LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 MRS. DONALD KELLOGG
 
 THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
 
 Portrait of Tennyson. 
 Etched by William Unger.
 
 IStiitton 'oe ILuxe 
 
 THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 Alfred, Lord Tennyson 
 
 IPoet laureate 
 
 Edited by WILLIAM J. ROLFE, Litt. D. 
 
 IN TWELVE VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 DANA ESTES & COMPANY 
 
 Successors to Estes & Lauriat 
 publish ers
 
 lEtnition tic 3Luxe 
 Limited to One Thousand Copies 
 
 No 5. 
 
 Copyright, 1892 and i8g^, 
 By Estes and Lalriat. 
 
 TYPOGRAPHY, ELECTROTYPING, AND 
 PRINTING BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 
 UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The plan of this edition was formed by the 
 publishers nearly ten years ago, and was then 
 cordially approved by the poet and his family. 
 More recently, when arrangements for carrying 
 out the plan were perfected, the selection of 
 the editor was no less heartily ratified by 
 them. Lord Tennyson had already given me 
 valuable aid in revising my editions of * The 
 Princess' and other of his poems; and in 
 preparing the introduction and notes for this 
 edition of his works I have been indebted to 
 him and to his son, the present Lord Tenny- 
 son, for information and advice which no one 
 else could give so well. 
 
 The text of the poems in this edition is that 
 of the latest English editions, with the correc- 
 tion of many little typographical errors. Only 
 a few of these are mentioned in the notes; but 
 I have been careful to refer to every one con-
 
 vi PREFACE. 
 
 cerning which there could possibly be any 
 doubt. The spelling and pointing of the 
 English editions have been followed with rare 
 exceptions, which have been explained in the 
 notes when they did not explain themselves. 
 
 No poet ever made more textual changes in 
 successive editions of his works than Tenny- 
 son; and many of these have been recorded, 
 with more or less accuracy, by Mr. R. H. 
 Shepherd in his ' Tcnnysoniana, ' the Hon. 
 J. L. Warren in the 'Fortnightly Review,* 
 and other critics and commentators. These 
 changes are particularly frequent in the early 
 poems, published in 1830 and 1832, in 'The 
 Princess,' and in the * Idylls of the King.' I 
 believe that I have noted all the changes in 
 the poems included in this first volume. While 
 engaged in annotating some of these poems 
 ten years ago, I compared the later text with 
 that of the 1830 and 1832 volumes in the 
 British Museum ; and for my work on the rest 
 of them for this edition I have had the loan 
 of copies of those volumes belonging to Rev. 
 Henry van Dyke, D. D., of New York, to 
 whose friendly help and counsel I have been 
 otherwise greatly indebted. 
 
 Of the textual changes in the later poems I
 
 PREFACE. vii 
 
 shall have something to say in the prefaces to 
 the volumes in which they appear. 
 
 I am aware that Lord Tennyson more than 
 once expressed a certain dislike for * variorum 
 editions;' and in a letter thanking me for my 
 edition of ' The Princess ' he said he was sorry 
 that I had ' preserved so many chips and shav 
 ings ' of his work. But, as I think I said to 
 him later, when a man does his work out of 
 doors in the public view we have a right to 
 be interested in watching him. Whether an 
 editor is justified in printing textual variations 
 found only in an author's manuscript may be 
 questioned; but what one has printed is public 
 property, and an editor may use it at his dis- 
 cretion in writing the history of the work. If 
 an author suppresses anything for personal 
 reasons, — as Tennyson suppressed the early 
 verses addressed to Christopher North and 
 Bulwer Lytton, — it is doing him an injustice 
 to reprint them without stating the fact of 
 their withdrawal ; but it is no injustice to give 
 the history of the passage-at-arms between the 
 two literary men, with the squibs bandied 
 between them. 
 
 But the poet's figure is not so apt as it may 
 seem at first sight. To record his various
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 readings is not mere picking up of chips and 
 shavings. A poem is a work of art; and if, 
 after finishing it and placing it on exhibition, 
 the artist retouches it, altering a feature here 
 and another there, it becomes to that extent 
 a new work, and the student and critic may 
 properly and profitably compare the work as it 
 was with the work as it is. It is the finished 
 product that he saves when he records its 
 earlier form, not the * chips and shavings ' 
 left in finishing it. 
 
 In the introduction I have been under special 
 obligations for biographical details to the au- 
 thorities (Napier, Jennings, and Mrs. Ritchie) 
 commended to me by the poet and the present 
 Lord Tennyson as, on the whole, the most 
 trustworthy. I found, as they intimated that 
 I might, occasional inaccuracies in all these, 
 — as also in Mr. Waugh's 'Alfred Lord 
 Tennyson,' which I did not see until my 
 sketch was in type. When I was in doubt 
 whether certain statements were accurate or 
 not, I consulted the present Lord Tennyson, 
 who kindly settled the question. 
 
 Credit for extracts from reviews and criti- 
 cisms of the poems has been duly given, both 
 in the introduction and in the notes.
 
 PREFACE. ix 
 
 The illustrations, with which I have had 
 very little to do, can speak for themselves. I 
 may, however, add that the poet and his family 
 were particularly gratified that the admirable 
 sketches by Edward Lear (to whom the lines 
 * To E. L. ' were addressed), which no former 
 publisher had been willing to go to the ex- 
 pense of reproducing, were to be used in this 
 edition. 
 
 VV. J. R. 
 
 Cambridge, February i, 1895.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF LORD TENNYSON i 
 
 TO THE QUEEN , 131 
 
 JUVENILIA. 
 
 Claribel , . 133 
 
 Nothing will Die 135 
 
 All Things will Die 137 
 
 Leonine Elegiacs 140 
 
 Supposed Confessions 142 
 
 The Kraken 151 
 
 Song i^ 
 
 Lilian 153 
 
 Isabel i^c 
 
 Mariana jrg 
 
 To 162 
 
 Madeline 16^ 
 
 Song — The Owl 167 
 
 Second Song — To the Same 168 
 
 Recollections of the Arabian Nights ... 169 
 
 Ode to Mejiory 177 
 
 Song 183 
 
 A Character 185 
 
 The Poet 187
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 The Poet's Mind 190 
 
 The Sea-Fairies 192 
 
 The Deserted House 195 
 
 The Dying Swan 197 
 
 A Dirge 200 
 
 Love and Death 203 
 
 The Ballad of Oriana 204 
 
 Circumstance 209 
 
 The Merman 210 
 
 The Mermaid 213 
 
 ■' — 'ii:D^iNE 216 
 
 Margaret 220 
 
 Rosalind 224 
 
 Eleanore 227 
 
 ' My Life is full of weary Days ' 234 
 
 Early Sonnets 236 
 
 To 236 
 
 To J. M. K 237 
 
 'Mine be the Strength of Spirit' .... 238 
 
 Alexander 239 
 
 Buonaparte 240 
 
 Poland 241 
 
 'Caress'd or chidden by the slender Hand' 242 
 
 'The Form, the Form alone is eloquent' . 243 
 
 ' Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the 
 
 Cast' 244 
 
 'If I were loved, as I desire to be' . . 245 
 
 The Bridesmaid 246 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott 247 
 
 Mariana in the South 256
 
 CONTENTS. Xlll 
 
 Page 
 
 The Two Voices 261 
 
 The Miller's Daughter 287 
 
 Fatima 299 
 
 CEnone 302 
 
 The Sisters 315 
 
 NOTES 317
 
 IStiition tie 3Luxc» 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Portrait of Tennyson (1844) Titlepage 
 
 From the painting by Samuel Laurence. 
 
 roRTR.A.lT OF TENNYSON Frontispiece 
 
 Etched by William Unger. 
 
 SoMERSBY House, Lincolnshire 10 
 
 Photogravure from photograph. 
 
 Farringford, Freshwater, Isle of Wight ... 40 
 
 Photogravure from photograph. 
 
 Victoria 130 
 
 Mezzotint by G. W. H. Ritchie. 
 
 ^* Airy, fairy Lilian." — Lilian 154 
 
 Photogravure from painting by Maud Humphrey. 
 
 '' When merry milkmaids click the latch." — The Owl . 166 
 Photogravure from painting by E. H. Garrett. 
 
 " Gazed on the Persian girl alone." 174 
 
 — Recollections of the Arabian Nights. 
 Etched from painting by W. St. John Harper. 
 
 " Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope." . . . 178 
 
 — Ode to Memory. 
 Photo-etching from painting by Maud Humphrey.
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 Page 
 
 " And like a bride of old 
 
 In triumph led." — Ode to Memory 184 
 
 Photogravure from painting by Louis Meynelle. 
 
 " Who would be 
 A mermaid fair, 
 Singing alone, 
 
 Combing her hair ? " — The Mermaid 212 
 
 Photo-etching from painting by F. S. Church. 
 
 " So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 
 
 And once again to woo thee mine." 288 
 
 — The Miller's Daughter. 
 Photogravure from drawing by H. Winthrop Peirce.
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson was born on the 6th of August, 
 1809, at Somersby, a small village in Lincolnshire, 
 about six miles from the market town of Horncastle. 
 Its population, now somewhat diminished, was then 
 about sixty souls. Of this and the neighbouring par- 
 ish of Bag Enderby, the Rev. George Clayton Tenny- 
 son, Alfred's father, was rector. He was graduated at 
 St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1801 ; and in 1805 
 he married Elizabeth, daughter of the Rev. Stephen 
 Fytche, vicar of Louth. 
 
 In the ancestry of the poet ' two lines are blended, 
 the middle-class line of the Tennysons, and the noble 
 and even royal line of the D'Eyncourts.' The former 
 family is known to have lived at Holdernesse, in York- 
 shire, in the first half of the sixteenth century. The 
 D'Eyncourts can trace their descent from John of 
 Gaunt, fourth son of Edward III., who married Katha- 
 rine Sw}Tiford. ' The marriage was irregular, but the 
 
 VOL. I. — I
 
 2 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 children of it were legitimated by Act of Parliament in 
 the reign of Henry V., only without the rights of suc- 
 cession to the crown.' Following the line of descent 
 from John of Gaunt, we come to Edmund, Duke of 
 Somerset, who was killed at the first battle of St. Al- 
 bans. In the fourth generation from him, Anne, 
 daughter of Sir Edward Gary, married Sir Francis 
 Leke, of Sutton, Yorkshire, who was created Baron 
 Deincourt in 1624. His great-grandson, Ghristo- 
 pher Hildyard, married Jane, daughter of George 
 Pitt, who was descended from Lionel, Duke of Glar- 
 ence ; and Ghristopher's daughter Dorothy, who mar- 
 ried George Clayton of Great Grimsby, was the great- 
 grandmother of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, 
 the poet's father.^ 
 
 The barony of Deincourt was the revival of an 
 earlier peerage, and with this also the Tennysons are 
 connected ; the Jane Pitt who married Christopher 
 Hildyard being the descendant, in the eleventh gener- 
 ation, of John, twelfth Baron d'Eyncourt of Blankney, 
 who lived in the early part of the fifteenth century. 
 
 It may be noted incidentally that the poet's mother 
 was a great-granddaughter of a Monsieur Fauvelle, a 
 French Huguenot, who was related to Madame de 
 Maintenon. 
 
 1 For the line of descent in full, see Church's ' The Laure- 
 ate's Country,' or Foster's ' The Royal Lineage of our Noble 
 and Great Families.*
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON 3 
 
 The Rev, Dr. Tennyson (he received the degree 
 of LL.D. in 1813) was a man notable for his stature 
 and strength, and talented withal, being 'something 
 of a poet, painter, architect, and musician, and also 
 a considerable linguist and mathematician.' He had 
 twelve children, eight sons and four daughters. The 
 eldest son, George, died in infancy ; the others v*'ere 
 Frederick (born June 5, 1807), Charles (July 4, 
 1808), Alfred, Edward, Arthur, Septimus, and Ho- 
 ratio. The daughters were Mary, Emilia, Matilda, 
 and Cecilia. Of the sons Alfred, though the greatest, 
 was not the only poet. Frederick has published sev- 
 eral volumes of verse ('Days and Hours,' 1854, 'The 
 Isles of Greece,' 1890, etc.) ; and Charles, who after- 
 wards took the name of Turner on inheriting certain 
 property from a relative, is particularly noted for his 
 sonnets, published with other poems, in 1830, 1864, 
 1868, 1873, and 1880.' A sonnet by Edward Ten- 
 nyson was printed in the ' Yorkshire Literary Annual ' 
 for 1832 ; and it is said that most, if not all, of the 
 other brothers have written poetry. 
 
 Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie (in ' Harper's Maga- 
 zine ' for December, 1883) gives a pleasant picture 
 of the Tennyson children at Somersby : — 
 
 ^ ' Collected Sonnets, Old and New,' issued after his death, 
 which occurred in 1879. The volume is prefaced by his brother 
 Alfred's lines, * Midnight, June 30, 1879,' and contains a me- 
 moir by Hallam Tennyson and an Introductory Essay by James 
 Spedding.
 
 4 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 They were a noble little clan of poets and of knights, 
 coming of a knightly race, with castles to defend, with 
 mimic tournaments to fight. Somersby was so far away 
 from the world, so behindhand in its echoes (which 
 must have come there softened through all manner of 
 green and tranquil scenes, and, as it were, hushed into 
 pastoral silence), that, though the early part of the cen- 
 tur}' was stirring with the clang of legions, few of its 
 rumours seem to have reached the children. They never 
 heard, at the time, of the battle of Waterloo. They grew 
 up together, playing their own games, living their own 
 life. . . . These handsome children had beyond most 
 children that wondrous toy at their command which 
 some people call imagination. The boys played great 
 games, like Arthur's knights ; they were champions and 
 warriors defending a stone heap, or again they would set 
 up opposing camps with a king in the midst of each. 
 The king was a willow wand stuck into the ground, with 
 an outer circle of immortals to defend him of firmer, 
 stiffer sticks. Then each party would come with stones, 
 hurling at each other's king, and trying to overthrow him. 
 Perhaps as the day wore on they became romancers, leav- 
 ing the jousts deserted. When dinner-time came, and they 
 all sat round the table, each in turn put a chapter of his 
 history under the potato-bowl, — long, endless histories, 
 chapter after chapter diffuse, absorbing, unending, as are 
 the stories of real life of which each sunrise opens on a 
 new part ; some of these romances were in letters, like 
 ' Clarissa Harlowe.' Alfred used to tell a story which 
 lasted for months, and which was called ' The Old Horse.' 
 
 The same writer tells us of the poet's earliest at- 
 tempts at verse : — 
 
 Alfred's first verses, so I once heard him say, were 
 written upon a slate which his brother Charles put into
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 5 
 
 his hand one Sunday at Louth, when all the elders of the 
 party were going into church, and the child was left alone. 
 Charles gave him a subject, — the flowers in the garden, — 
 and when he came back from church little Alfred brought 
 the slate to his brother, all covered with written lines of 
 blank verse. They were made on the models of Thom- 
 son's ' Seasons,' the only poetry he had ever read. One 
 can picture it all to one's self, — the flowers in the garden, 
 the verses, the little poet with waiting eyes, and the young 
 brother scanning the lines. ' Yes, you can write,' said 
 Charles, and he gave Alfred back the slate. 
 
 I have also heard another story of his grandfather, 
 later on, asking him to write an elegy on his grandmother, 
 who had recently died, and when it was written, putting 
 ten shillings into his hands and saying, ' There, that is 
 the first money you have ever earned by your poetr}', and, 
 take my word for it, it will be the last.' 
 
 When Alfred was in his earliest teens — long before 
 the production of the ' Poems by Two Brothers ' — he 
 wrote an epic in three books ; it was full of furious 
 battles and descriptions of lake and mountain scen- 
 ery. He used to compose sixty or seventy lines in a 
 breath, and shout them about the silent fields, leaping 
 over the hedges in his excitement. When they pub- 
 lished Shelley's early poems, or on some such occa- 
 sion, he flung the epic into the fire. His father, who, 
 as already stated, was a poet himself, thought so 
 highly of the original, imaginative, and creative power 
 of the boy that he prophesied he would be the great- 
 est poet of the time.^ 
 
 1 This I get from the best possible authority, and think it 
 has not been in print before.
 
 6 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 William Howitt, in his ' Homes and Haunts of 
 the British Poets,' gives the earliest description of 
 Somersby that I know of, and one of the best : — 
 
 The native village of Tennyson is not situated in the 
 fens, but in a pretty, pastoral district of softly sloping hills 
 and large ash-trees ; it is not based on bogs, but on a 
 clean sandstone. There is a little glen in the neighbour- 
 hood called by the old monkish name of Holywell. Over 
 the gateway leading to it, some bygone squire has put up 
 an inscription, a medley of Virgil and Horace : — 
 
 Intus aquae dulces, vivoque sedilia saxo, 
 
 Et paulum silvae superest. His utere mecum ; 
 
 and within, a stream of clear water gushes out of a sand- 
 rock, and over it stands an old schoolhouse, almost lost 
 among the trees, and of late years used as a woodhouse, 
 its former distinction only signified by a Scripture text on 
 the walls, — ' Remember thy Creator in the days of thy 
 youth.' There are also two brooks in this valley which 
 flow into one at the bottom of the glebe-field, and by 
 these the young poet used to wander and meditate. To 
 this scenery we find him turning back in his ' Ode to 
 Memory ' : — 
 
 Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside, 
 The seven elms, the poplars four 
 That stand beside my father's door, 
 And chiefly from the brook that loves 
 To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand. 
 Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
 Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 
 
 In every elbow and turn, 
 The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. 
 
 O, hither lead thy feet 1 
 Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON-. 7 
 
 Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 
 
 Upon the ridged wolds, 
 When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 
 Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
 What time the amber morn 
 Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 
 
 In the churchyard stands a Norman cross, almost single 
 of its kind in England. 
 
 The short-lived poplars, after the lapse of three 
 quarters of a century, are no more to be seen, but the 
 ' seven elms ' are still standing in the garden behind 
 the house, which is now the property of the lord of 
 the manor, who gave in exchange a house at Bag 
 Enderby, to be used as a rectory. 
 
 Some imaginative writers have endeavoured to iden- 
 tify the Somersby brook with the one that sings so 
 charming a song in that fascinating idyl, * The Brook ; ' 
 but this cannot fairly be done, though there are points 
 of resemblance between the two streamlets. It is 
 true, as Mr. Church notes, that at Somersby — 
 
 there are ' hazel covers ' and ' sweet forget-me-nots ' and 
 ' many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel ; ' 
 and the rivulet may say, as the 'babbling brook' did 
 to its questioner, — 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, ' 
 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 I bubble into eddying bays, 
 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 
 With willow-weed and mallow.
 
 8 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 But there are some things in its supposed prototype 
 which manifestly it could not claim. It does not hurry 
 down, for instance, by ' thirty hills,' for it soon makes 
 its way into the low countrj', nor is there a ' brimming 
 river ' for it to join. Finally, it cannot make at least one- 
 half of the boast that it holds — 
 
 Here and there a lusty trout 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 There may be, or anyhow have been, trout in the brook, 
 but scarcely a grayling. 
 
 Alfred received his first education from his father 
 and the village schoolmaster, who came up to the 
 rectory to give lessons to him and his brothers. Later 
 he went to the grammar school at Louth, where he re- 
 mained several years, but, so far as he remembered in 
 later life, learned very little. Tradition says that the 
 head-master, the Rev. J. Waite, like Horace's teacher, 
 Orbilius, 'was plagosus, fond of blows.' As Mr. 
 Church remarks, ' there would have been no little dif- 
 ficulty at that time to find a schoolmaster who was 
 anything else.' 
 
 From Alfred's return to Somersby in 1820 until he 
 went to Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1828, his father 
 was his instructor : — 
 
 Much of course was self-acquired, for he was always a 
 great reader. At the same time it is probable that the 
 recollections of his boyhood and early youth, as they 
 have been given to curious inquirers by old inhabitants, 
 have received some colour from what they had heard of 
 his after career. The picture of the shy student, wander-
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON-. 9 
 
 ing about, book in hand or wrapped in some deep reverie, 
 does not agree with the poet's own recollections of his 
 life at Somersby. One of his most vivid recollections is 
 of how he and his elder brother Charles were wont to de- 
 fend one of the bridges over the Somersby brook against 
 superior numbers of the village boys. Against three or 
 four or even five they could hold their own, but on one 
 occasion, when the attacking force doubled this last num- 
 ber, they were obliged, he remembers, to retreat.^ 
 
 The Somersby church is a small edifice in the 
 Early Perpendicular style, with ' a very squat tower, a 
 nave with a north aisle, and a chancel.' It is built 
 of sandstone, but has been much repaired with brick. 
 The interior has been * restored ' since Dr. Tenny- 
 son's time, giving it a modem look which is not in 
 keeping with the picturesque old exterior. To the 
 west of the tower is a flat stone, enclosed with high 
 railings, and bearing the following inscription : — 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 THE REVEREND 
 
 GEORGE CLAYTON TENNYSON, 
 
 LL. D., 
 
 ELDEST SON OF GEORGE TENNYSON, ESQ., 
 
 OF BAYONS MANOR, 
 
 AND RECTOR OF THIS PARISH 
 
 OF BAG ENDERBY AND BENNIWORTH 
 
 AND VICAR OF GREAT GRIMSBY 
 
 IN THIS COUNTY. 
 
 HE DEPARTED THIS LIFE 
 
 ON THE i6tH day OF MARCH, 183I 
 
 AGED FIFTY -TWO YEARS. 
 
 ^ Church.
 
 lO THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 In the spring of 1827, a volume entitled 'Poems 
 by Two Brothers ' was published by Mr. J. Jackson, 
 a bookseller at Louth, who engaged to pay ten 
 pounds for the copyright, and actually paid twenty. 
 The two brothers were Charles and Alfred Tennyson. 
 They intended at first to affix their initials to the 
 pieces of which they were respectively the authors, 
 but subsequently decided to let the book appear 
 anonymously. The titlepage bears the motto, * Haec 
 nos novimus esse nihil,' from Martial ; and the preface 
 (which Mr. Wace strangely calls * somewhat lengthy ') 
 is as follows : — 
 
 The following poems were written from the ages of 
 fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly, but individually ; which 
 may account for their difference of style and matter. To 
 light upon any novel combination of images or to open 
 any vein of sparkling thought untouched before, were no 
 easy task : indeed, the remark itself is as old as the truth 
 is clear ; and, no doubt, if submitted to the microscopic 
 eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and 
 imitations would result from the investigation. But so it 
 is : we have passed the Rubicon, and we leave the rest to 
 fate, though its edict may create a fruitless regret that we 
 ever emerged from 'the shade,' and courted notoriety. 
 March, 1827. 
 
 A poetical prelude follows, ending thus : — 
 
 Such are the sweets of song — and in this age, 
 Perchance too many in its lists engage : 
 And they who now would fain awake the lyre. 
 May swell this supernumerary choir:
 
 Sontersby House, Lincolnshire. 
 Photogravure from photograph. 
 
 J
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. II 
 
 But ye, who deign to read, forget t' apply 
 
 The searching microscope of scrutiny : 
 
 Few from too near inspection fail to lose. 
 
 Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows ; 
 
 And who is not indebted to that aid 
 
 Which throws his failures into welcome shade ? 
 
 There are one hundred and two poems in the two 
 hundred and twenty-eight pages of the book; and 
 the subjects are drawn from all ages and all lands, as a 
 few of the titles may serve to show : ' Antony to Cleopa- 
 tra ; ' ' The Gondola ; ' ' Written by an Exile of Basso- 
 rah, sailing down the Euphrates ; ' ' Persia ; ' ' Egypt ; ' 
 
 * The Druid's Prophecies ; ' ' Swiss Song ; ' ' The Ex- 
 pedition of Nadir Shah into Hindostan ; ' ' Greece ; ' 
 
 * The Maid of Savoy ; ' ' Scotch Song ; ' ' God's De- 
 nunciations against Pharaoh-Hophra ; ' ' The Death 
 of Lord Byron;' 'The Fall of Jerusalem ;' * Eulo- 
 gium on Homer ; ' ' The Scenery of South America ; ' 
 
 * Babylon ; ' ' Phrenology ; ' ' Exhortation to the 
 Greeks ; ' ' King Charles's Vision ; ' etc. They are 
 often introduced by quotations ; among others, from 
 Addison, Byron, Cicero, Claudian, Gray, Horace, 
 Hume, Lucretius, Milton, Moore, Ovid, Racine, Rous- 
 seau, Sallust, Scott, Tacitus, Terence, and Virgil. 
 There are also frequent foot-notes, which are more 
 learned than we should expect from boys of seventeen 
 or eighteen, and yet without the affectation of scholar- 
 ship that we might expect in connection with such a 
 juvenile display of erudition.
 
 12 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 The present Lord Tennyson has done well, I think, 
 in consenting to a reprint of these poems since his 
 father's death. They have an historical interest, and 
 are worthy of preservation for their own sake. Be- 
 sides, they have been reprinted several times in this 
 country without authority, and with some inaccura- 
 cies; so that a careful reproduction of the exces- 
 sively rare volume was desirable on this account if on 
 no other. 
 
