THE WAR.*

THERE is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day,
Storm of battle and thunder of war,
Well, if it do not roll our way.

Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!

Be not deaf to the sound that warns!
Be not gull'd by a despot's plea !
Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns?
How should a despot set men free?
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!

Let your Reforms for a moment go,
Look to your butts and take good aims.
Better a rotten borough or so,

Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames!
Form! form! Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!

Form, be ready to do or die!

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! True, that we have a faithful ally,

But only the Devil knows what he means.
Form! form! Riflemen form!

Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen form!

*London Times, May 9, 1859.

T

ON A SPITEFUL LETTER.*

HERE, it is here -the close of the year,
And with it a spiteful letter.

My fame in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better.

O foolish bard, is your lot so hard,
If men neglect your pages ?

I think not much of yours or of mine:
I hear the roll of the ages.

This fallen leaf, is n't fame as brief?
My rhymes may have been the stronger.
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot;
I last but a moment longer.

O faded leaf, is n't fame as brief?
What room is here for a hater?
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf.
For it hangs one moment later.

Greater than I — is n't that your cry?
And I shall live to see it.

Well, if it be so, so it is, you know;
And if it be so

so be it!

O summer leaf, is n't life as brief?
But this is the time of hollies.

And my heart, my heart is an evergreen:
I hate the spites and the follies.

* Once a Week, January 4, 1868.

1865-1866.*

I STOOD on a tower in the wet,
And New Year and Old Year met,
And winds were roaring and blowing;
And I said, "O years that meet in tears,
Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?
Science enough and exploring,
Wanderers coming and going,
Matter enough for deploring,
But aught that is worth the knowing?
Seas at my feet were flowing,
Waves on the shingle pouring,
Old Year roaring and blowing,
And New Year blowing and roaring.

* Good Words, March, 1868.

THE WINDOW;

OR, THE SONGS OF THE WRENS.

WORDS WRITTEN FOR MUSIC.

THE MUSIC BY ARTHUR SULLIVAN.

FOUR years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little songcycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as "Orpheus with his Lute," and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppet should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. A. TENNYSON.

December, 1870.

I.

ON THE HILL.

THE lights and shadows fly!

Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain.

A jewel, a jewel dear to a lover's eye!

O is it the brook, or a pool, or her window-pane, When the winds are up in the morning?

Clouds that are racing above,

And winds and lights and shadows that cannot be still,

All running on one way to the home of my love, You are all running on, and I stand on the slope of the hill,

And the winds are up in the morning!

Follow, follow the chase!

And my thoughts are as quick and as quick, ever on, on, on.

O lights, are you flying over her sweet little face?

And my heart is there before you are come and gone,

When the winds are up in the morning!

Follow them down the slope!

And I follow them down to the window-pane of my dear,

And it brightens and darkens and brightens like my hope,

And it darkens and brightens and darkens like my fear,

And the winds are up in the morning.

II.

AT THE WINDOW.

VINE, vine and eglantine,
Clasp her window, trail and twine!
Rose, rose and clematis,

Trail and twine and clasp and kiss,
Kiss, kiss; and make her a bower
All of flowers, and drop me a flower,
Drop me a flower.

Vine, vine and eglantine,

Cannot a flower, a flower, be mine?
Rose, rose and clematis,

Drop me a flower, a flower, to kiss,
Kiss, kiss And out of her bower
All of flowers, a flower, a flower,
Dropt, a flower.