14 JANUARY 1888, Page 15

POETRY.

TO LORD TENNYSON.

EINSCRLBED IN A COPY OF "PRINCE LUCIFER," PRESENTED TO THE POET LAUREATE.] POET! In other lands, when Spring no more Fleets o'er the grass nor in the thicket-side Plays at being lost and laughs to be descried, And blooms lie wilted on the orchard floor : Then the sweet birds that from the Attic shore, Across Ausonian breakers, thither hied, Own that May's music in their breast hath died, And sobering woods resound not as before.

But in this privileged Isle, this brave, this blest, This deathless England, it seems always Spring.

Though riper grow the days, Song takes not wing; 'Mid Autumn boughs it builds another nest ; Even in the snow we lift our hearts and sing, And still Your voice is heard above the rest.

ALFRED AUSTIN.