 In text and arrangement of pages the reprint is a 
 facsimile of the 1827 edition. The poems are, how- 
 ever, signed with the initials of the authors, on the 
 authority of Frederick Tennyson, who, as we now 
 learn, himself contributed four pieces to the collec- 
 tion. Of the authorship of these, of course, he can 
 speak positively, but he states that he 'cannot be 
 sure of the others.' Four poems are appended which 
 were in the original manuscript of 1827, but were 
 omitted ' for some forgotten reason ' when it was 
 printed. The prize poem of ' Timbuctoo ' is also 
 included in this reprint. 
 
 We can trace in many of the poems the influence 
 of Byron, who is quoted six times, and whose re- 
 cent death is the subject of one poem and is referred 
 to in another. Mrs. Ritchie tells how the news of 
 Byron's death affected Alfred at fifteen : — * " Byron 
 was dead ! I thought the whole world was at an 
 end," he once said, speaking of those bygone days;
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 13 
 
 "I thought everything was over and finished for 
 every one, — that nothing else mattered. I remem- 
 ber I walked out alone, and carved * Byron is dead ' 
 into the sandstone." ' 
 
 Critics have often exercised their ingenuity in at- 
 tempts to pick out Alfred's work from the contents of 
 this anonymous volume ; and it now appears that 
 they have generally been right in regard to the ten 
 or more poems they have assigned to him. Some of 
 these have been recognised by verbal resemblances 
 between the juvenile verses and the acknowledged 
 productions of the Laureate. To give an illustration, 
 these lines in * The Valley of Bones,' 
 
 At times her partial splendour shines 
 Upon the grove of deep-black pines, 
 
 remind one of ' The Two Voices ' : — 
 
 Sometimes a little corner shines 
 
 As over rainy mist inclines 
 
 A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 
 
 Aside from this parallel, I should have no hesitation 
 in ascribing ' The Valley of Bones ' to Alfred, for it is 
 one of the best things in the book. His poems 
 average decidedly better than Charles's, especially in 
 ease and grace of versification, in descriptions of 
 nature, and in sustained imaginative power. As a 
 rule, the longer poems are his, though the longest, 
 ' The Oak of the North,' which I have always sup-
 
 14 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 posed to be his — for it could not be Charles's — 
 proves now to be Frederick's. Charles has a certain 
 facility in versifying, though looser in rhyming than 
 Alfred — for instance, admitting such combinations 
 zsform, charm; lid, beside; zeal, real ; morn, lawn, 
 etc. Alfred's rhymes are generally faultless, the only 
 very bad one that I note being dwelling, Ellen, in a 
 short piece which, if it were not signed ' A. T.,' I 
 should unhesitatingly assign to Charles. It may be 
 his, for I suspect in several instances that Frederick 
 has made mistakes in the signatures. He appends a 
 (?) to some poems concerning which I should have 
 no doubt. The lines on page 164, * Ah ! yes, the lip 
 may faintly smile,' marked 'A. T. (?),' are almost 
 certainly Charles's ; and the same maybe said of those 
 on page 178, 'How gaily sinks the gorgeous sun,' 
 similarly marked. 'The Dying Christian ' (page 175), 
 signed ' A. T. or C. T.,' unquestionably belongs to 
 the latter. This is clear from internal evidence ; and 
 it is confirmed by the fact that nearly all the other 
 poems which have a religious turn (pages 18, 88, 98, 
 118, 152, 172, etc.) are ascribed to Charles. 'The 
 Deity' (page T09), also signed 'A. T. or C. T.,' be- 
 longs in this class, and must be Charles's. All these 
 poems may be comprehensively described as ' poor 
 and pious.' 'Remorse' (p. 20), the only piece in 
 this vein which is unmistakably Alfred's, reminds me 
 much of the ' Confessions of a Second-rate Sensitive
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 15 
 
 Mind,' published in iiis 1830 volume, but suppressed 
 until within a few years. 
 
 To illustrate the treatment of nature by the brothers, 
 take first this from Charles's description of a thunder- 
 storm (page 122) : — 
 
 The storm is brooding ! — I would see it pass, 
 
 Observe its tenor, and its progress trace. 
 
 How dark and dun the gathering clouds appear, 
 
 Their rolling thunders seem to rend the ear ! 
 
 But faint at first, they slowly, sternly rise, 
 
 From mutt'rings low to peals which rock the skies, 
 
 As if at first their fury they forbore. 
 
 And nursed their terrors for a closing roar. 
 
 And hark ! they rise into a loftier sound. 
 
 Creation's trembling objects quake around; 
 
 In silent awe the subject nations hear 
 
 Th' appalling crash of elemental war ; 
 
 The lightning, too, each eye in dimness shrouds, 
 
 The fiery progeny of clashing clouds. 
 
 That carries death upon its blazing wing, 
 
 And the keen tortures of th' electric sting ; 
 
 Not like the harmless flash on summer's eve 
 
 (When no rude blasts their silent slumbers leave), 
 
 Which, Hke a radiant vision to the eye. 
 
 Expands serenely in the placid sky ; 
 
 It rushes fleeter than the swiftest wind. 
 
 And bids attendant thunders wait behind : 
 
 Quick — forked — livid, thro' the air it flies, 
 
 A moment blazes — dazzles — bursts — and dies : 
 
 Another, and another yet, and still 
 
 To each replies its own allotted peal. 
 
 These are good schoolboy verses ; but are not these,
 
 1 6 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 from a poem of Alfred's, entitled ' Midnight ' (page 
 86), in a somewhat higher strain? — 
 
 'T is midnight o'er the dim mere's lonely bosom, 
 
 Dark, dusky, windy midnight : swift are driven 
 The swelling vapours onward : every blossom 
 
 Bathes its bright petals in the tears of heaven. 
 Imperfect, half-seen objects meet the sight, 
 
 The other half our fancy must portray ; 
 A wan, dull, lengthen' d sheet of swimming light 
 
 Lies the broad lake : the moon conceals her ray, 
 Sketch'd faintly by a pale and lurid gleam 
 
 Shot thro' the glimmering clouds : the lovely planet 
 Is shrouded in obscurity ; the scream 
 
 Of owl is silenced ; and the rocks of granite 
 Rise tall and drearily, while damp and dank 
 Hang the thick willows on the reedy bank. 
 Beneath, the gurgling eddies slowly creep, 
 
 Blacken'd by foliage ; and the glutting wave, 
 That saps eternally the cold gray steep. 
 
 Sounds heavily within the hollow cave. 
 
 It is weak in spots — the ' dark, dusky,' etc. — but, 
 for all that, it has more of promise in it than the 
 other. 
 
 There is great variety of metre and stanza in the 
 poems, but Alfred never writes in the rhymed heroics 
 that Charles affects in the above quotation and several 
 other pieces. Two of these — ' Sunday Mobs ' and 
 'Phrenology' (pages 197, 200) — are in a humorous 
 vein, which we should hardly have looked for in the 
 soberer brother. The wit, however, is rather laboured, 
 as this from ' Sunday Mobs ' may illustrate : —
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. ly 
 
 Tho' we at times amid the mob may find 
 
 A beauteous face, with many a charm combined ; 
 
 Yet still it wants the signature of mind. 
 
 On such a face no fine expression dwells, 
 
 That eye no inborn dignity reveals ; 
 
 Tho' bright its jetty orb, as all may see, 
 
 The glance is vacant — has no charms for me. 
 
 When Sunday's sun is sinking in the west, 
 
 Our streets all swarm with numbers gaily drest ; 
 
 Prankt out in ribbands, and in silks array'd. 
 
 To catch the eyes of passing sons of trade. 
 
 Then giggling milliners swim pertly by, 
 
 Obliquely glancing with a roguish eye ; 
 
 With short and airy gait they trip along, 
 
 And vulgar volubility of tongue ; 
 
 Their minds well pictured in their every tread, 
 
 And that slight backward tossing of the head : 
 
 But no idea, 'faith, that harbours there. 
 
 Is independent of a stomacher. 
 
 Their metaphors from gowns and caps are sought, 
 
 And stays incorporate with every thought. 
 
 In ' Phrenology ' we have the allusion to the death 
 of Byron mentioned above : — 
 
 E'en now, when Harold's minstrel left the scene, 
 Where such a brilliant meteor he had been. 
 Thus with the same ofificiousness of pains. 
 Gazettes announc'd the volume of his brains. 
 
 The poem * On the Death of Lord Byron,' also cred- 
 ited to Charles, is one of his best, though by no 
 means up to the average of Alfred, to whom the 
 critics have generally ascribed it : — 
 
 VOL. I. — 2
 
 l8 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Unus tanta dedit ? — dedit et majora daturus 
 Ni ccleri letho corriperetur, erat. 
 
 Don Manuel de Souza Coutino's 
 Epitaph on Cantoens. 
 
 The hero and the bard is gone ! i 
 
 His bright career on earth is done, 
 Where with a comet's blaze he shone. 
 
 He died — where vengeance arms the brave, 
 Where buried freedom quits her grave, 
 In regions of the eastern wave. 
 
 Yet not before his ardent lay 
 Had bid them chase all fear away, 
 And taught their trumps a bolder bray. 
 
 Thro' him their ancient valour glows, 
 And, stung by thraldom's scathing woes, 
 They rise again, as once they rose. 
 
 As once in conscious glory bold, 
 
 To war their sounding cars they roll'd, 
 
 Uncrush'd, untrampled, uncontroll'd ! 
 
 Each drop that gushes from their side 
 
 Will serve to swell the crimson tide, 
 
 That soon shall whelm the Moslem's pride ! 
 
 At last upon their lords they turn, 
 At last the shame of bondage learn, 
 At last they feel their fetters burn ! 
 
 Oh ! how the heart expands to see 
 
 An injured people all agree 
 
 To burst those fetters and be free ! 
 
 i
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 19 
 
 Each far-famed mount that cleaves the skies, 
 Each plain wliere buried glory lies, 
 All, all exclaim — 'Awake ! arise ! ' 
 
 Who would not feel their wrongs ? and who 
 Departed freedom would not rue, 
 With all her trophies in his view ? 
 
 To see imperial Athens reign, 
 And, towering o'er the vassal main, 
 Rise in embattled strength again — 
 
 To see rough Sparta train once more 
 Her infants' ears for battle's roar. 
 Stern, dreadful, chainless, as before — 
 
 Was Byron's hope — was Byron's aim : 
 With ready heart and hand he came. 
 But perish'd in that path of fame ! 
 
 The following ' On a Dead Enemy ' (page 1 60 ) , 
 which I have always assumed to be Alfred's and now 
 find with the ' A. T.' appended, is a remarkable pro- 
 duction for a boy of seventeen or less : — 
 
 I came in haste with cursing breath. 
 
 And heat of hardest steel ; 
 But when I saw thee cold in death 
 
 I felt as man should feel. 
 
 For when I look upon that face. 
 That cold, unheeding, frigid brow, 
 
 Where neither rage nor fear has place, 
 By Heaven ! I cannot hate thee now !
 
 20 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 The poem on * Egypt ' is said to have been ' begun 
 by C. T. and finished by A. T.' It is easy to see 
 that the first three stanzas, beginning 
 
 The sombre pencil of the dim-gray dawn 
 Draws a faint sketch of Egypt to mine eye, 
 
 As yet uncolour'd by the brilHant morn, 
 And her gay orb careering up the sky, 
 
 are Charles's, while the other four are Alfred's, be- 
 ginning thus : — 
 
 But the first glitter of his rising beam 
 
 Falls on the broad-based pyratnids sublime. 
 
 As proud to show us with his earliest gleam 
 Those vast and hoary enemies of time. 
 
 'Antony to Cleopatra,' by Alfred and one of the 
 best things in the volume, is well worth reproducing 
 here, that the reader may compare it with the Cleo- 
 patra stanzas in ' A Dream of Fair Women ' : — 
 
 ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA. 
 
 O Cleopatra ! fare thee well, 
 
 We two can meet no more ; 
 This breaking heart alone can tell 
 
 The love to thee I bore. 
 But wear not thou the conqueror's chain 
 
 Upon thy race and thee ; 
 And tho' we ne'er can meet again. 
 
 Yet still be true to me : 
 For I for thee have lost a throne. 
 To wear the crown of love alone.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 2 1 
 
 Fair daughter of a regal line ! 
 
 To thraldom bow not tame ; 
 My every wish on earth was thine, 
 
 My every hope the same. 
 And I have moved within thy sphere, 
 
 And lived within thy light ; 
 And oh ! thou wert to me so dear, 
 
 I breathed but in thy sight ! 
 A subject world I lost for thee, 
 For thou wert all my world to me ! 
 
 Then, when the shriekings of the dying 
 
 Were heard along the wave, 
 Soul of my soul ! I saw thee flying ; 
 
 I follow'd thee, to save. 
 The thunder of the brazen prows 
 
 O'er Actium's ocean rung ; 
 Fame's garland faded from my brows, 
 
 Her wreath away I flung. 
 I sought, I saw, I heard but thee ; 
 For what to love was victory ? 
 
