Explore "Tennyson" by Gilbert Parker on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Who saith thy hand is weak, King Tennyson?
Who crieth, See, the monarch is grown old, / His sceptre falls? Oh, carpers rude and bold, / You who have fed upon the gracious benison
Scattered unstinted by him, do you now / Dispraise the sweet-strung harp, grown tremulous / 'Neath fingers overworn for all of us?
You cannot tear the laurels from his brow.
He lives above your idle vaunts and fears, / Enthroned where all master souls stand up / In their high place, and fill the golden cup,
God-blest for kings, with wine of endless years, / And greet him one with them. O brotherhood / Of envious dullards, ye are wroth with good.