THE PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND. (From "The Spectator," June 26, 1862.) To his rest among the saints of old Not for marvellous speech or musings grand, With him beauty, honour, wealth, and power, And in sunshine stand. Taylor round the altar twining roses Half by angels, half by thrushes taught; Aye, whilst now the white sail of his soul Watch we glimmering round death's misty cape, Grandly let the organ roll! From our clouded hearts let rain-drops fall Let the church bells toll! Grand is eloquence, and lore is deep- Sometimes seem'd a saintly sleep, ; Not by fourteen thousand bits of gold Christ! it must have been a weary weight, Well, he need not fear the recollection, Let the bell be toll'd! Ah, the great bell tolleth; never blow All that majesty of prayers and alms, Ah, the great bell tolls! but through the cloud Leave him with the Bishop of our souls. Ah, the great bell tolls! W. A. EARL CANNING. (DIED TUESDAY, JUNE 17TH, 1862.) (From "Punch," June 28, 1862.) ONE more strong swimmer gone down in the deep, He had fought through the surf and gained the shore, His native England's windy whitewalled steep, Which he had toiled, and borne so much, to reach, He waved acclaim and greetings of the crowd, We who had seen him striving with the storm, Base creatures on sore-stricken England pressed, We deemed him steeled of body as of soul, And when Death took his partner from his side, That had controlled despair, and doubt, and fear; Of all the gifts that England could bestow He has received but one-an honoured grave; Above him, cold and coffined, through the street Nor for such council, nor speech of his peers, Comes he to Westminster, but for his grave, Where write, "He died for duty-modest, brave, Mild, when the good felt wrath, calm, when the brave had fears." THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION. CANTATA by the POET LAUREATE. Sung by Music composed by Professor Sterndale Bennett at the Opening of the International Exhibition, May 1, 1862. UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet, In this wide hall with earth's invention stored, And praise the invisible universal Lord, Who lets once more in peace the nations meet, Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet. O, silent father of our Kings to be, For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee! Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles, Steel and gold, and corn and wine, Polar marvels, and a feast Of wonder, out of West and East, That one fair planet can produce, Brought from under every star, And mixt, as life is mixt with pain, The works of peace with works of war. O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign, And mix the seasons and the golden hours, And ruling by obeying Nature's powers, And gathering all the fruits of peace and crown'd with all her flowers. A. TENNYSON. THE TWO QUEENS IN THE EXHIBITION. (On the Night of May 1st, 1862.) (From "Punch," May 10th, 1862.) MIDNIGHT in the monster Building, The day's labour done, Silence, where two thousand voices Pealed but now like one; For the crowd of twice three thousand, Here I pace alone, From the orchestra deserted To the empty throne. Through the vasty void of silence Was it my own echoing foot-fall? Was that gleam his bull's-eye streaming, Ne'er fell tread of mine so stately, Not thus sounds policeman's blucher, Never flashed from blinding bull's-eye Radiance like that: Never moon with such an aureole Lo, two shapes from out the darkness By their royal orbs and sceptres, Strong the one of thew and sinew, Fire her crown doth rim; Like Great Thor's of old: Fair the other, with a beauty Star-bedropped her azure raiment, And her crown a star. Perfect shape with perfect feature When she opes her lips, 'tis music, Straight to me, through their unlikeness, And I marked how each on other, Fair Queen Art, with sweet resistance, |