 Thine on the earth, and on the throne, 
 
 And in the grave, am I ; 
 And, dying, still I am thine own, 
 
 Thy bleeding Antony. 
 How shall my spirit joy to hear 
 
 That thou art ever true ! 
 Nay — weep not — dry that burning tear, 
 
 That bathes thine eyes' dark hue. 
 Shades of my fathers ! lo ! I come • 
 I hear your voices from the tomb !
 
 22 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 * The Old Sword,' which was generally ascribed to 
 Alfred before it was known to be his, is another good 
 specimen of his juvenile work : — 
 
 THE OLD SWORD. 
 
 Old Sword ! tho' dim and rusted 
 
 Be now thy sheeny blade, 
 Thy glitt'ring edge incrusted 
 With cankers Time hath made ; 
 
 Yet once around thee swell'd the cry 
 
 Of triumph's fierce dehght, 
 
 The shoutings of the victory, 
 
 The thunders of the fight ! 
 
 Tho' age hath past upon thee 
 With still corroding breath, 
 Yet once stream'd redly on thee 
 The purpling tide of death : 
 
 What time amid the war of foes 
 The dastard's cheek grew pale, 
 As thro' the feudal field arose 
 The ringing of the mail. 
 
 Old Sword ! what arm hath wielded 
 
 Thy richly gleaming brand. 
 
 Mid lordly forms who shielded 
 
 The maidens of their land ? 
 
 And who hath clov'n his foes in wrath 
 
 With thy puissant fire, 
 And scatter'd in his perilous path 
 The victims of his ire ? 
 
 Old Sword ! whose fingers clasp'd thee 
 Around thy carved hilt .■*
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 23 
 
 And with that hand which grasp'd thee 
 What heroes' blood was spilt ; 
 
 When fearlessly, with open hearts, 
 
 And lance to lance opposed, 
 Beneath the shade of barbed darts 
 The dark-eyed warriors closed ? 
 
 Old Sword ! I would not burnish 
 
 Thy venerable rust, 
 Nor sweep away the tarnish 
 Of darkness and of dust ! 
 
 Lie there, in slow and still decay, 
 
 Unfamed in olden rhyme, 
 The relic of a former day, 
 A wreck of ancient time ! 
 
 Alfred's poem entitled ' Love ' contains an allusion, 
 to which there is a parallel in ' The Palace of Art,' but 
 to which none of the commentators have called atten- 
 tion. The passage is as follows : — 
 
 Or else, as Indian fables say, 
 
 Upon thine emerald lory riding. 
 Thro' gardens mid the restless play 
 
 Of fountains in the moonbeam gliding, 
 Mid sylph-like shapes of maidens dancing, 
 Thy scarlet standard high advancing ; — 
 
 Thy fragrant bow of cane thou bendest,^ 
 Twanging the string of honey'd bees, 
 
 * See Sir William Jones's works, vol. vi., p. 313 : — 
 
 He bends the luscious cane, and twists the string; 
 With bees how sweet, but ah ! how keen the sting I 
 He with five flowrets tips thy ruthless darts, 
 Which thro' five senses pierce enraptured hearts
 
 24 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 And thence the flower- tipp'd arrow sendest, 
 
 Which gives or robs the heart of ease ; 
 Camdeo, or Cupid, oh be near 
 To listen, and to grant my prayer ! 
 
 Compare ' The Palace of Art ' : — 
 
 Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
 
 And many a tract of palm and rice. 
 The throne of Indian Cama^ slowly sail'd 
 A summer fann'd with spice. 
 
 These opening lines of 'The Dell of E 
 
 mind me of the beginning of ' CEnone,' though they 
 are not among the * parallelisms ' cited by former 
 editors : — 
 
 There was a long, low, rushy dell, emboss'd 
 
 With knolls of grass and clumps of copsewood green ; 
 Midway a wandering burn the valley cross'd, 
 
 And streak'd with silvery line the woodland scene ; 
 High hills on either side to heaven upsprung, 
 
 Y-clad with groves of undulating pine. 
 Upon whose heads the hoary vapours hung, 
 
 And far — far off the heights were seen to shine 
 In clear relief against the sapphire sky. 
 
 And many a blue stream wander'd thro' the shade 
 
 1 Cama or Camdeo is the Hindoo god of love, sometimes 
 represented as riding by night on a parrot, or lory. Compare 
 Sir William Jones's Hymn to Camdeo : — 
 
 O thou for ages born, yet ever young, 
 For ages may thy Brahmin's lay be sung ! 
 And when thy lory spreads his emerald wings 
 To waft thee high above the towers of kings, 
 Whilst o'er thy throne the moon's pale light 
 Pours her soft radiance thro' the night, etc. — Ed.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 25 
 
 Of those dark groves that clomb the mountains high, 
 
 And ghstening 'neath each lone entangled glade, 
 At length with brawling accent loudly fell 
 Within the limpid brook that wound along the dell. 
 
 Certain critics have compared these juvenile poems 
 to the first efforts of Byron, and those by Charles are 
 possibly not above the average quality of the ' Hours 
 of Idleness ; ' but the majority of those which we can 
 now confidently ascribe to Alfred seem to me im- 
 measurably superior to the best things in that book, 
 published when the author was nineteen. There is 
 scarcely a stanza in the latter which gives any indica- 
 tion of budding genius, while not a few of the boyish 
 poems of Alfred Tennyson really show the ' promise 
 and potency ' of greater work to come. 
 
 The only contemporary criticism of the * Poems by 
 Two Brothers ' which the commentators have un- 
 earthed is in 'The Literary Chronicle' of INIay 19, 
 1827. The reviewer says: 'This little volume ex- 
 hibits a pleasing union of kindred tastes, and contains 
 several little pieces of considerable merit.' Two of 
 the poems are given in full as samples of the whole 
 ■ — the stanzas beginning ' Yon star of eve, so soft 
 and clear,' by Charles and not one of his best, but 
 perhaps taken because it is the first piece in the book ; 
 and 'God's Denunciations against Pharaoh-Hophra,' 
 which is only an average specimen of Alfred's contri- 
 butions to the volume.
 
 26 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 The four ' Additional Poems ' in the reprint, omit- 
 ted in the 1827 edition, are all ascribed to 'A. T.,' 
 but I suspect that the second, ' The Dying Man to his 
 Friend,' belongs to Charles. It is inferior to the 
 others, and has the pious turn to which I have re- 
 ferred as characteristic of many pieces assigned to 
 him. The last stanza is as follows : — 
 
 Other worlds are opening on me, 
 Now my course on earth is done ; 
 
 Holy Jesus ! look upon me, 
 Holy Father, take Thy son. 
 
 The whole poem is equally commonplace, and I find 
 nothing clearly belonging to Alfred which is so poor 
 throughout. The third of the appended poems, 
 * Unhappy man, why wander there ? ' though some- 
 what better than the second, may also be Charles's ; 
 but the fourth, the spirited lines ' Written during the 
 Convulsions in Spain,' is correctly signed * A. T.' 
 
 In October, 1828, Alfred went to Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, where his two elder brothers, Frederick 
 and Charles, were already residing. He remained 
 through the academic year, 1829-30, and for the first 
 term of the next, leaving college in the latter part of 
 February, 1831. 'This premature departure from 
 the university, which, it will be seen, he left without 
 graduating, was due to his father's death,' 
 
 The tutor to whom Alfred was assigned, according
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 27 
 
 to the custom of the college, was William Whewell, 
 then recently elected Professor of Mineralogy, and 
 afterwards Master of the College. Mrs. Ritchie says 
 of him and his students at this time : — 
 
 Whewell ruled a noble generation, — a race of men born 
 in the beginning of the century, whose praise and loyal 
 friendship were indeed worth having, and whose good 
 opinion Tennyson himself may have been proud to pos- 
 sess. Wise, sincere, and witty, these contemporaries of 
 his spoke with authority, with the modesty of conscious 
 strength. Those of this race whom I have known in later 
 days — for they were many of them my father's friends 
 also — have all been men of unmistakable stamp, of great 
 culture, of a certain dignified bearing, and of indepen- 
 dence of mind and of character. 
 
 Most of them have succeeded in life as men do who are 
 possessed of intellect and high character. Some have not 
 made the less mark upon their time because their names 
 are less widely known ; but each name is a memorable 
 chapter in life to one and another of us who have known 
 them from our youth. One of those old friends, who also 
 loved my father, and whom he loved, who has himself just 
 passed away, one who saw life with his own eyes, de- 
 scribed Alfred in his youth, in a pamphlet or book which 
 has been privately printed, and which is a remembrance, 
 a sort of waking dream, of some bygone days and talks. 
 How many of us might have been glad to listen to our 
 poet, and to the poet who has made the philosophy of 
 Omar Khayam known to the world, as they discoursed to- 
 gether ; of life, of bo3'ish memories, of books, and again 
 more books, of chivalry, — mainly but another name for 
 youth, — of a possible old age, so thoroughly seasoned 
 with its spirit that all the experience of the world should 
 serve not to freeze but to direct the genial current of the
 
 28 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 soul ! and who that has known them both will not recog- 
 nise the truth of this description of Alfred in those early 
 days ? — 
 
 A man at all points, of grand proportion and feature, sig- 
 nificant of that inward chivalry becoming his ancient and 
 honourable race ; when himself a ' Yonge Squire,' like him in 
 Chaucer, ' of grete strength,' that could hurl the crowbar far- 
 ther than any of the neighbouring clowns, whose humours, as 
 well as of their betters, — knight, squire, landlord, and lieuten- 
 ant, — he took quiet note of, like Chaucer himself ; like Words- 
 worth on the mountain, he too when a lad abroad on the world, 
 sometimes of a night with the shepherd, watching not only the 
 flock on the greensward, but also 
 
 the fleecy star that bears 
 Andromeda far off Atlantic seas, 
 
 along with those other Zodiacal constellations which Aries, I 
 think, leads over the field of heaven. 
 
 Arthur Hallam has also written of him, in some lines to 
 R. J. Tennant, as 
 
 a friend, a rare one, 
 A noble being full of clearest insight, 
 
 . . . whose fame 
 Is couching now with pantherised intent. 
 As who shall say, I '11 spring to him anon. 
 And have him for my own. 
 
 All these men could understand each other, although 
 they had not then told the world their secrets. Poets, 
 critics, men of learning — such names as Trench and 
 Monckton Milnes, George Stovin Venables, the Lush- 
 ingtons and Kinglake, need no comment; many more 
 there are, and deans and canons, — a band of youthful 
 friends in those days meeting to hold debate 
 
 on mind and art, 
 And labour and the changing mart. 
 And all the framework of the land ;
 
 OF LORD TEAWYSON. 29 
 
 When one would aim an arrow fair, 
 But send it slackly from the string ; 
 And one would pierce an outer ring, 
 
 And one an inner, here and there ; 
 
 And last the master-bowman, he. 
 Would cleave the mark. 
 
 The lines to J. S. were written to one of these earlier 
 associates : — 
 
 And gently comes the world to those 
 That are cast in gentle mould. 
 
 It was the prophecy of a whole lifetime. There were but 
 few signs of age in James Spedding's looks, none in his 
 charming companionship, when the accident befell him 
 which took him away from those who loved him. To an- 
 other old companion, the Rev. W. H. Brookfield, is dedi- 
 cated that sonnet which flows like an echo of Cambridge 
 chimes on a Sabbath morning. It is in this sonnet that 
 Tennyson speaks of Arthur Hallam as ' him the lost light 
 of those dawn-golden times.' 
 
 Brookfield was for many years a preacher in Lon- 
 don, but later went to a country parish in Lincolnshire. 
 During his Cambridge life, he was noted for his 
 humour and his power of mimicry. Dr. Whewell 
 wrote long afterwards : — 
 
 At my age it is not likely that I shall ever again see a 
 whole party lying on the floor for purposes of unrestrained 
 laughter, while one of their number is pouring forth, with 
 a perfectly grave face, a succession of imaginary dialogues 
 between characters real or fictitious, one exceeding another 
 in humour or drollery. Brookfield almost lived with Ar- 
 thur Hallam and the Tennysons, and, of course, with those 
 who could afford time for their nodes coenceque.
 
