Clear as of old the great voice rings to-day, <br />While Sherwood's oak-leaves twine with Aldworth's bay: <br />The voice of him the master and the sire <br />Of one whole age and legion of the lyre, <br />Who sang his morning-song when Coleridge still <br />Uttered dark oracles from Highgate Hill, <br />And with new-launchèd argosies of rhyme <br />Gilds and makes brave this sombreing tide of time. <br />Far be the hour when lesser brows shall wear <br />The laurel glorious from that wintry hair- <br />When he, the sovereign of our lyric day, <br />In Charon's shallop must be rowed away, <br />And hear, scarce heeding, 'mid the plash of oar, <br />The <br />ave atque vale <br />from the shore! <br /> <br />To him nor tender nor heroic muse <br />Did her divine confederacy refuse: <br />To all its moods the lyre of life he strung, <br />And notes of death fell deathless from his tongue. <br />Himself the Merlin of his magic strain, <br />He bade old glories break in gloom again; <br />And so exempted from oblivious doom, <br />Through him these days shall fadeless break in bloom.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-foresters/
