There's a far bell ringing,
And a phantom voice is singing
Of a fame forever clinging
To the great days done.
For the sunset breezes shiver,
Temeraire, Temeraire,
And she's fading down the river....
Well, well, neither you nor I know whether she is fading down the river or
not. It is quite enough for us to know, as King Alfred did, that a great
many pirates have landed on both banks of the Thames.
Praise and Prophecy Impossible
At this moment that is the only kind of patriotic poem that could satisfy
the emotions of a patriotic person. But it certainly is not the sort of
poem that is expected from a Poet Laureate, either on the highest or the
lowest theory of his office. He is either a great minstrel singing the
victories of a great king, or he is a common Court official like the Groom
of the Powder Closet. In the first case his praises should be true; in
the second case they will nearly always be false; but in either case he
must praise. And what there is for him to praise just now it would be
precious hard to say. And if there is no great hope of a real poet, there
is still less hope of a real prophet. What Newman called, I think, "The
Prophetical Office," that is, the institution of an inspired protest even
against an inspired religion, certainly would not do in modern England.
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