 3© THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Arthur Hallam, to whom this last sentence alludes, 
 was the most intimate of Tennyson's friends at Cam- 
 bridge. He was two years younger than Alfred, but 
 entered the university in the same year. He died at 
 the early age of twenty-three, and * In Memoriam ' is 
 the noble monument the poet has reared to his mem- 
 ory.^ In the preface to a little volume of his collected 
 poems and essays, published after his death, his 
 father, the eminent historian, says of him : — 
 
 From the earlier years of this extraordinary young man, 
 his premature abilities are not more conspicuous than an 
 almost faultless disposition sustained by a more calm self- 
 command than has often been witnessed in this season of 
 life. The sweetness of temper which distinguished his 
 childhood became with the advance of manhood a habit- 
 ual benevolence, and ultimately ripened into that exalted 
 principle of benevolence towards God and man which ani- 
 mated and almost absorbed his soul during the latter 
 period of his life. . . . He seemed to tread the earth as 
 a spirit from some better world ; and in bowing to the 
 mysterious WiU which has in mercy removed him., per- 
 fected by so short a trial, and passing over the bridge 
 which separates the seen from the unseen life in a 
 moment, and as we may believe without a moment's 
 pang, we must feel not only the bereavement of them to 
 whom he was dear, but the loss which mankind have sus- 
 tained by the withdrawing of such a hght. 
 
 Rev. Henry Alford, the late Dean of Canterbury, an 
 
 intimate friend, thus addresses him in ' The School of 
 
 the Heart ' : — 
 
 ^ In the notes to that poem in the present edition I shall 
 have occasion to refer to him more at length.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 3 1 
 
 Gentle soul 
 That ever moved among us in a veil 
 Of heavenly lustre ; in whose presence thoughts 
 Of common import shone with light divine, 
 Whence we drew sweetness as from out a well 
 Of honey pure and deep, thine early form 
 Was not the investiture of daily men, 
 But thou didst wear a glory in thy look 
 From inward converse with the spirit of love ; 
 And thou hadst won in the first strife of youth 
 Trophies that gladden'd hope, and pointed on 
 To days when we should stand and minister 
 To the full triumphs of thy gather'd strength. 
 
 Mr. W. E. Gladstone says : — 
 
 The memory of Arthur Henry Hallam, who died sud- 
 denly in 1833, at the age of twenty -two, will doubtless live 
 chiefly in connection with this volume [' In Memoriam ']. 
 But he is well known to have been one who, if the term of 
 his days had been prolonged, would have needed no aid 
 from a friendly hand, would have built his own enduring 
 monument, and would have bequeathed to his country a 
 name in all likelihood greater than that of his very 
 distinguished father. The writer of this paper was more 
 than half a century ago in a condition to say, — 
 
 I mark'd him 
 As a far Alp ; and loved to watch the sunrise 
 Dawn on his ample brow. 
 There perhaps was no one among those who were 
 blessed with his friendship — nay, as we see, not even Mr. 
 Tennyson — who did not feel at once bound closely to 
 him by commanding affection, and left far behmd by the 
 rapid growth and rich development of his ever-searching 
 mind; by his 
 
 All-comprehensive tenderness, 
 All-subtilising intellect.
 
 32 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 It would be easy to show what, in the varied forms of 
 human excellence, he might, had Hfe been granted him, 
 have accomplished; much more difficult to point the 
 finger and to say, ' This he never could have done.' 
 Enough remains from among his early efforts to accredit 
 whatever mournful witness may now be borne of him. 
 But what can be a nobler tribute than this, that for 
 seventeen years after his death, a poet, fast rising towards 
 the lofty summit of his art, found that young fading 
 image the richest source of his inspiration, and of thoughts 
 that gave him buoyancy for a flight such as he had not 
 hitherto attained.'' 
 
 Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton), in a 
 small volume of poems published a few months after 
 Arthur Hallam's death, has a dedication to Henry 
 Hallam, in which he pays the following tribute to 
 Arthur's memory : — 
 
 If I have ever entertained pleasurable anticipations 
 connected with the publication of any production of my 
 mind, they have owed not a little to the thought that I 
 should thus be enabled to give, in my humble way, an 
 open testimony to the affectionate admiration with which I 
 regarded one whom I loved with the truth of early friend- 
 ship, and you with a parent's passion. It has pleased 
 that high Will to which we must submit everything, even 
 our loves, to take him away, in whom the world has lost 
 so much, and they who knew him so much more. We are 
 deprived not only of a beloved friend, of a delightful 
 companion, but of a most wise and influential counsellor 
 in all the serious concerns of existence, of an incompar- 
 able critic in all our literary efforts, and of the example of 
 one who was as much before us in everything else as he 
 is now in the way of life.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. H 
 
 I hold his kind words and earnest admonitions in the 
 best part of my heart, I have his noble and tender letters 
 by my side, and I feel secure from any charge of pre- 
 sumption in thus addressing you under the shield of his 
 sacred memory. 
 
 A lady, speaking of young Hallam after his death, 
 said to Tennyson, ' I think he was perfect.' ' And so 
 he was,' the poet replied, * as near perfection as a 
 mortal man can be.' 
 
 In the summer of 1829 Tennyson gained the 
 Chancellor's gold medal at Cambridge for a poem 
 on Timbuctoo. His friend Hallam was also a 
 competitor for the prize. Mr. Church says : — 
 
 The poet tells a curious story of the way in which 
 this English verse prize came to be won. His father 
 imagined, not, it may be, wholly without reason, that his 
 son was doing very little at the university, and knowing 
 that he had a certain gift for writing verse, told him that 
 he ought to compete for the Chancellor's medal. Alfred 
 Tennyson had composed, two years before, a poem on 
 ' The Battle of Armageddon.' This he took, furnished it 
 with anew beginning and a new end, and sent it in for the 
 theme of ' Timbuctoo.' 
 
 The same writer gives the following sketch of the 
 poem : — 
 
 The central idea may be said to be the relation of 
 Fable and Truth. The poet, standing on 
 
 the mountain which o'erlooks 
 The narrow sea whose rapid interval 
 Parts Afric from green Europe, 
 VOL. I. —3
 
 34 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 muses on the great legends of the past, such as were 
 those that had pictured Atlantis and 'Imperial Eldorado 
 roof'd with gold,' and asks, — 
 
 Wide Afric, doth thy Sun 
 Lighten, thy hills enfold, a city as fair 
 As those which starr'd the night o' the elder world ? 
 
 He is answered by a Spirit who opens the eyes of his 
 
 soul till 
 
 each failing sense, 
 As with a momentary flash of light, 
 Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. 
 
 ♦ I saw,' he goes on, 
 
 The smallest grain that dappled the dark earth, 
 
 The indistinctest atom in deep air, 
 
 The moon's white cities, and the opal width 
 
 Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights 
 
 Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud, 
 
 And the unsounded, undescended depth 
 
 Of her black billows. 
 
 Among the glories thus revealed to him is the sight of 
 the great African city : — 
 
 Then first within the South methought I saw 
 
 A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile 
 
 Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome. 
 
 Illimitable range of battlement 
 
 On battlement, and the Imperial height 
 
 Of canopy o'ercanopied. 
 
 Finally the spirit explains the secret of his being : — 
 
 I am the Spirit, 
 The permeating life which courseth through 
 All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins 
 Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspread 
 With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters rare,
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 35 
 
 Reacheth to every corner under heaven, 
 Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth. 
 
 But the time was near when this the Spirit's latest 
 throne would have to be yielded up to ' keen Discovery ' : 
 
 Soon yon brilliant towers 
 Shall darken with the waving of her wand ; 
 Darken and shrink and shiver into huts, 
 Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand, 
 Low-built, mud-wall'd, barbarian settlements. 
 
 It was the first time the prize had been awarded to 
 a poem in blank verse, all precedents requiring that it 
 should be in the orthodox heroic couplet. ' Against 
 blank verse, in particular, so easy to write badly, so 
 difficult to write well, there was a strong and not ill- 
 founded prejudice ; and it says much for the vigour 
 and originality of the poem, and, it is only fair to 
 add, for the liberal and open-minded temper of the 
 examiners, that the metre was not considered a 
 disqualification.' 
 
 'Timbuctoo' was noticed in the 'Athenaeum' by 
 John Sterling, who said of it : — 
 
 We have accustomed ourselves to think, perhaps with- 
 out any very good reason, that poetry was likely to perish 
 among us for a very considerable period after the great 
 generation of poets which is now passing away. The age 
 seems determined to contradict us, and that in the most 
 decided manner, for it has put forth poetry by a young 
 man, and that where we should least expect it — in a prize 
 poem. These productions have often been ingenious and 
 elegant, but we have never before seen one which indicated
 
 36 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 really first-rate poetic genius, and which would have done 
 honour to any man that ever wrote. Such we do not hesi- 
 tate to affirm is the little work before us, and the exam- 
 iners seem to have felt about it like ourselves, for they 
 have assigned the prize to its author, although the measure 
 in which he writes was never before (we believe) thus 
 selected for honour. 
 
 The reviewer goes on to quote some forty lines of 
 the poem, and adds : ' How many men have lived 
 for a century that could equal that ? ' This is high 
 praise, and possibly may be deemed extravagant ; but 
 the writer was acquainted with Tennyson and knew 
 something of his brilliant promise aside from what 
 was shown in this poem. 
 
 In 1830 the first book of poems to which Alfred 
 Tennyson put his name appeared, with the title 
 * Poems, chiefly Lyrical.' It was a volume of one 
 hundred and fifty-four pages, and contained fifty-six 
 pieces. Thirty-two ^ of these were suppressed in 1842, 
 but nine of them have been restored at intervals in 
 more recent editions. These are 'The Deserted 
 
 ^ The number is given as twenty-seven by Church and other 
 authorities, who are misled partly by the fact that in the book 
 four of the rejected pieces are grouped under the one head of 
 ' Sonnets,' and partly because several pieces, omitted in 1842, 
 were restored so soon afterwards that their brief suppression 
 was overlooked. I may add that others have been restored in 
 editions printed very recently. The ' National Song ' did not 
 reappear until its introduction with a new ' chorus ' in ' The 
 Foresters' (1892).
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 37 
 
 House,' 'Nothing will Die,' 'All Things will Die,^ 
 ' Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sensitive 
 Mind,' ' Elegiacs ' (now entitled ' Leonine Elegiacs '), 
 * We are Free ' (now ' A Song,' beginning, ' The winds 
 as at their hour of birth'), 'The Sea- Fairies,' ' The 
 Kraken,' and ' National Song.' ^ 
 
 Among the contents of this volume were ' Mariana,' 
 ' Recollections of the Arabian Nights,' ' Ode to Mem- 
 ory,' and ' The Poet.' This last-named poem is espe- 
 cially noteworthy as indicating the high ideal of the 
 poet's art and vocation with which the young singer 
 started on his career. The poet, as he describes him, 
 is no mere minstrel, playing and singing to amuse the 
 crowd, but a power in the world — seer, prophet, 
 teacher, inspirer, ruler, king — by a divine right higher 
 than any hereditary monarch can boast from the acci- 
 dent of birth. 
 
 In January, 1831, a notice of the book'-^ appeared 
 in the 'Westminster Review.' The concluding sen- 
 tences read now like a prophecy fulfilled. After 
 
 1 Among the pieces suppressed and never restored was 
 ' Hero to Leander,' which is one of the twenty-two poems or 
 parts of poems from Tennyson included by R. W. Emerson in 
 his ' Parnassus,' published in 1875. 
 
 2 According to Mr. Church, this notice was written by John 
 Stuart Mill ; but it is probable that he confounded it with the 
 one from Mill's pen in the 'Westminster' for July, 1835. 
 Lord Tennyson had the impression that it was written by Sir 
 John Bowring.
 
 38 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 quoting from the piece just mentioned ('The Poet'), 
 the writer says of the author : — 
 
 He has shown, in the lines from which we quote, his 
 own just conception of the grandeur of a poet's destiny ; 
 and we look to him for its fulfilment. It is not for such 
 men to sink into mere verse-makers for the amusement of 
 themselves or others. They can influence the associations 
 of unnumbered minds ; they can command the sympa- 
 thies of unnumbered hearts ; they can disseminate prin- 
 ciples ; they can give those principles power over men's 
 imaginations ; they can excite in a good cause the sus- 
 tained enthusiasm that is sure to conquer; they can blast 
 the laurels of the tyrants, and hallow the memories of the 
 martyrs of patriotism ; they can act with a force, the ex- 
 tent of which it is difficult to estimate, upon national feel- 
 ings and character, and consequently upon national hap- 
 piness. If our estimate of Mr. Tennyson is correct, he 
 too is a poet ; and many years hence may he ^ read his 
 juvenile description of that character with the proud con- 
 sciousness that it has become the description and history 
 of his own work. 
 
 More than sixty years have passed since these elo- 
 quent and prophetic words were penned ; and there 
 could not be a more truthful description and history 
 of Tennyson's work than those inspired strains of his 
 
 1 In the ' Westminster,' as in all quotations of the passage 
 that I have seen, 'he ' is misprinted 'be,' — at least I have no 
 doubt that the author wrote 'he.' 
 
 [Since writing this note I see that Mr. Waugh, in his ' Al- 
 fred Lord Tennyson' (1892), has made the same correction. I 
 made it first in my ' Young People's Tennyson ' (1886), p. 90.]
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 39 
 
 youth. The estimate of the critic was correct. The 
 young singer was a poet, and he proved himself such 
 a poet as he saw in that immortal vision. It was 
 a lofty and noble ideal, but he made it a living 
 reality. 
 
 Charles Tennyson's first volume, 'Sonnets and 
 Fugitive Pieces,' appeared almost simultaneously with 
 the ' Poems, chiefly Lyrical ; ' and the two books were 
 reviewed at considerable length in 'The Tatler,' by 
 Leigh Hunt, who praised the work of both brothers, 
 but gave the pre-eminence to Alfred. 
 
 A few months later, a review of Alfred's book ap- 
 peared in * The Englishman's Magazine,' from the 
 pen of Arthur Hallam. It is highly eulogistic, but 
 critical withal. Tennyson is declared to be a true 
 poet : * His ear has a fairy fineness ; there is a strange 
 earnestness in his worship of beauty, which throws a 
 charm over his impassioned song more easily felt than 
 described, and not to be escaped by those who have 
 once felt it.' Five distinctive merits of the poet's 
 manner are noted : ^ first, his luxuriance of imagi- 
 nation, and, at the same time, his control over it ; 
 second, his power of embodying himself in ideal char- 
 acters ; third, his vivid, picturesque delineation of 
 objects, and the peculiar skill with which he holds all 
 of them fused in a medium of strong emotion ; 
 fourth, the variety of his lyrical measures and exqui- 
 site modulation of words and cadences to the swell
 
 40 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 and fall of the feelings expressed ; and fifth, the 
 elevated habits of thought impHed in these composi- 
 tions, and imparting a mellow soberness of tone, more 
 impressive than if the author had drawn up a set of 
 opinions in verse, and sought to instruct the under- 
 standing rather than to communicate the love of beauty 
 to the heart.' 
 
 In May, 1832, 'Christopher North' (Prof. John 
 Wilson) reviewed the young poet's work in * Black- 
 wood ' in a very different vein, praising it in some 
 respects, but showing up its faults and defects with 
 merciless severity. It must be admitted that there 
 was justice in many of the strictures, and they may 
 have had their influence in leading Tennyson to sup- 
 press some pieces in later editions, the passages held 
 up to ridicule by the reviewer being mostly from these 
 discarded poems. Wilson did not spare the critics 
 who had already passed judgment upon Tennyson. 
 The writer in the * Westminster ' is called ' a crazy 
 charlatan ; ' and Hallam's essay is declared to have 
 been the death of the short-lived ' Englishman's Mag- 
 azine.' The article 'awoke a general guffaw, and it 
 [the magazine] expired in convulsions.' 
 
 After ridiculing certain of the poems in detail (of 
 which only 'The Poet's Mind' and 'The Merman' 
 appear in the recent editions) the reviewer selects for 
 praise certain others, among which are the ' Ode to 
 Memory,' ' The Deserted House/ ' Isabel,' ' Mariana,'
 
 Farringford, Freshwater, Isle of IVight. 
 Photogravure from photograph.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 41 
 
 ' Adeline,' ' The Sleeping Beauty,' ^ and ' Recollections 
 of the Arabian Nights.' 
 
 That Tennyson was nettled by the criticism is evi- 
 dent from the little rhymed retort which he inserted 
 in his next volume, but never afterwards reprinted : 
 
 You did late review my lays, 
 
 Crusty Christopher; 
 You did mingle blame and praise, 
 
 Rusty Christopher. 
 When I learnt from whom it came, 
 I forgave you all the blame, 
 
 Musty Christopher; 
 I could not forgive the praise, 
 
 Fusty Christopher. 
 
 In the same year (1830) Tennyson contributed 
 three poems to 'The Gem,' an 'annual' for 1831. 
 The first is a bit of seven lines, interesting as perhaps 
 containing the germ of the exquisite song, ' The Days 
 that are No More ' in ' The Princess ' : — 
 
 NO MORE. 
 
 Oh sad No More ! Oh sweet No More ! 
 
 Oh strange No More ! 
 By a moss'd brook-bank on a stone 
 I smelt a wildwood flower alone ; 
 There was a ringing in my ears, 
 And both my eyes gush'd out with tears. 
 Surely all pleasant things had gone before, 
 Low-buried fathom deep with thee, No More ! 
 
 1 Only the portion of ' The Day-Dream ' bearing this title 
 appeared in 1S30, the rest having been added in 1S42.
 
 42 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 The second is twelve lines long and entitled * Anac- 
 reontics.' These trifles in rhyme were evidently writ- 
 ten to order, and the author did not think them 
 worth reprinting in any of his volumes. The third 
 piece, which he also discarded, is somewhat longer 
 and in blank verse, with the title, ' A Fragment.' A 
 passage from it has been quoted above (page i8). 
 
 In the same number of * The Englishman's Maga- 
 zine ' (August, 1 831) which contained Arthur Hal- 
 lam's review of the ' Poems, chiefly L)-rical,' there is at 
 sonnet by Tennyson, beginning, — 
 
 Check everj' outflash, every ruder sally 
 
 Of thought and speech ; speak low, and give up wholly 
 
 Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy. 
 
 This is also among the rejected poems, but the 
 latter part of these opening Hnes reappears in 'The 
 Lotos- Eaters ' : — 
 
 To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
 
 To the influence of mild-minded Melancholy. 
 
 Another sonnet, beginning 'There are three things 
 which fill my heart with sighs,' appeared in 'The 
 Yorkshire Literary Annual' for 1832. 
 
 A third^ contributed to ' Friendship's Offering ' for 
 the same year, has been reprinted since the poet's 
 death, by permission of his son, with a few slight al- 
 terations which appear to have been made by the 
 author in a copy given to a friend : — 
 
 Me mine own fate to lasting sorrow doometh, 
 Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory ; 
 
 J
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 43 
 
 Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, 
 In summer still a summer joy resumeth. 
 Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh. 
 
 Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary, 
 In some old garden where no flower bloometh, — 
 
 One cypress on an island promontory. 
 And yet my lonely spirit follows thine. 
 
 As round the rolling earth night follows day ; 
 And yet thy lights on my horizon shine 
 
 Into my night, when thou art far away. 
 I am so dark, alas ! and thou so bright, 
 When we two meet there 's never perfect light. 
 
 In the winter of 1832-33 a second volume of 'Poems 
 by Alfred Tennyson ' (that was the title) was brought 
 out in London by Edward Moxon, who continued for 
 many years to be the author's publisher. It contained 
 thirty pieces, fourteen of which were discarded in 
 1842, though the following six have since been re- 
 stored : ' To ,' beginning, in its revised form, ' My 
 
 life is full of weary days ' (see notes on that poem) ; 
 * Buonaparte ; ' the sonnet, ' If I were loved as I de- 
 sire to be ; ' ' Rosalind,' ' Poland ' (< How long, O God,' 
 etc.), and the sonnet, 'As when with downcast eyes 
 we muse and brood.' ^ 
 
 This volume was contemptuously reviewed (by the 
 editor, John Gibson Lockhart, it is generally believed) 
 
 1 On the number of suppressed and of subsequently re- 
 stored poems in this volume, as concerning that of 1S30, all 
 the authorities are inaccurate. Compare the foot-note on 
 page 36.
 
 44 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 in the 'Quarterly' for July, 1833. Samuel Taylor 
 Coleridge, while admitting that there was *a good 
 deal of beauty ' in the book, added : ' The misfor- 
 tune is that he [Tennyson] has begun to write verses 
 without very well understanding what metre is.' Mr. 
 Church, quoting this, remarks : * The fact was that 
 he had had much practice in writing in the accepted 
 metres, and that his father had even advised him not 
 to be so regular in his rhythms.' Later (in 1844) 
 Edgar A, Poe wrote : ' Tennyson's shorter pieces 
 abound in minute rhythmical lapses — sufficient to 
 assure me that, in common with all poets, living and 
 dead, he has neglected to make precise investigation 
 of the principles of metre ; but, on the other hand, 
 so perfect is his rhythmical instinct in general that he 
 seems to see with his earJ Poe, like Coleridge, 
 plumed himself upon his mastery of ' the principles of 
 metre,' and was a precisian in their application. Pos- 
 sibly the ' minute lapses ' he fancies that he detects 
 in Tennyson's verse were due to the * rhythmical in- 
 stinct ' which taught that poet how to attain a finer 
 music by occasional variations from the strict letter ot 
 the technical law. Edmund Clarence Stedman, poet 
 as well as critic, in his 'Victorian Poets,' commenting 
 on this same volume of 1832 (or of 1833, as it is often 
 called), notes in it ' the command of delicious metres, 
 the rhythmic susurrus of stanzas whose every word is 
 as needful and studied as the flower or scroll of orna-
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 45 
 
 mental architecture, — yet so much an interlaced por- 
 tion of the whole that the special device is forgotten 
 in the general excellence.' He adds : ' Even if 
 these lyrics and idyls had expressed nothing, they 
 were of priceless value as guides to the renaissance of 
 beauty. Thenceforward slovenly work was impossible, 
 subject to instant rebuke by contrast. The force of 
 metrical elegance made its way, and carried every- 
 thing before it.' 
 
 Certain poems first printed in 1842 belong to this 
 period in the poet's career. In a note to the first 
 volume of the edition published in that year, we are 
 told that the following, ' with one exception, were 
 written in 1833 ' : •' Lady Clare Vere de Vere ; ' the 
 'Conclusion' of 'The May Queen;' 'The Black- 
 bird ; ' ' You ask me why, though ill at ease ; ' ' Of 
 old sat Freedom on the heights ; ' ' Love thou thy 
 land ; ' and ' The Goose.' ' The Two Voices ' is 
 also dated 1833. 
 
 'The Lover's Tale ' (written in 1828) was printed 
 in 1833, b^^ withdrawn before publication for reasons 
 which the author gives in the preface to the reprint 
 of 1879. 
 
 During the next nine years (1833-42) the poet 
 was silent, except for the contribution of ' Saint Agnes ' 
 to 'The Keepsake' in 1837, and some 'Stanzas' to 
 ' The Tribute ' (a collection of miscellaneous poems 
 by various authors, edited by Lord Northampton) in
 
 46 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 the same year. The latter piece, beginning, ' O that 
 't were possible,' etc., was, eighteen years afterwards, 
 incorporated into ' Maud,' of which work it may be 
 said to have been the germ. Swinburne, in 1876 (in 
 'The Academy' for January 29), refers to it as 'the 
 poem of deepest charm and fullest delight of pathos 
 and melody ever written by Mr. Tennyson ; since re- 
 cast into new form and refreshed with new beauty to 
 fit it for reappearance among the crowning passages 
 of "Maud."' 
 
 This poem is also interesting as having been the 
 subject of the first notice that Tennyson received from 
 the ' Edinburgh Review ' (October, 1837) . The writer 
 says : — 
 
 We do not profess to understand the somewhat mys- 
 terious contribution of Mr. Alfred Tennyson, entitled 
 ' Stanzas ; ' but amidst some quaintness, and some occa- 
 sional absurdities of expression, it is not difficult to detect 
 the hand of a true poet — such as the author of ' Mariana ' 
 and the lines on the ' Arabian Nights ' undoubtedly is — in 
 those stanzas which describe the appearance of a vision- 
 ary form, by which the writer is supposed to be haunted 
 amidst the streets of a crowded city. 
 
 The ' Morte d'Arthur ' must also have been written 
 as early as 1837, though not published until 1842 ; for 
 Walter Savage Landor, writing to a friend on the 9th 
 of December, 1837, says : — 
 
 Yesterday a Mr. Moreton, a young man of rare judg- 
 ment, read to me a manuscript by Mr. Tennyson very
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 47 
 
 different in style from his printed poems. It is more 
 Homeric than any poem of our time, and rivals some of 
 the noblest parts of the ' Odyssey.' 
 
 According to Mr. Waugh, it must have been about 
 the same time (1837) that 'The Progress of Spring' 
 was written, — ' a poem laid aside and forgotten by 
 the author till it turned up again in 1888, to be printed 
 in the " Demeter " volume in the following year.' 
 
