We know him, out of Shakespeare's art, And those fine curses which he spoke; The old Timon, with his noble heart, That, strongly loathing, greatly broke.
So died the Old: here comes the New: Regard him: a familiar face: I _thought_ we knew him: What, it's you The padded man--that wears the stays--
Who killed the girls and thrill'd the boys With dandy pathos when you wrote, A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes.
And once you tried the Muses too: You fail'd, Sir: therefore now you turn, You fall on those who are to you As captain is to subaltern.
But men of long enduring hopes, And careless what this hour may bring, Can pardon little would-be Popes And Brummels, when they try to sting.
An artist, Sir, should rest in art, And wave a little of his claim; To have the deep poetic heart Is more than all poetic fame.
But you, Sir, you are hard to please; You never look but half content: Nor like a gentleman at ease With moral breadth of temperament.
And what with spites and what with fears, You cannot let a body be: It's always ringing in your ears, 'They call this man as good as _me_.'
What profits now to understand The merits of a spotless shirt-- A dapper boot--a little hand-- If half the little soul is dirt?
_You_ talk of tinsel! why we see The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. _You_ prate of nature! you are he That spilt his life about the cliques.
A Timon you! Nay, nay, for shame: It looks too arrogant a jest-- The fierce old man--to take _his_ name You bandbox. Off, and let him rest.
[Published in _Manchester Athænaum Album_, 1850. Written, 1837. Republished, altered, in _Life_, vol. I, p. 161.]
How often, when a child I lay reclined, I took delight in this locality! Here stood the infant Ilion of the mind, And here the Grecian ships did seem to be.
And here again I come and only find The drain-cut levels of the marshy lea,-- Gray sand banks and pale sunsets--dreary wind, Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy clouded sea.
[Published in _The Keepsake for 1851: an illustrated annual_, edited by Miss Power. London: David Bogue. To this issue of the Keepsake Tennyson also contributed 'Come not when I am dead' now included in the collected Works.]
What time I wasted youthful hours One of the shining wingèd powers, Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers,
