POETRY.

Temuka Leader, Issue 2413, 18 October 1892, Page 3

POETRY.

The following piece of poetry, which appeared in the New Zealand Times, is worthy of perusal as a specimen of unconscious humour. We have no doubt the poet wrote it in real earnest, but nothing more comic has come under our notice for a long- time : TENNYSON IS DEAD. The lordly poet is dead. The muses moan And England's Queen and all her subjects groan To think that death should dare to strike so high. While passing thousands humbler poets But where the power that can in question call Death, when he visits either great or small ? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 'Tis said Both great and small are numbered with the dead; There's no respect of persons in the grave— There sleeps the coward with the noblest brave ; But words of truth aad beauty long shall live, And pleasure to prosperity shall give. The poet does not live nor die in vain, And after ages by his works shall gain. Three thousand years have passed since David sang — Through coming ages still thy harp shall twang; Thy glorious Psalms in rapture still shall rise. Until their music penetrates the skies, And angels shall in chorus join and sing The praises of our Saviour, God and King. Sleep, noble poet; sleep and take sweet rest— Thy words will pleasure many an anxious breast. As the garden's sweetest flower is still the rose, Pleasuring our eyes with beauty where it grows; As the nightingale still sings the sweetest lay; As beams of sunshine grace the fairest day; So doth the poet's song still cheer our life, And softens down its uncongenial strife. A land wherein the poets never dwell Must be the nearest to the gates of Hell. No song to cheer them, no music there to p!ay, They lose the pleasures both of night and day. Song is the flower of language—always bright, It makes our hearts rejoice, our feet feel light, Though weary, still we dance upon the green And hour* pass by on joyous strains unseen. What though the poet die ? his Bong remains To drive away all sorrows, soothe all pains! High in the Mansions of the ever blest Go gentle poet: there enjoy sweet rest. Repeat thy sweetest songs in Heaven above, Thy audience angels; in that land of love Oh what a happy goal of sweet delight Is thy retreat amongst those spirit bright, Whose song of praise shall rise before the throne, In honour of God iu Heaven alone! John Plimmer's New Zealand memoriam to England's Poet Laureate dead.