 The poet's father had died in 1831, but the family 
 continued to reside at Somersby for several years, 
 passing two Christmas seasons there (see ' In Memo- 
 riam,' xxix. and Ixxviii.) after the death of Arthur 
 Hallam. For the greater part of the years from 
 1837 to 1842 Alfred appears to have lived in London. 
 In 1838 he was a member of the Anonymous Club, 
 to which Carlyle, Cunningham, John Stuart Mill, 
 Thackeray, Forster, Sterling, Landor, and Macready 
 belonged. 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie, in the article from which I have 
 already quoted, writes : — 
 
 It was about this time that Carlyle introduced Sir John 
 Simeon to Tennyson one night at Bath House, and made 
 the often-quoted speech, ' There he sits upon a dungheap 
 surrounded by innumerable dead dogs ; ' by which dead 
 dogs he meant ' CEnone ' and other Greek versions and 
 adaptations. He had said the same thing of Landor and 
 his Hellenics. ' I was told of this,' said Mr. Tennyson, 
 ' and some time afterwards I repeated it to Carlyle : " I 'm 
 told that is what you say of me." He gave a kind of
 
 48 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 guffaw. " Eh, that was n't a very luminous description of 
 you," he answered.' 
 
 The story is well worth retelling, so completely does it 
 illustrate the grim humour and unaffected candour of a 
 dyspeptic man of genius, who flung words and epithets 
 without malice, who neither realised the pain his chance 
 sallies might give, nor the indelible flash which branded 
 them upon people's memories. . . . 
 
 Carlyle and Mr. Fitzgerald used to be often with Ten- 
 nyson at that time. They used to dine together at the 
 ' Cock ' tavern in the Strand among other places ; some- 
 times Tennyson and Carlyle took long solitary walks late 
 into the night. 
 
 At length in 1842, after repeated calls for a new 
 edition of the earlier books, which had long been out 
 of print, Tennyson's protracted silence was broken 
 by the publication of two volumes of ' Poems,' the 
 first of which was made up of selections from the 
 volumes of 1830 and 1832, with the pieces mentioned 
 above (page 45) as written in 1833. The second vol- 
 ume contained poems entirely new, with the exception 
 of * The Day-Dream ' (a portion of which appeared in 
 1830), and ' Saint Agnes,' printed in 1837. 
 
 Among these ^ were ' The Epic ' (' Morte d'Arthur ') , 
 'Dora,' 'The Talking Oak,' 'Ulysses,' ' Locksley 
 Hall,' * Godiva,' and ' The Two Voices,' none of 
 which have been materially altered since 1842. Most 
 of the poems from the volume of 1832 were almost 
 
 1 In the notes to the poems in the present edition, the date 
 of the publication of each is given, so that a complete list is 
 unnecessary here.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 49 
 
 entirely rewritten for this edition ; but those from the 
 earlier volume of 1830 were reprinted with slight 
 alteration. 
 
 The general recognition of Tennyson as chief poet 
 of the century dates from this period. Hitherto his ad- 
 mirers had been the select few, and the leading critics 
 had been divided in their estimate of his work ; but 
 now he was hailed with almost unanimous eulogies. 
 ' All England rang with the stirring music of " Locks- 
 ley Hall \ " and nearly all of the choicer spirits of the 
 age conspired to chant the praises of the poet and to 
 do him honour.' 
 
 Up to this time Tennyson was almost unknown in 
 America. It is doubtful whether a dozen copies of 
 the volumes of 1830 and 1832 had crossed the Atlan- 
 tic. Neither of them is to be found in any of our 
 great libraries, and in private collections they are 
 exceedingly rare. The only extended notice they 
 received in any of our literary journals of that day 
 was in the 'Christian Examiner' in 1S33, from the 
 pen of Mr. John S. Dwight of Boston. He borrowed 
 the books of Ralph Waldo Emerson, who delighted to 
 loan them to his friends and endeavoured to have 
 them reprinted in Boston. This I learned from Mr. 
 Samuel Longfellow, who showed me a letter from 
 Messrs. C. C. Little & Co. to his brother the poet, 
 dated April 27, 1838, in which they refer to Emerson's 
 desire for an American reprint of Tennyson, and their 
 
 VOL. I. — 4
 
 50 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 intention of making one ; but for some reason the 
 plan was not carried out. 
 
 The edition of 1842 was reprinted the same year in 
 Boston by Mr. W. D. Ticknor ; but fifteen hundred 
 copies sufficed to supply the American demand for the 
 next three years. The poet, however, found here * fit 
 audience, though it'N.^ The volumes were reviewed 
 by Prof. C. C. Felton in the ' Christian Examiner ' for 
 November, 1842 ; and in the ' Democratic Review' for 
 January, 1844, by Mrs. Frances Kemble. In the latter 
 magazine for December, 1844, Edgar A. Poe re- 
 marked : — 
 
 I am not sure that Tennyson is not the greatest of 
 poets. The uncertainty attending the public conception 
 of the term poet alone prevents me from demonstrating 
 that he is. Other bards produce effects which are, now 
 and then, otherwise produced than by what we call poems, 
 but Tennyson an effect which only a poem does. His 
 alone are idiosyncratic poems. By the enjoyment or 
 non-enjoyment of the ' Morte d'Arthur,' or of the 
 ' CEnone,' I would test any one's ideal sense. 
 
 Margaret Fuller wrote thus in August, 1842 : — 
 
 I have just been reading the new poems of Tennyson. 
 Much has he thought, much suffered, since the first 
 ecstasy of so fine an organisation clothed all the world in 
 rosy light. He has not suffered himself to become a mere 
 intellectual voluptuary, nor the songster of fancy and 
 passion, but has earnestly revolved the problems of life, 
 and his conclusions are calmly noble. In these later 
 verses is a still, deep sweetness ; how different from the
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 51 
 
 intoxicating, sensuous melody of his earlier cadence ! I 
 have loved him much this time, and taken him to heart as 
 a brother. One of his themes lias long been my favourite, 
 — the last expedition of Ulysses, — and his, like mine, is 
 the Ulysses of the ' Odyssey,' with his deep romance of 
 wisdom, and not the worldling of the ' Iliad.' How finely 
 masked his slight description of himself and of Telema- 
 chus ! In ' Dora,' ' Locksley Hall,' 'The Two Voices,' 
 ' Morte d'Arthur,' I find my own life, much of it, written 
 out. 
 
 In England a second edition of the ' Poems ' was 
 called for within a year, and two more editions were 
 issued in 1845 and 1846. The volumes were reviewed 
 in 1842 by Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton) 
 in the * Westminster ' (October) ; by John Sterling in 
 the ' Quarterly ' (October) ; and anonymously in the 
 'Examiner' (August 28), 'Tait's Edinburgh Maga- 
 zine ' (August), and the ' London University Magazine ' 
 (December). Most of these criticisms were highly 
 eulogistic. 
 
 In 1844 a portrait of Tennyson, with a criticism of 
 his work, appeared in ' A New Spirit of the Age,' 
 edited by Richard Hengist Home, the author of 
 * Orion.' He remarked : — 
 
 It may fairly be assumed that the position of Alfred 
 Tennyson, as a poet of fine genius, is now thoroughly 
 established in the minds of all sincere and qualified 
 lovers of the higher classes of poetry in this country. But 
 what is his position in the public mind ? Or, rather, to 
 what extent is he known to the great mass of general 
 readers ? Choice and limited is the audience, we appre-
 
 52 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 hend, to whom this favoured son of Apollo pours forth 
 his melodious song. It is true, however, that the public 
 is ' a rising man ' in its gradual appreciation, perhaps, of 
 every genius of the present time ; and certainly this 
 appreciation is really on the rise with respect to the 
 poetry of Tennyson. It is only some thirteen years since 
 he published his first volume ; and if it require all this 
 time for ' the best judges ' to discover his existence, and 
 determine ' in one way, and the other,' upon some of his 
 most original features, the public may be excused for not 
 knowing more about his poems than they do at present. 
 That they desire to know more is apparent from many 
 circumstances, and partly from the fact of the last edition 
 of his works, in two volumes, having been disposed of in 
 a few months. Probably the edition was not large ; such, 
 however, is the result after thirteen years. . . . 
 
 His power as a lyrical versifier is remarkable. The 
 measures flow softly or roll nobly to his pen ; as well one 
 as the other. He can gather up his strength, like a ser- 
 pent, in the gleaming coil of a line ; or dart it out straight 
 and free. Nay, he will write you a poem with nothing in 
 it except music, and as if its music were everything, it 
 shall charm your soul. Be this said, not in reproach, but 
 in honour of him and of the English language, for the 
 learned sweetness of his numbers. The Italian lyrists 
 may take counsel, or at once enjoy, ' Where Claribel low 
 lieth.' But if sweetness of melody, and richness of 
 harmony, be the most exquisitely sensuous of Tennyson's 
 characteristics, he is no less able to ' pipe to the spirit 
 ditties of no tone,' for certainly his works are equally 
 characterised by their thoughtful grace, depth of senti- 
 ment, and ideal beauty. And he not only has the most 
 musical words at his command (without having recourse 
 to exotic terminologies), but he possesses the power of 
 conveying a sense of colour, and a precision of outline by
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 53 
 
 means of words, to an extraordinary degree. In music 
 and colour he was equalled by Shelley, but mforfn, clearly 
 defined, with no apparent effort, and no harsh shades or 
 lines, Tennyson stands unrivalled. 
 
 His ideality is both adornative and creative, although 
 up to this period it is ostensibly rather the former than 
 the latter. His ideal faculty is either satisfied with an 
 exquisitely delicate arabesque painting, or clears the 
 ground before him so as to melt and disperse all other 
 objects into a suitable atmosphere, or aerial perspective, 
 while he takes horse on a passionate impulse, as in some 
 of his ballads which seem to have been panted through 
 without a single pause. This is the case in ' Oriana,' in 
 ' Locksley Hall,' in ' The Sisters,' etc. Or, at other 
 times, selecting some ancient theme, he stands collected 
 and self-contained, and rolls out, with an impressive sense 
 of dignity, orb after orb of that grand melancholy music 
 of blank verse which leaves long vibrations in the reader's 
 memory ; as in ' Ulysses,' the divine ' CEnone,' or the 
 'Morte d'Arthur.' . . . 
 
 With respect to ' CEnone,' it is an exquisitely success- 
 ful attempt of the poet to infuse his own beating heart's 
 blood into the pale, blind statues of the antique times, and 
 loses no jot of the majesty, while the vitality informs the 
 grace. It is not surpassed by anything of the kind in 
 Keats, or Shelley, or Landor. The ' Morte d'Arthur ' 
 precisely reverses the design of the Greek revival, and, 
 with equal success, draws back the Homeric blood and 
 spirit to inspire a romantic legend. 
 
 Of the ' Ulysses ' we would say that the mild dignity 
 and placid resolve ; the steady wisdom after the storms 
 of life, and with the prospect of future storms ; the mel- 
 ancholy fortitude, yet kingly resignation to his destiny 
 which gives him a restless passion for wandering; the
 
 54 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 unaffected and unostentatious modesty and self-conscious 
 power; the long softened shadows of memory cast from 
 the remote vistas of practical knowledge and experience, 
 with a suffusing tone of ideality breathing over the 
 whole, and giving a saddened charm even to the sugges- 
 tion of a watery grave, — all this, and much more, inde- 
 pendent of the beautiful picturesqueness of the scenery, 
 render the poem of ' Ulysses ' one of the most exquisite 
 (as it has hitherto been one of the least noticed) poems in 
 the language. ^ 
 
 Wordsworth and Tennyson met at the publisher 
 Moxon's house in 1843 ; and two years later (July i, 
 1845) the venerable Laureate wrote to Prof. Henry 
 Reed of Philadelphia : ' I saw Tennyson when I was 
 in London several times. He is decidedly the first of 
 our living poets, and I hope will live to give the 
 world still better things.' 
 
 It was in September of the next year (1846) that 
 Mr. Thomas Cooper asked Wordsworth's opinion of 
 the poetry of the day. ' There is little that can be 
 called high poetry/ was the reply. ' Mr. Tennyson 
 affords the richest promise. He will do great things 
 yet, and ought to have done greater things by this 
 time.' Cooper remarked that Tennyson's sense of 
 music seemed more perfect than that of any of the 
 new race of poets. ' Yes,' said Wordsworth ; ' the 
 
 1 Home's book was reprinted in New York in 1844, and 
 doubtless helped to make Tennyson better known in this 
 country. 
 
 I
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 55 
 
 perception of harmony lies in the very essence of 
 the poet's nature, and Mr. Tennyson gives magnifi- 
 cent proofs that he is endowed with it.' Cooper 
 cited Tennyson's ' rich association of musical words ' 
 as proof of his possessing * as fine a sense of music 
 in syllables as Keats and even Milton,' and to this 
 Wordsworth assented with an approving smile. 
 
