TOM TAYLOR.

—So the stately bust abode For many a month, unseen, among the Dons. Nor in the lodge, nor in the library, Upon its pedestal appeared, to be A mark for reverence of green gownsman-hood, Of grief to ancient fogies, and reproof To those who knew not Alfred, being hard And narrowed in their honour to old names Of poets, who had vogue when they were young, And not admitting later bards; but now, Last week, a rumour widely blown about, Walking the windy circle of the Press, Came, that stern Whewell, with the Seniors, Who rule the destinies of Trinity, Had of the sanctuary barred access Unto the bust of Alfred Tennyson, By Woolner carved, subscribed for by the youth Who loved the Poet, hoped to see him set Within the Library of Trinity, One great man more o' the house, among the great, Who grace that still Valhalla, ranged in row, Along the chequered marbles of the floor, Two stately ranks—to where the fragrant limes Look thro' the far end window, cool and green. A band it is, of high companionship,— Chief, Newton, and the broad-browed Verulam, And others only less than these in arts Or science: names that England holds on high. Among whom, hoped the youth, would soon be set, The living likeness of a living Bard,— Great Alfred Tennyson, the Laureate, Whom Trinity most loves of living sons. But other thought had Whewell and the Dons, Deeming such honour only due to those Upon whose greatness Death had set his seal. So fixed their faces hard, and shut the doors Upon the living Poet: for, said one, 'It is too soon,' and when they heard the phrase, Others caught up the cue, and chorussed it, Until, the Poet echoing 'Soon? too soon?' As if in wrath, Whewell looked up, and said:— 'O Laureate, if indeed you list to try, Try, and unfix our purpose in this thing.' Whereat full shrilly sang th' excluded bard: 'Soon, soon, so soon! Whewell looks stern and chill, Soon, soon, so soon! but I can enter still.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.' 'I am not dead: of that I do repent. But to my living prayer, oh now relent.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now.' 'Honour in life is sweet: my fame is wide, Let me to stand at Dryden's, Byron's side.' 'Too soon, too soon! You cannot enter now!' 'Honour that comes in life is rare as sweet; I cannot taste it long: for life is fleet.' 'No, no, too soon! You cannot enter now!' So sang the Laureate, while all stonily, Their chins upon their hands, as men that had No entrails to be moved, sat the stern Dons.