shining wires above his headAnd leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.
WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead,Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts;He whose revered and silver-crownëd headLies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.
WHOM would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead,
Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts;
He whose revered and silver-crownëd head
Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts;
Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien,
His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.
Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,Peer of the grandest of your race and state;Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!
Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt,
Amidst the dust of your illustrious great,
He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped,
Peer of the grandest of your race and state;
Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime—
A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!
For, even while the trembling hand of ageDwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain soundSmote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,The Master-minstrel all your being found;Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,And charmed with music the high paths to truth.
For, even while the trembling hand of age
Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound
Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage,
The Master-minstrel all your being found;
Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth,
And charmed with music the high paths to truth.
Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth riseAbove the grave where your great Laureate lies.
Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone,
And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse;
Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone;
Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse;
All, all in vain—no Star of Song doth rise
Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.
The laurel wreath of Spencer should not graceA front less high than this majestic brow,The stamp imperial graved upon the face,Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;And with the outgrowth of a fertile heartBlooming and fruiting in the close of art.
The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace
A front less high than this majestic brow,
The stamp imperial graved upon the face,
Fervently lighted with the poet's vow;
And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart
Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.
That hand whichmighthave grasped yon silent lyre,And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ranStrains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.
That hand whichmighthave grasped yon silent lyre,
And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might,
Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir,
Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light;
Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran
Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.
But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,Whom will ye find to wearhiswingëd helmOr ridehischarger down the lists of time?The new Pendragon—where can such be found?Alas, not one of all your Table Round!
But now, the Arthur of your poet realm,
Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme,
Whom will ye find to wearhiswingëd helm
Or ridehischarger down the lists of time?
The new Pendragon—where can such be found?
Alas, not one of all your Table Round!
Let none the storied chords of that clear harpRestrike in service dissonant and vain;Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;Hang up the shining wires above his headAnd leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.
Let none the storied chords of that clear harp
Restrike in service dissonant and vain;
Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp;
Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain;
Hang up the shining wires above his head
And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.