For Earth to tender wisdom grows not older,But to young hearts remains for ever young,Spring no less winsome, Winter winds no colder,Than when tales first were told, songs first were sung.And all things always still remain the same,That touch the human heart, and feed Love's vestal flame.
And, if you have ears to hear and eyes for seeing,Maidens there be, as were there in your youth,That round you breathe, and move, and have their being,Fair as Greek Helen, pure as Hebrew Ruth;With Heaven-appointed poets, quick to singOf blameless warrior brave, and wisdom-counselled king.
And, tho' in this our day, youth, love, and beauty,Are far too often glorified as slaveOf every sense except the sense of Duty,In fables that dishonour and deprave,The old-world Creeds still linger, taught us byThe pious lips that mute now in the churchyard lie.
And this true simple tale in verse as simpleWill from its prelude to its close be told,As free from artifice as is the dimpleIn childhood's cheek, whereby is age consoled.And haply it may soothe some sufferer's lot,When noisier notes are husht, and newer ones forgot.
And think not, of your graciousness, I pray you,Who tells the tale is one of those who deemThat love will beckon only to betray you,Life an illusion, happiness a dream;Only that noble grief is happier farThan transitory lusts and feverish raptures are.
It was the season when aggressive Winter,That had so long invested the sealed world,With frosts that starve and hurricanes that splinter,And rain, hail, blizzard, mercilessly hurled,Made one forlorn last effort to assailEre Spring's relieving spears came riding on the gale.
For Amazonian March with breast uncoveredBlew loud her clarion, and the wintry hostTook courage fresh and lingeringly hoveredRound vale and hill, wherever needed most;And ever and anon the raging weatherAnd wolfish winds re-formed, and onward swept together,
Loud-bellowing to the thunder-clouds to follow:But all in vain, for here, there, everywhere,Primrose battalions, seizing ridge and hollow,Dingle, and covert, wind-flowers wild that dareBeyond their seeming, bluebells without sound,And scentless violets peeped, to spring up from the ground.
And, covering their advance, swift-scouring showers,Gathering, dispersing, skirmished through the sky,Till squadrons of innumerable flowersThronged through the land far as you could descry.Then Winter, smitten with despair and dread,Folded his fluttering tents, sounded retreat, and fled.
Whereat the land, so long beleaguered, seeingThe peril past, and Winter's iron ringBroken, and all his cohorts norward fleeing,Came forth to welcome and embrace the Spring,Spring the Deliverer, and from sea and shoreRose the rejoicing shout, ``See, April dawns once more!''
Radiant she came, attended by her zephyrs,And forth from dusky stall and hurdled foldPoured lowing kine and sleeky-coated heifers,To roam at will through pastures green and gold,Where unweaned lambs from morning until nightRaced round their nibbling dams, and frolicked with delight.
High up, on larch and cypress, merle and mavisVociferated love-lays sweet as strong,And the bird dear to Homer and to HafizProclaimed the joy of sadness all night long;Vowed each new Spring more Spring-like than the last,And triumphed over Time, futile iconoclast.
Then imperceptibly and slowly roundedSlim girlish April into maiden May,Whereat still louder everywhere resoundedThe cuckoo's call and throstle's roundelay.It was as though in meadow, chase, and wood,God made the world anew, and saw that it was good.
Then feudal Avoncourt, the stern and stately,Whose dawn deep hidden in undated days,Not like those palaces erected latelyWhose feet swift crumble, and whose face decays,Defieth Time's insatiable tooth,Relaxed grave gaze and wore the countenance of youth.
It had beheld kings and proud empires vanish,Male sceptres shattered, princedoms pass away,Norman, Plantagenet, Lombard, Swabian, Spanish,Rise, rule, then totter, and topple from their sway;York and Lancastrian Rose unfold and bloom,Then canker and decay, and vanish in the tomb.
It faces the four winds with like demeanourNorward as Southernward, as though to say,``Blow from some other, stronger and still keener,Wherefrom you will, and I will face that way.''And round it as you roam, to gaze perplexedEach side seems loveliest till you look upon the next.
Its present seeming unto ages TudorIt owes, by unnamed, unknown hands designed,Who planned and worked amid a folk deemed ruder,But who with grace enduring strength combined.Like sturdy oak with all its leaves still on,When foliage from elm and sycamore have gone.
