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Gave to the garbaging war-hawk to gorge it, and

That gray beast, the wolf of the weald.

XV

Never had huger
Slaughter of heroes
Slain by the sword-edge-
Such as old writers

Have writ of in histories
Hapt in this isle, since
Up from the East hither
Saxon and Angle from
Over the broad billow
Broke into Britain with
Haughty war-workers who
Harried the Welshman, when
Earls that were lured by the
Hunger of glory gat
Hold of the land.

ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH

[ILIAD, XVIII. 202]

First printed in 'The Nineteenth Century' for August, 1877.

So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus; and round

The warrior's puissant shoulders Pallas

flung

Her fringed ægis, and around his head
The glorious goddess wreath'd a golden
cloud,

And from it lighted an all-shining flame.
As when a smoke from a city goes to heaven
Far off from out an island girt by foes,
All day the men contend in grievous war
From their own city, but with set of sun
Their fires flame thickly, and aloft the glare
Flies streaming, if perchance the neighbors
round

May see, and sail to help them in the war;
So from his head the splendor went to hea-

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For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills,

Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town,
So rang the clear voice of Æakidês;
And when the brazen cry of Æakidês
Was heard among the Trojans, all their
hearts

Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl'd

The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand;

And sheer-astounded were the charioteers To see the dread, unweariable fire

That always o'er the great Peleion's head Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess made it burn.

Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout,

Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies;

And there and then twelve of their noblest died

Among their spears and chariots.

TO PRINCESS FREDERICA ON HER MARRIAGE

Written on the marriage of Princess Frederica of Hanover to Baron Alphonse de PawelRammingen at Windsor, April 24, 1880; and included in the 'Ballads' volume.

The Princess was the daughter of George V. of Hanover, who died June 12, 1878.

O YOU that were eyes and light to the King till he past away

From the darkness of life

He saw not his daughter - he blest her: the blind King sees you to-day, He blesses the wife.

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER

ABBEY

Written in 1877, and included in the 'Ballads' volume.

NOT here! the white North has thy bones; and thou,

Heroic sailor-soul,

Art passing on thine happier voyage now Toward no earthly pole.

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This volume was published in 1885, with the following dedication:

TO MY GOOD FRIEND

ROBERT BROWNING

WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY

WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST

AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST

THIS VOLUME

IS

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

Mr. Arthur Waugh ('Alfred Lord Tennyson,' 2d ed., London, 1893), remarks: 'It is characteristic of a certain shyness in Tennyson that he never told Browning of the dedication, and it was not until the book was in the hands of the public that the latter learned the circumstance from a friend.'

The poems that follow, as far as the lines' To H. R. H. Princess Beatrice,' were included in the 'Tiresias' volume. The Idyll, ‘Balin and Balan,' also appeared in this volume for the first time.

TO E. FITZGERALD

This introduction to the poem that follows was apparently written on or about March 31, 1883, when Fitzgerald was seventy-five years of age. He was rather more than a year older than Tennyson, who was born August 6, 1809. He died June 14, 1883, before the volume containing the poem was published.

OLD FITZ, who from your suburb grange,
Where once I tarried for a while,
Glance at the wheeling orb of change,
And greet it with a kindly smile;
Whom yet I see as there you sit

Beneath your sheltering garden-tree,
And watch your doves about you flit,

And plant on shoulder, hand, and knee,

Or on your head their rosy feet,

As if they knew your diet spares
Whatever moved in that full sheet

Let down to Peter at his prayers;
Who live on milk and meal and grass;
And once for ten long weeks I tried
Your table of Pythagoras,

And seem'd at first a thing enskied,'
As Shakespeare has it, airy-light

To float above the ways of men,
Then fell from that half-spiritual height
Chill'd, till I tasted flesh again
One night when earth was winter-black,
And all the heavens flash'd in frost;
And on me, half-asleep, came back
That wholesome heat the blood had lost,

And set me climbing icy capes

And glaciers, over which there roll'd

To meet me long-arm'd vines with grapes
Of Eshcol hugeness; for the cold
Without, and warmth within me, wrought
To mould the dream; but none can say
That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought
Who reads your golden Eastern lay,
Than which I know no version done
In English more divinely well;
A planet equal to the sun

Which cast it, that large infidel
Your Omar; and your Omar drew

Full-handed plaudits from our best In modern letters, and from two,

Old friends outvaluing all the rest, Two voices heard on earth no more; But we old friends are still alive, And I am nearing seventy-four,

While you have touch'd at seventy-five, And so I send a birthday line

Of greeting; and my son, who dipt In some forgotten book of mine

With sallow scraps of manuscript, And dating many a year ago,

Has hit on this, which you will take, My Fitz, and welcome, as I know,

Less for its own than for the sake Of one recalling gracious times,

When, in our younger London days, You found some merit in my rhymes, And I more pleasure in your praise.

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