This poem was first published in the fourth edition of the poems 1846. No alterations were made in it after 1851. The poem had a message for the time at which it was written. The country was in a very troubled state. The contest between the Protectionists and Free-traders was at its acutest stage. The Maynooth endowment and the “godless colleges” had brought into prominence questions of the gravest moment in religion and education, while the Corn Bill and the Coercion Bill had inflamed the passions of party politicians almost to madness. Tennyson, his son tells us, entered heartily into these questions, believing that the remedies for these distempers lay in the spread of education, a more catholic spirit in the press, a partial adoption of Free Trade principles, and union as far as possible among the different sections of Christianity. Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote: It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me: we that day had been Up Snowdon; and I wish’d for Leonard there, And found him in Llanberis:[1] then we crost Between the lakes, and clamber’d half-way up The counterside; and that same song of his He told me; for I banter’d him, and swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the _how much_ before the _how_, Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, “Give,[2] Cram us with all,” but count not me the herd! To which “They call me what they will,” he said: “But I was born too late: the fair new forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be caught— Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown’d— Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of yestermorn. “We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; The dark Earth follows wheel’d in her ellipse; And human things returning on themselves Move onward, leading up the golden year. “Ah, tho’ the times, when some new thought can bud, Are but as poets’ seasons when they flower, Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore,[3] Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, And slow and sure comes up the golden year. “When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, But smit with freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker man Thro’ all the season of the golden year. “Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year. “Fly happy happy sails and bear the Press; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross; Knit land to land, and blowing havenward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. “But we grow old! Ah! when shall all men’s good Be each man’s rule, and universal Peace