Upon its delicate, lofty-jutting portalImaginative minds and hands have wroughtOf dead artificers once deemed immortal,From Southern climes by kings and magnates brought,When architects and sculptors smiled in scornOn plain defensive days and called the world reborn.
But time hath mellowed mullion, roof, and gable,Stone-work without, and wainscotting within;And nigh them oaken-timbered barn and stable,Lowlier, withal of countenance akin,Cluster, for in times olden, meek, and proud,Being nearer much than now, their kinship was avowed.
From it slope woodlands and long alleys shaded,Saving that all around it and more nearStretches wild chase by ploughshare uninvaded,Where roam rough cattle and unherded deer,That look up as you pass from brackened sod,Then flee with step as fleet as that whereon they trod.
Through vale below from many a source unfailingA river flows where deft hands cast the line,Well stocked with wary trout and bolder grayling.Through smooth, fat pastures dotted o'er with kineLeague after league the water winds away,Oft turning as though loth from Avoncourt to stray.
It was in the sweet season that hath ravishedThe virgin heart since ever love began,A maiden, upon whom had Nature lavishedEach fair gift given to maiden or to man,Roamed all alone through windings of its wood,Seeking the way to where Avoncourt haply stood.
Onward in search of it she went, but slowly,For who could hasten through so fresh a scene,With violets paved, the lovelier because lowly,And pallid primroses on ground of green;While overhead each bird that hath a voiceSeemed in its own blithe notes to revel and rejoice.
And ever and anon she gazed around her,Or knelt to gather some appealing flower,And to dear God, the Father and the FounderOf all things good, the all-protecting Power,Breathed a brief prayer of thanks within her breast,Feeling she roamed in Heaven on earth made manifest.
Sometimes she broke into spontaneous singing,Such as fond nurse to fretful babe might sing,Whose close as sudden is as its beginning.Herself she seemed a portion of the SpringWhich, if she went, would lose the chiefest partOf that which charms the gaze and captivates the heart.
At length she passed from out these paths emboweredTo where meek does, young fawns, and shaggy beevesRanged amid bracken; but the House, that toweredFull nigh at hand, for intercepting leavesShe still descried not, so, advancing underAn arch of hornbeam, stood in husht, astonied wonder.
For there it rose as silent and abstractedAs though it nothing shared or had to sayWith those that shadow-like have lived and actedUpon the stage we call our later day;From passing passions thoughtfully aloof,Through age, not pride, without lamenting or reproof.
Then slowly timid, tentative explorer,Longing to see yet dreading to be seen,Asudden living figure rose before herOf manly mould and meditative mien;Modern, withal with air of ancient port,As if the same blood flowed through him and Avoncourt.
``Forgive,'' she said, ``an overbold intruder!''``I doubt if anywhere you would intrude;But sooth none do on this survival Tudor,Who visit its old age in reverent mood.''``And that indeed I do. I never sawAught that I so admired, or felt for so much awe.''
``Will you, I round it willingly can guide you,Unless-and, told, shall fully understand,-Wander you rather would with none beside youTo mar the silence of the windless land,Saving Spring's choristers, whose constant trillsOne hears or doth not hear, according as one wills.''
``You know it well?'' she asked. ``I ought to know it.Here was I born, here grew to boy's estate,Pored o'er the page of storier and poet,All that is big, magnanimous, and great,Hardened my own, tried my dear Mother's nerves,Robbed the home orchard, poached my Father's own preserves.''
``And are you now its occupant and possessor?''``So called, alas! whose ancestors have paidThe final tax, by Death the stern assessorOn all poor mortals equitably laid.I have a leasehold; no one can have more,This side at least the vague, still-undiscovered shore.''
Thereat there fell a silence on their speaking,And on they moved, he follower more than guide;Oblivious she what 'twas that she was seeking,Since conscious now of manhood at her side.Withal, so much there was to lure her gaze,That his on her could rest, nor stint its look of praise.
Then when they reached the Jacobean portal,Back rolled its doors of iron brace and stay,On grooves that seemed more cut for feet immortalThan for a feeble transitory day,And mounted oaken stair axe-hewn, unplaned,With lion-headed piers unpolished and unstained.
