That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, While digging a grave for him here: The others who died, says your poet, Have glory,--let _him_ have a tear. _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ TENNYSON LX THE ANSWER You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent: Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho’ Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great-- Tho’ every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand-- Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. _Tennyson._ LXI FREEDOM Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fullness of her face-- Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes! _Tennyson._ LXII BATTLE SONG Thy voice is heard thro’ rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee. _Tennyson._ LXIII VICTORIA’S REIGN Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen; And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet