I Entreat You, Alfred Tennyson

I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho tis only a small bin,
Theres a stock of it within.
And as sure as Im a rhymer,
Half a butt of Rudeheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?

Walter Savage Landor

Walter Savage Landor was an English writer, poet, and dramatist. He is best known for his prose work, the 'Imaginary Conversations,' but also wrote numerous poems and plays. Landor had a tempestuous character and often found himself in conflict with authorities and contemporaries. Despite his combative nature, he was highly regarded by other literary figures such as Charles Dickens and Robert Browning. His works reflect his classical education and strong individualism.

Walter Savage Landor

Autumn

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Fiesole Idyl

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Who Ever Felt As I

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

Advice

Walter Savage Landor, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To The Rev. F.D. Maurice

January, 1854


Come, when no graver cares employ,
Godfather, come and see your boy:
Your presence will be sun in winter,
Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,
Should eighty-thousand college-councils
Thunder Anathema, friend, at you;

Should all our churchmen foam in spite
At you, so careful of the right,
Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome
(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;

Where, far from noise and smoke of town,
I watch the twilight falling brown
All round a careless-orderd garden
Close to the ridge of a noble down.

Youll have no scandal while you dine,
But honest talk and wholesome wine,
And only hear the magpie gossip
Garru...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Wapentake

TO ALFRED TENNYSON

Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine;
    Not as a knight, who on the listed field
    Of tourney touched his adversary's shield
    In token of defiance, but in sign
Of homage to the mastery, which is thine,
    In English song; nor will I keep concealed,
    And voiceless as a rivulet frost-congealed,
    My admiration for thy verse divine.
Not of the howling dervishes of song,
    Who craze the brain with their delirious dance,
    Art thou, O sweet historian of the heart!
Therefore to thee the laurel-leaves belong,
    To thee our love and our allegiance,
    For thy allegiance to the poet's art.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tennyson

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 ...

Thomas Bailey Aldrich

To The Master Of Balliol

Dear Master in our classic town,
You, loved by all the younger gown
There at Balliol,
Lay your Plato for one minute down,

II

And read a Grecian tale re-told,
Which, cast in later Grecian mould,
Quintus Calaber
Somewhat lazily handled of old;

III

And on this white midwinter day
For have the far-off hymns of May,
All her melodies,
All her harmonies echod away?

IV

To-day, before you turn again
To thoughts that lift the soul of men,
Hear my cataracts
Downward thunder in hollow and glen,

V

Till, led by dream and vague desire,
The woman, gliding toward the pyre,
Find her warrior
Stark and dark in his funeral fire.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come down, O Maid

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),
In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?
But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease
To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,
To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;
And come, for Love is of the valley, come,
For Love is of the valley, come thou down
And find him; by the happy threshold, he,
Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk
With Death and Morning on the silver horns,
Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,
Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,
That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls
To roll the torrent out of dusky doors:
But follow; let the tor...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Audley Court

Audley Court


The Bull, the Fleece are crammd, and not a room
For love or money. Let us picnic there
At Audley Court.

I spoke, while Audley feast

Hummd like a hive all round the narrow quay,
To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
To Francis just alighted from the boat,
And breathing of the sea. With all my heart,
Said Francis. Then we shoulderd thro the swarm,
And rounded by the stillness of the beach
To where the bay runs up its latest horn.

We left the dying ebb that faintly lippd
The flat red granite; so by many a sweep
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reachd
The griffin-guarded gates, and passd thro all
The pillard dusk of sounding sycamores,
And crossd the garden to the gardeners lodge,
With all its c...

Alfred Lord Tennyson