From coffered ceiling hung down tattered banners,And weapons warlike deadly deemed no moreWere parked on landing; grants of ancient manors,With charts and parchments of black-letter lore,Stacked spears and dinted armour; ebon pressesWith jealous bolts stood locked in embrasured recesses.
Chamber on chamber wainscotted and spaciousWas lined with effigies of warriors wise,Reticent rulers, dames revered and gracious,Whose fingers wove the silken tapestries,Time-toned but faded not, that draped the wallOf gallery long and straight, and square-set banquet-hall.
About lay obsolete instruments, wheel and spindle,When women read much less and knew much more,Huge logs for early-rising maids to kindleOn deep-set hearths, mottoes of lasting loreIn ancient tongues, Norman, or Saxon stave,Bidding man live and die, meek, pious, steadfast, brave.
And many a question asked she, always gettingThe answer craved for, given prompt and plain.``But look,'' she said, ``the sun will soon be setting,And that old dial-hand that doth nor gainNor lose, I am sure, in its diurnal pace,Reproves me I still lag in this enthralling place.''
``Then come again,'' he answered, ``at your leisure,''And led her outward where the ancient pileLooked as though dwelt within no special treasure,And owned no spell nor charm save sunset's smile;Like one of those large natures that betrayNo sign that they are made of more than common clay.
``And may I ask, your homeward footsteps, whither?What! there! it is on Avoncourt estate,And I by shorter path can guide you thitherThan that you came by, fear you to be late.You lodge with much-loved tenants, for the wifeMy foster-parent was in rosy-dawning life.''
``She did not tell me that; but sooth our meetingWas but two days back, though I quickly sawThat she for you would evermore be bleatingWith voice of blent solicitude and awe.''``'Tis so: on Sundays with a spirit meekShe worships God, then me the rest of all the week.''
Wending and winding under curved ways shaded,Wider than heretofore, they farmward trod,While twilight incense all the air pervadedRound flower-decked altar at the shrine of God,This sacred Earth, and for approaching nightOne star kept watch, as yet Heaven's only lamp alight.
To her it seemed the Real and IdealAt last were one, and every bird that singsJoined prayerfully in chorus hymeneal,Ere folding music underneath its wings.How little did she guess that ambushed griefWatched all her thoughts and lurked 'neath every dewy leaf!
``Are both your parents at the farmstead staying?''``Alas!'' she said, ``like yours, they both abideMy coming further off, and in my prayingAlone survive; my guardian and my guideMy Mother's sister, whom we there shall find,Most loving and most loved of living womankind.''
Where buttressed Church with crenellated TowerOver the village still kept watch and ward;``For these,'' he said, ``inherited have that power,The pious citadels of peace that guardThe sin-beleaguered soul, and still repelFrom humble homes and hearts the ravening hosts of hell.''
Within were monuments of home-delved marble,Whereon lay figures of his race and name,Crusaders whose dead deeds no time can garble,Learning destroy, malignity defame:Legs crossed, feet resting against faithful hound,And, at their side, their dames and children kneeling round.
Then would they wend them valeward to the river,And he cast line that neither curled nor sank.Round ran the reel, then the lithe rod would quiver,And May-fly trout lie gasping on the bank,Or, like a flying shadow through the stream,Startled, would pass to pool sheltered from noonday gleam.
Which pleased her most, for sooth she thought sport cruel,Yet watched it for the sake of his rare skill,But happiest when asudden wingèd jewel,The king-fisher, disturbed near rustic mill,Darted, and deep into its nest withdrew,Shortly to issue forth, and, flickering, raid anew.
So passed the days unnoticed and uncounted,As louder, longer, later, piped the merle,And cuckoo oftener called, if harsher throated,And hawthorn decked itself with loops of pearl.It seemed a world reborn without its woes:Woodbine was in the lanes, and everywhere the rose.
All things that are in that seductive seasonIn them struck root and with them got entwined;Looking before or after had seemed treasonTo the free heart and unconditioned mind,As daily tightened beyond time's controlThat strongest of all ties, the kinship of the soul.
And deeper into bliss they wandered blindly,While woe and wet winds kept from them aloof,As from screened homestead visitings unkindly,Where old-world windows under gabled roofSeem gazing at the present from the past,And wondering how long such happiness will last.
