Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892)

To J. M. K.

MY hope and heart is with thee,—thou wilt be

A latter Luther and a soldier-priest

To scare church-harpies from the Master’s feast;

Our dusted velvets have much need of thee:

Thou art no sabbath-drawler of old saws

Distilled from some worm-cankered homily;

But spurred at heart with fieriest energy

To embattail and to wall about thy cause

With iron-worded proof, hating to hark

The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone

Half God’s good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk

Browbeats his desk below. Thou, from a throne

Mounted in heaven, wilt shoot into the dark

Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.