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.