Ah me! the days of Summer, not of Winter,The shortest are and swiftest glide away,And leaves of Autumn, sober mezzotinter,Linger far longer than the blooms of May.Time that, when fledged by joy, finds wings to fly,With sorrow for its load limps slowly, wearily.
One evening, as they watched the sunset fading,``To strangers Avoncourt must never pass,For that would be dishonouring and degrading,''Thinking aloud he said: ``withal, alas!Sit by its hearth they must, and much I fearThat there they must abide for many a coming year.
``No fault of mine nor yet of those now sleepingIn tombs ancestral. Unrelenting time,That hath the future in its unseen keeping,Hath lowered the lofty, let the lowly climb,And swept away the sustenance of my home.What is there that endures? Go ask of Greece or Rome.
``Mullion from sill, transom from beam, is cracking,Beauty and majesty their only stay;And, save new wealth supply what now is lacking,These too in turn will slowly pass away.And I must save and strive in duteous ways,So irksome felt by most in these luxurious days.''
``There is another way, some deem a duty,None call unworthy,'' slowly she replied.``Women there be, gifted with charm and beauty,On whom hath Fortune lavished wealth beside.''``I am not made like that,'' he firmly said;``I but for love alone should ever woo or wed.''
And, as he said it, on her face he centredStrong tender gaze, as though to search her soul,Which straight so deep into her being entered,She felt a current beyond will's control.Crimsoning she turned aside, and thus confessedThe secret she had thought to hide within her breast.
Out of a cloud long gathering burst a flashing,Followed by thunder's discontented sound;And straight they heard slow big round raindrops plashingOn the green leaves o'erhead and emerald ground.``Hark! I must hasten home,'' she said, ``beforeThe storm-wrack breaks.''-``And I will see you to your door.''
All through the morrow much he seemed to ponder,And oft would halt and gaze upon the ground,Or look out fixedly on something yonder,Unseen by others, which at last he found,And then strode quickly on, since he had solvedThe doubt that would die out oftener the years revolved.
``Yes, for she hath that higher understandingThat routs Life's phantoms with a fearless face,And knows, when spectral enemies throng banding,The good from bad, the noble from the base.To-morrow will I offer, ask for, all,Love, Faith, and Hope can give, whatever else befall.''
But on the morrow came she not. More lonely,Wandering, he felt than ever heretofore;Nor on the morrow's morrow, and he onlyCould wait her will, nor wend unto their doorTill wearily some doubtful days crept on,And then the farmstead sought, to find its guests had gone!
Gone three days back, and none knew why or whither.Then he with promptitude unleashed his mind,In search for trace, now hither and now thither,But trace or tidings nowhere could he find.Still unremittingly he sought: in vainWas search within our shore, was search beyond the main.
Slowly the glory from the Summer faded,And ominously leaves began to fall;And ever and anon harsh gusts invadedAvoncourt, moaning through deserted hall,And roaring woefully up chimney wide;And mute the deerhound clung unto her master's side,
Or gazed at him with sad look sympathetic,As though it too missed what its master missed.``Ah, Lufra!'' said he in a voice prophetic,``She is gone, and we shall never see her more.Cling you to me, and I will take you whereWander awhile I must, wherever I may fare.
``No more than you can I unmask the meaningOf hapless things that baffle mortal vows.''Then, sighing, saw he white-haired Winter gleaning,Amid the crackling drift and fallen boughsThat lay on avenue, chase, and garden garth,Fuel to feed faint flame upon her widowed hearth.
He was not one of those who love to wrangleBefore the populace for place and power,Or fight for wealth with weapons that but strangleThe nobler passions, manhood's richest dower.``I will return when wound shall less be felt,And work among my folk, dwelling where once she dwelt.''
Farewell he took of wood-reeve, keeper, ranger,And tenants grave with grief, and some in tears,And order gave that Avoncourt to strangerBe leased for maybe many coming years;Then crossed the vigilant, unsleeping seaThat ranges round our Isle, to keep it great and free.
