AT THE H AGUE

Great Laureate of England, mighty voice,
Drowning detraction in the stormy roll
Of his melodious numbers: does he still,
The new John of a new Apocalypse,
Seer of the world's desire, from Patmian mount
Discern the prophet-vision of his prime?
Haunts he these hallowed and devoted halls
That make a temple for his noblest thought?
Shall he find here the glory he foresaw,
Or but the false dawn of the day to be?
He, who with Moses' sight beheld the Land,
He, who with rapture caught from David's harp
Chanted the New Time — shall not he inspire
With love and justice those who gather here?
Then let a tower of remembrance rise
Among the tranquil shades of leafy Hague,
Seen from the dunes and dikes by Freedom prized;
And christen it The Tower of Tennyson;
And let it be inhabited by bells
Of tones as sweet as his own harmonies
That rang the Old World out, the New World in;
And lest the sages who 'twixt nations judge
Forget their mighty function — nearest God's —
Let one bell, still more solemn than the rest,
Be draped and muffled, joining not the choir
Of those, the joyous morning stars of sound;
But on that day that mates with Calvary
When dire Ambition broke the mace of Law —
The Dies Irae of our race on earth —
That day, in warning, let it