For this is England's greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun. - Alfred Tennyson

There is no joy but calm!

There rolls the deep where grew the tree
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars hath been.
The stillness of the central sea.

What hope is there for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Forshorten'd in the tract of time?

These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells
A grief_ then changed to something else,
Sung by a long forgotten mind.

But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.