He lingered not in that vain-glorious city,Whose Rulers pass the sceptre to the crowd,But wended to the Land where amorous dittyBy swain at work to maid is sung aloud;Where life is simple, and unchanging waysOf tillage still recall loved Virgil's rustic lays:
Where on majestic pedestals the mightyMarble imaginings of Art august,Thought-wrinkled Zeus and dimpled Aphrodité,Exact our homage and command our trust;Immortal gods whose never-ending swayRebellion cannot shake nor scoffing sweep away.
And in that high companionship he slowlyStifled his sighs and cicatrised his wound,And, with the griefs the lofty and the lowlyAlike must feel, his share of pain attuned;More willingly, it may be, since he knewHe unto love and loss would evermore keep true.
Ofttimes he stood by shrines where peasants kneelingTold of their sorrows to the Mother-Maid,Unto celestial sympathy appealingFrom the world's pitiless splendour and parade;And in that sight he resignation found,With sun, and sea, and sky, and mountain-peaks around.
So that when nigh upon a year had vanishedHomeward his longing and his looks were cast,Feeling 'twere base to longer stay self-banished,Grafting his future on a fruitless past.And soon his steadfast journeying came to close,Where Avoncourt amid its unchanged woodlands rose.
It had meanwhile been leased to lately weddedTenants, unknown to Fame, but well endowedWith what could rescue it from fate so dreadedOf slow decay and ruin-mantling shroud,And who already had done much to winIts walls from storm without, and worm and moth within.
So, as in duty bound, he promptly startedFrom home prepared for him on his estate,With cheerful step if somewhat heavy-hearted,To visit those who lived within his gate;Ascending through the woodland's winding ways,That wore more careful mien than in the bygone days.
It was the dawn of Autumn, very seasonWhen he from further search for her forbore,Whom to forget had seemed to him a treason,Though well he knew he ne'er should see her more.Sound, sight, scent, yellowing elm, and conecrowned fir,Sunshine and shade alike, reminded him of her.
But, resolute to curb regret, he entered,And, led through hall and corridor, he woundTo long ancestral gallery, and centredHis curious gaze on what he saw around.It seemed to have lost no look of days gone by,Withal to blend young smile with ancient majesty.
Still on the walls the effigies ancestral,In armour or in ermine, hung unchanged,With the device of wild boar, wolf, or kestrel,That once in English forests freely ranged;With later draperies that seemed to bringDistance more near and shed a grace round everything.
While gazing out on well-remembered garden,Where old yew hedges screened new-planted rose,Against whose beauty none his heart could harden,He heard a door soft open and then close.And, turning, saw Egeria, with a facePale as a moon that moves alone through lonely space!
``Are you a guest,'' he said, ``in my poor dwelling?''``I am,'' she answered, ``your-your tenant's wife.Hear me in patience, dear, while I am tellingWhat tell I must, but tell this once for life.''Whereat they towards each other drew more near:One spoke, one listened, both without a sob or tear.
``I loved, I love you. Noble since I know you,Here I confess that I shall love you still;Since you will never show me nor I show youMore tenderness than now, for such God's will.Knowing I should, love once avowed, rejoice,Should not refuse your love, could not resist your voice,
``From you I fled, and steadfast left behind meNo word to weaken you, no sign, no trace,Whereby your manliness could following find me.For well I knew, that day your face my faceScanned in strong silence, probing to my heart,Love once confessed, no power could keep our lives apart.
``And well, too well I knew, for all things told me,Men's tongues, the air, I thus should wreck your life,And Avoncourt reproachfully behold meA selfish bride and paralysing wife;That duty had decreed a harder fateFor you, for me. If wrong, I know the right too late.
``In innocency's life there comes an hourWhen stands revealed what it could never guess:That there is magical and mystic powerTo make love strong or leave it powerless;If felt, if given without one selfish thought,That Love is Wisdom's self, and all beside is nought.
``Ask me no more, I beg, than what I tell you:I am your tenant, at another's will.How, wherefore, when, on that which then befell, you,Though I be mute, will understand me still.Forgive, but ne'er forget me. Now depart,Till to endurance Time shall mellowed have the smart.''
Her hand she stretched towards him, and, low bending,On it his lips he reverently laid,As on some sacred relic pilgrims wendingFrom far-off land with faith still undecayed.Then he went forth, and she remained, alone,Stern Duty unassailed upon its sovran throne.
