Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed
       Towards the headland light: 
     The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,
       And black, black fell the night.

     Then burst a storm to make one quail,
       Though housed from winds and waves—­
     They who could tell about that gale
       Must rise from watery graves!

     Sudden it came, as sudden went;
       Ere half the night was sped,
     The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,
       And the stars shone overhead.

     Now, as the morning mist grew thin,
       The folk on Gloucester shore
     Saw a little figure floating in
       Secure, on a broken oar!

     Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck! 
       Pull mates, and waste no breath!”—­
     They knew it, though ’twas but a speck
       Upon the edge of death!

     Long did they marvel in the town
       At God his strange decree,
     That let the stalwart skipper drown
       And the little child go free!

     MEMORY

     My mind lets go a thousand things,
     Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
     And yet recalls the very hour—­
     ’Twas noon by yonder village tower. 
     And on the last blue noon in May—­
     The wind came briskly up this way,
     Crisping the brook beside the road;
     Then, pausing here, set down its load
     Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
     Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

     TENNYSON (1890)

          I

     Shakespeare and Milton—­what third blazoned name
       Shall lips of after ages link to these? 
       His who, beside the wild encircling seas,
     Was England’s voice, her voice with one acclaim,
       For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame,
     Whose scorn gave pause to man’s iniquities.

          II

     What strain was his in that Crimean war? 
       A bugle-call in battle; a low breath,
       Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death! 
     So year by year the music rolled afar,
     From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar,
       Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath.

          III

     Others shall have their little space of time,
       Their proper niche and bust, then fade away
       Into the darkness, poets of a day;
     But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme,
     Thou shalt not pass!  Thy fame in every clime
       On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway.

          IV

     Waft me this verse across the winter sea,
       Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet,
       O winter winds, and lay it at his feet;
     Though the poor gift betray my poverty,
     At his feet lay it; it may chance that he
       Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet.