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TOM, if they loved thee best who called thee Tom. What else may all men call thee, seeing thus bright Even yet the laughing and the weeping light That still thy kind old eyes are kindled from? Small care was thine to assail and overcome Time and his child Oblivion: yet of right Thy name has part with names of lordlier might For English love and homely sense of home, Whose fragrance keeps thy small sweet bayleaf young And gives it place aloft among thy peers Whence many a wreath once higher strong Time has hurled: And this thy praise is sweet on Shakespeare’s tongue— ‘O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world!’ |