But with the morrow's dawn there came the tidingsHow that a crafty, freedom-loathing race,Its schemes unmasked, had come from out its hidings,And flung defiance in its Suzerain's face,Then on his open territories burst,Proclaiming these annexed unto its rule accursed.
Then England said, ``I must endure no longerThis long-conspiring, now presumptuous brood,But must assert the Sceptre of the strongerAgainst their vapourings vain and challenge rude,Who have against me their false flag unfurled,Urged to their ruin by an Empire-envying world.''
Nor England only, nor main-moated Britain,But their brave offspring homed beyond the sea,In righteous wrath arose, and, duty-smitten,Vowed that their Afric brethren should be freeTo think and speak the thing they would, and dwellEqual and safe around Law's peaceful citadel.
Then said Sir Alured, ``Against such foemenI too will ride and strike,'' and round him drewAll Avoncourt's hard-knit, well-mounted yeomen,And to his lands ancestral bade adieu.Beneath him seethed the waters no one barred,Over the wave-wide track our steel-shod sentries guard.
And day by day Egeria scans and watchesThe ebb and flow of fluctuating war,And ofttimes sees his name in terse dispatchesShine among those that most distinguished are.Then pride and terror in her heart contend,And low she prays anew, ``Dear God! his life befriend!''
And when she reads of some fresh deed of daringThat decorates his breast and crowns his brow,Sparing of others, of himself unsparing,She weeps apart where no one sees. But nowThis Tale of True Love hath been truly told.May it by some be read, and by it some consoled!
About the author
About the poet
A writer who wore several hats throughout his career, Alfred Austin was a critic, novelist and political journalist. Although he was educated in law, his professional life focused primarily on literature. Austin published regularly for half a century and succeeded Alfred, Lord Tennyson as poet laureate of England in 1896. Nonetheless, he carries the reputation of having been the worst and least read English poet.
Austin was born on May 30, 1835, in Headingley, near Leeds, to Roman Catholic parents Joseph and Mary Austin. His father was a merchant and a magistrate of Headingley and his mother was the sister of Joseph Locke, a member of Parliament and a civil engineer. He was schooled first at Stoneyhurst College and then St. Mary's College, Oscott. He received a B.A. in 1853 from the University of London. Called to the Bar of the Inner Temple in 1857, he became a barrister on the Northern Circuit at his parents urging but left the legal world within three years in pursuit of a career in literature. This decision came upon the heels of his father's death in 1861 and his newfound financial freedom with the assumption of an inheritance. In 1855, he published Randolph: A Poem in Two Cantos, and three years later he published a novel, entitled Five Years of It. From 1866 to 1896, he worked as a foreign affairs writer for the London Standard, where he was known as a conservative journalist.
Foreign politics was one of Austin's major interests. He had a special enthusiasm for Polish and Italian patriots. His hatred of Russia made him a steadfast devotee of Disraeli. He also was a frequent contributor to the Quarterly Review. He represented the Standard in Rome during the sittings of the Ecumenical Council of the Vatican. He was the Standard's special correspondent at the headquarters of the King of Prussia during the Franco-German War in 1870 and also served as the German correspondent at the Congress of Berlin in 1884. Among his political writings are "Russia Before Europe" (1861), "Tory Horrors (1876) and "England's Policy and Peril" (1877). He founded the National Review in 1883 with William John Courthope and remained an energetic joint-editor for the journal until 1893, and then continued as its sole editor from 1887, when Courthope retired, until 1895. He had unsuccessful candidacies for Parliament as a Conservative for Taunton in 1865, and again for Dewsbury in 1880.
Although his writing was inspired and shaped by the works of Byron and Scott, Austin was actually a mediocre poet, and was the target of much derision. He was most often parodied for his ode on the Jameson Raid, in which he praised what turned out to be military disaster and embarrassment for the British government. He saw narrative and dramatic verse as the height of poetic expression, and believed that Shakespeare and Milton were exemplars of these styles and worthy of imitation. He codified these criticisms in The Poetry of the Period, which was published in 1869 in Temple Bar and appeared the following year in book form. In this work, he attacked highly accomplished and widely respected authors, including Browning, Swinburne, Tennyson Tennyson and Whitman, seeing them as "feminine" and "essentially childish." It was the audacity, rather than the substance, of these claims that distinguished Austin at the time. Yet his attack on Tennyson included some astute observations that revealed some of the great poet's weaknesses.
