Tennyson.

        Of our Laureate we now do sing,
        His youthful muse had daring wing,
        He then despised Baronhood,
        And sang 'twas noble to be good.
        None sang like him of knights of old,
        He England's glory did uphold;
        In wondrous song he hath arrayed
        Glorious charge of light brigade,
        And he hath the people's benison,
        Greatest of living poets Tennyson.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Gordon And Burnaby, 1885.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

London Flood, July 11th, 1883.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Lines On A Typewriter.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Millar.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Pidgin

Suggested Poems

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

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

Alfred Tennyson

(Westminster, October 12, 1892)

Great man of song, whose glorious laurelled head
    Within the lap of death sleeps well at last,
Down the dark road, seeking the deathless dead,
    Thy faithful, fearless, shining soul hath passed.

Fame blows his silver trumpet o'er thy sleep,
    And Love stands broken by thy lonely lyre;
So pure the fire God gave this clay to keep,
    The clay must still seem holy for the fire.

Poor dupes of sense, we deem the close-shut eye,
    So faithful servant of his golden tongue,
Still holds the hoarded lights of earth and sky,
    We deem the mouth still full of sleeping song.

We mourn as though the great good song he gave
    Passed with the singer's own informing breath:
Ah, golden book, for thee there is no gr...

Richard Le Gallienne

To Alfred Tennyson--1883

Familiar with thy melody,
    We go debating of its power,
    As churls, who hear it hour by hour,
Contemn the skylark's minstrelsy--

As shepherds on a Highland lea
    Think lightly of the heather flower
    Which makes the moorland's purple dower,
As far away as eye can see.

Let churl or shepherd change his sky,
    And labour in the city dark,
            Where there is neither air nor room--
How often will the exile sigh
    To hear again the unwearied lark,
            And see the heather's lavish bloom!

Robert Fuller Murray

To Victor Hugo

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance,
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears,
French of the French, and Lord of human tears;
Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance,
Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers;
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France!
Who dost not love our Englandso they say;
I know notEngland, France, all man to be
Will make one people ere mans race be run:
And I, desiring that diviner day,
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy my son.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Poetical Address To Mr. W. Tytler, With The Present Of The Bard's Picture.

    Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
        Of Stuart, a name once respected,
    A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart,
        But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

    Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
        Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
    A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
        Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

    My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne,
        My fathers have fallen to right it;
    Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
        That name should he scoffingly slight it.

    Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
        The Queen and the rest of the gentry,
    Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
        Their ti...

Robert Burns

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