FOR THE EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY OF GEORGE MEREDITH

A health, a ringing health, unto the king Of all our hearts to-day! But what proud song Should follow on the thought, nor do him wrong? Except the sea were harp, each mirthful string The lovely lightning of the nights of Spring, And Dawn the lonely listener, glad and grave With colours of the sea-shell and the wave In brightening eye and cheek, there is none to sing! Drink to him, as men upon an Alpine peak Brim one immortal cup of crimson wine, And into it drop one pure cold crust of snow, Then hold it up, too rapturously to speak And drink—to the mountains, line on glittering line, Surging away into the sunset-glow.