Austin's only popular book, The Garden that I Love (1894), was considered to be his best work, and was thoroughly enjoyed by the public at the time. It was a work in prose of a type known as "garden diaries," which relished the charm of his Kentish home in Swinford Old Manor. Other idyllic prose works included In Veronica's Garden (1895), Lamia's Winter Quarters (1898) and Spring and Autumn in Ireland (1900). His best work revealed a literate and proficient writer, who benefits from simplicity and sincerity. Some critics believed that Austin, while generally acknowledged to be an untalented writer, did not deserve the opprobrium heaped upon him. In addition to his capable bucolic verses, his early satire, The Season, is a noteworthy piece of heroic poetry. However, its poor critical reception by the Athenaeum induced Austin to compose a sequel attacking the journal and its editor, William Hepworth Dixon. Fortunatus the Pessimist: A Dramatic Poem (1892) and The Conversion of Winckelmann, and Other Poems (1897) were also moderately successful publications.
Austin's surprising ascension to the status of poet laureate in 1896 following Tennyson was probably more due to his stature as journalist for the conservative party rather than his skill as a poet. A writer for British Authors of the Nineteenth Century mentions that Austin was "appointed over the heads of abler men because of sins he had not committed." Apparently, the logical candidacies of Swinburne and Kipling were deemed unacceptable to Queen Victoria. His appointment was made at the recommendation of Prime Minister Lord Salisbury, and was seen as a decision concerning Conservative Party patronage, as Austin had served that party well in his journalistic writings. Writing for the Nation, Stuart P. Sherman declared "his self-complacency appears in the record of his influence with political leaders," and claimed that he possessed "a divine satisfaction with his own position, [and] a bland unconsciousness of contemporary feeling and opinion."
Austin's appointment negatively affected the prestige of the laureateship. He became a standard target of ridicule in the journal Punch, appearing in a cartoon as "Alfred the Little," an appellation referring to Austin's 1896 play England's Darling, about Alfred the Great. Sherman went on to say that Austin was "the last minstrel of Toryism. As he writes, he feels himself soothed, sustained, and magnified by the support of the landed gentlemen of England. He is not, he fancies, dipping his pen into the shallow well of egotism, but into the inexhaustible springs of English sentiment." Door of Humility, a poem of fifty-seven cantos published in 1906, concerns the young poet's questioning of his religion and his travels across the globe in search for the truth. It was reviewed by a critic for the Athenaeum, who writes, "the philosophy and its sentimental setting are patiently planned on the Tennysonian model, but unhappily it is not enough to succeed a poet in order to be successful in imitating him."
Austin's Autobiography of Alfred Austin, Poet Laureate, 1835-1910 was written in a year and appeared in two volumes in 1911. Sherman reported that it is "written with unflagging zest and genuine power in self-revelation." In it, Austin voiced his pride in his family history, saying "no one admires honorable descent and the easy gradations of English society, from class to class, more than I do." However, Sherman claimed that "he contrives to cast an additional glamour over his family tree." A reviewer for the Saturday Review of Literature wrote of the Autobiography: "A traveller in many lands, a war correspondent, a diligent interviewer, Mr. Austin gossips about men and things in a way which is occasionally interesting, but not very entertaining on the whole. He tells us little that is new. In fact, the two portly volumes of his Autobiography might have been borne, not inaptly, as their motto, a line from one of his own verses which he quotes, 'Patter, chatter everywhere!'"
Sherman asserted that "the sentimental romantic Toryism of Mr. Austin is not so much dull as false; false and at the same time obsolete; obsolete but not yet old enough to have acquired an antiquarian interest." A contributor to British Authors of the Nineteenth Century stated that "his autobiography is almost incredible in its calm assumption that its writer was a great genius; it may survive his poems as a document portraying the vagaries of human self-deception." P. F. Bicknell, reviewing Austin's autobiography for Dial, maintained that "the world has a cruel way of refusing to take altogether seriously a man who takes himself too much so; and thus our autobiographer, with his somewhat conspicuous lack of humor, becomes, in a manner the reverse of Falstaff's, the cause of humor in other men."