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<h2> TENNYSON </h2>
<p>Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?<br/>
Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old,<br/>
His sceptre falls? Oh, carpers rude and bold,<br/>
You who have fed upon the gracious benison<br/>
<br/>
Scattered unstinted by him, do you now<br/>
Dispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous<br/>
‘Neath fingers overworn for all of us?<br/>
You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.<br/>
<br/>
He lives above your idle vaunts and fears,<br/>
Enthroned where all master souls stand up<br/>
In their high place, and fill the golden cup,<br/>
<br/>
God-blest for kings, with wine of endless years,<br/>
And greet him one with them. O brotherhood<br/>
Of envious dullards, ye are wroth with good.<br/>
<br/></p>
<br/>
<h2> THE ANOINTED ONES </h2>
<p>Why, let them rail! God’s full anointed ones<br/>
Have heard the world exclaim, “We know you not.”<br/>
They who by their souls’ travailing have brought<br/>
Us nearer to the wonder of the suns.<br/>
<br/>
Yet, who can stay the passage of the stars?<br/>
Who can prevail against the thunder-sound?<br/>
The wire that flashes lightning to the ground<br/>
Diverts, but not its potency debars.<br/>
<br/>
So, men may strike quick stabs at Caesar’s worth,—<br/>
They only make his life an endless force,<br/>
‘Scaped from its penthouse, flashing through the earth,<br/>
<br/>
And ‘whelming those who railed about his Gorse.<br/>
Men’s moods disturb not those born truly great:<br/>
They know their end; they can afford to wait.<br/></p>
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