 In August, 1844, Thomas Carlyle, in reply to a 
 letter from Emerson, asking for a description of Ten- 
 nyson, wrote thus : — 
 
 Moxon informs me that Tennyson is now in town, and 
 means to come and see me. Of this latter result I shall 
 be very glad. Alfred is one of the few British and foreign 
 figures (a not increasing number, I think) who are and re- 
 main beautiful to me, — a true human soul, or some au- 
 thentic approximation thereto, to whom your own soul 
 can say, Brother ! . . . I think he must be under forty — 
 not much under it. One of the finest-looking men in the 
 world. A great shock of rough, dusty-dark hair; bright, 
 laughing, hazel eyes ; massive aquiline face, most massive 
 yet most delicate; of sallow-brown complexion, almost 
 Indian-looking; clothes cynically loose, free-and-easy; 
 smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical metallic, — 
 fit for loud laughter and piercing wail, and all that may 
 lie between ; speech and speculation free and plenteous ; 
 I do not meet, in these late decades, such company over 
 a pipe ! We shall see what he will grow to. 
 
 Emerson wrote in reply : * The sketch you drew of 
 Tennyson was right welcome, for he is an old favourite 
 of mine, — I owned his book before I saw your face, 
 — though I love him with allowance. O, cherish him
 
 $6 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 with love and praise, and draw from him whole books 
 full of new verses yet ! ' 
 
 In 1S43 Tennyson was parodied in a somewhat 
 ribald manner in the ' Bon Gualtier Ballads ' by Theo- 
 dore (afterwards Sir Theodore) Martin and William 
 Edmonstoune Aytoun, which appeared in ' Tait's ' 
 and 'Eraser's' Magazines, and later (1845) i^ book 
 form, ]Martin had afterwards the grace to apologise 
 in a way for these travesties. He said : — 
 
 In these papers we ran a-tilt, with all the recklessness 
 of youthful spirits, against such of the tastes or follies 
 of the day as presented an opening for ridicule or mirth. 
 . . . Fortunately for our purpose, there were then liv- 
 ing not a few poets whose st3-le and manner of thought 
 were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy, and suffi- 
 ciently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be 
 readily recognised. ... It was precisely the poets whom 
 we most admired that we imitated the most frequently. 
 This was not certainly from any want of reverence, but 
 rather out of the fulness of our admiration, just as the ex- 
 cess of a lover's fondness often runs over into raillery of 
 the very qualities that are dearest to his heart. 
 
 In 1845 Tennyson was the recipient of a govern- 
 ment pension of _;^200 a year, which provoked some 
 ill-natured newspaper criticism, and led Bulwer Lyt- 
 ton, in 'The New Timon ' (London, 1846), to sneer 
 at the ' Theban taste ' that ' pensions Tennyson 
 while starves a Knowles.' The productions of 
 * School-miss Alfred ' were described as ' Out-baby- 
 ing Wordsworth and out-glittering Keats,' with much
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 57 
 
 more in the same vein. The attack drew from 
 Tennyson a rejoinder printed in 'Punch' (Feb. 18, 
 1846), over the signature of ' Alcibiades,' and fol- 
 lowed in the next number by another, less severe, en- 
 titled ' After-thought.' In this ' sober second thought ' 
 the poet comes to the wise conclusion that silence is 
 * the noblest answer ' to all such spiteful attacks. 
 
 It is pleasant to be able to add that Bulwer struck 
 out the offensive verses from the third edition of 
 ' The New Timon,' and that the two authors after- 
 wards became good friends. In a public speech in 
 1862, Lytton, in alluding to Prince Albert, quoted 
 what he called, ' the thought so exquisitely expressed 
 by our Poet-Laureate,' — namely, that the Prince is 
 ' the silent father of our kings to be ; ' and later 
 Tennyson, in dedicating ' Harold ' to the younger 
 Lytton, gracefully acknowledged his indebtedness to 
 the novel on the same subject by the elder Lytton. 
 
 The poet was in no haste to send forth the * greater 
 work ' for which his friends were clamouring ; and 
 for the five years between 1842 and 1847, he pub- 
 lished nothing new except ' The Golden Year,' which 
 was added to the fourth edition of the ' Poems ' in 
 1846. We know little of his life during this period. 
 William Howitt in 1847, in the work from which I 
 have before quoted, says : — 
 
 It is very possible you may come across him, in a coun- 
 try inn, with a foot on each hob of the fireplace, a volume
 
 58 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 of Greek in one hand, his meerschaum in the other, so 
 far advanced towards the seventh heaven that he would 
 not thank you to call him back into this nether world. 
 
 In 1847 'The Princess' appeared. The idea of 
 the poem, as some have thought, may have been sug- 
 gested by Johnson's ' Rasselas,' where we read : ' The 
 princess thought that of all sublunary things knowledge 
 was the best. She desired first to learn of sciences, and 
 then proposed to found a college to teach women, in 
 which she would preside.' In ' Love's Labour 's Lost ' 
 the King of Navarre and his friends would form ' a 
 little Academe ' from which women are to be ex- 
 cluded j but Dan Cupid spoils the plan as he does in 
 Tennyson's poem. 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie remarks : — 
 
 ' The Princess,' with all her lovely court and glowing 
 harmonies, was born in London, among the fogs and 
 smuts of Lincoln's Inn, although, like all works of true 
 art, this poem had grown by degrees in other times and 
 places. The poet came and went, free, unshackled, medi- 
 tating, inditing. One of my family remembers hearing 
 Tennyson say that ' Tears, idle Tears,' was suggested by 
 Tintern Abbey ; who shall say by what mysterious wonder 
 of beauty and regret, by what sense of the ' transient 
 with the abiding ' 1 
 
 ' The Princess ' was at first received with little 
 favour by the critics. Mr. Wace says of it : — 
 
 Although admittedly brilliant, it was thought scarce 
 worthy of the author. The abundant grace, descriptive
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 59 
 
 beauty, and human sentiment were evident ; but the med- 
 ley was thought somewhat incongruous, and the main 
 web of the tale too weak to sustain the embroidery raised 
 upon it. 
 
 On the other hand, a few eminent critics were 
 prompt to recognise the true merit of the poem. 
 In this country, Prof. James Hadley, of Yale Col- 
 lege, wrote a long and laudatory review of it for 
 the 'New Englander' (May, 1849), which has been 
 reprinted in a revised form in his ' Essays, Philologi- 
 cal and Critical.' ^ 
 
 A second edition of ' The Princess ' was called for 
 within a year ; and a third edition, materially altered, 
 and with the addition of the intercalary songs, ap- 
 peared in 1S50. 
 
 In 1849 the lines 'To , after Reading a Life 
 
 and Letters,' were contributed to the ' Examiner ' for 
 March 24. The poet published nothing else until 
 1850, when ' In Memoriam ' was given to the world, — 
 the poet's ' most characteristic and significant work ; 
 not so ambitious as his epic of King Arthur, but more 
 distinctively a poem of this century, and displaying 
 the author's genius in a subjective form.' It is said 
 that, a few years ago, when a number of authors were 
 asked to name three leading poems of this century 
 they would most prefer to have written, each gave ' In 
 
 1 For some quotations from this and other early reviews of 
 ' The Princess,' see the notes on the poem in the present 
 edition.
 
 6o THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Memoriam ' either the first or second place upon his 
 list. ' Obviously it is not a work to read at a sitting, 
 nor to take up in every mood, but one in which we 
 are sure to find something of worth in every stanza. 
 It contains more notable sayings than any other of 
 Tennyson's poems. The wisdom, yearnings, and as- 
 pirations of a noble mind are here ; curious reasoning, 
 for once, is not out of place ; the poet's imagination, 
 shut in upon itself, strives to irradiate with inward 
 light the mystic problems of life. At the close. Na- 
 ture's eternal miracle is made symbolic of the soul's 
 palingenesis, and the tender and beautiful marriage- 
 lay tranquillises the reader with the thought of the 
 dear common joys which are the heritage of every 
 living kind.' ^ 
 
 In this same year, 1850, on the 13th of June, the 
 poet was married to Emily Sellwood, the daughter of 
 Mr. Henry Sellwood, a solicitor at Horncastle, belong- 
 ing to one of the oldest families of Berkshire. His 
 wife was a sister of Sir John Franklin, the famous 
 Arctic navigator. Charles Tennyson Turner married 
 a younger daughter of Mr. Sellwood. The marriage 
 of Alfred Tennyson and Miss Sellwood was solemnised 
 at Shiplake, a parish on the Oxfordshire side of the 
 Thames, a few miles from Henley. ' The church and 
 vicarage stand upon a somewhat bold eminence over- 
 looking the valley of the Thames in the direction of 
 1 Stedman.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 6l 
 
 Sonning and Reading. The view, of which some 
 glimpses can be obtained through the trees which 
 almost encircle the churchyard, is not wholly unlike 
 the prospect of the Thames from Richmond Hill.' ^ 
 Mr. James T. Fields says : ' Once, I remem- 
 ber, Miss Mitford carried me on a pilgrimage to a 
 grand old village church with a tower half- covered 
 with ivy. We came to it through laurel hedges, and 
 passed on the way a magnificent cedar of Lebanon. 
 It was a superb pile, rich in painted glass windows and 
 carved oak ornaments. Here Miss Mitford ordered 
 the man to stop, and turning to me with great enthu- 
 siasm, said, " This is Shiplake Church, where Alfred 
 Tennyson was married." ' 
 
 On the 19th of November, 1850, Tennyson was ap- 
 pointed to succeed Wordsworth as Poet- Laureate. His 
 formal presentation to the Queen in this capacity took 
 place at Buckingham Palace on the 6th of March, 
 1851. 
 
 After his marriage Tennyson lived two years (ex- 
 cept for a visit to France and Italy) at Twickenham, 
 which was thus made ' twice classic ' and ' more 
 worthy of a pilgrimage in future days than all the 
 memories it can boast of Walpole and Pope ' may 
 render it. Here the poet's son Hallam was born in 
 1852. 
 
 In 1850 Tennyson contributed a stanza of eight 
 ^ Church.
 
 62 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 lines (' Here often when a child I lay reclined/ etc.) 
 to ' The Manchester Athenaeum Album,' which he did 
 not think worth preserving. 
 
 In 1 85 1 he wrote for 'The Keepsake' the lines, 
 'Come not when I am dead,' and the following 
 stanzas, which are not included in his published 
 volumes : — 
 
 What time I wasted youthful hours, 
 
 One of the shining winged powers 
 
 Show'd me vast cliffs, with crowns of towers. 
 
 As toward that gracious light I bow'd, 
 They seem'd high palaces and proud, 
 Hid now and then with sliding cloud. 
 
 He said, ' The labour is not small ; 
 Yet winds the pathway free to all : 
 Take care thou dost not fear to fall ! ' 
 
 Other contributors to ' The Keepsake ' were Lord 
 John Manners, Monckton Milnes, Bulwer Lytton, Barry 
 Cornwall, Thackeray, and Albert Smith. The same 
 year Tennyson wrote a sonnet to William Charles 
 Macready, to be read at a dinner given to the actor, 
 March i, on his retirement from the stage. This 
 was among the rejected poems until 1891. 
 
 Three editions of ' In Memoriam ' had been issued 
 in 1850; and the fourth, in 1851, contained the new 
 section (lix.), 'O sorrow, wilt thou live with me?' 
 The fourth revised edition of ' The Princess ' also ap- 
 peared this year, and the seventh edition of the
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. dl 
 
 * Poems,' with the dedicatory verses to the Queen and 
 three other new poems : ' Edwin Morris ; ' ' Come 
 not when I am dead,' which has already been men- 
 tioned ; and * The Eagle.' The following stanza in 
 the address to the Queen, referring to the Crystal 
 Palace Exhibition of 1851, was afterwards omitted: 
 
 She brought a vast design to pass, 
 When Europe and the scattered ends 
 Of our fierce world did meet as friends 
 
 And brethren in her halls of glass. 
 
 In December, 185 1, Louis Napoleon's famous 
 coup (Tetat startled the world ; and early in the fol- 
 lowing year the Laureate wrote the three spirited 
 poems, ' Britons, Guard your Own,' ' The Third of 
 February,' and ' Hands all Round.' The first (printed 
 in the 'Examiner' for January 31) has not been 
 preserved among the collected poems of the author. 
 The other two poems (both printed in the ' Exam- 
 iner' for February 7), with sundry alterations (for 
 which see the 'Notes'), have since been included in 
 the published volumes. 
 
 In November, 1852, the Duke of Wellington died, 
 and on the day of his funeral the great ' Ode ' in 
 memory of the hero was published. A second edi- 
 tion, considerably modified, soon followed. 
 
 In 1853 the eighth edition of the 'Poems' was 
 brought out, with alterations in the dedication to the 
 Queen. The ' Sea- Fairies,' from the volume of 1830,
 
 64 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 was restored, and the lines ' To E. L. on his Travels 
 in Greece ' were added. A fifth edition of ' The Prin- 
 cess ' also appeared, with the addition of the pas- 
 sage from ' the gallant glorious chronicle ' in the 
 Prologue. 
 
 In 1852 Tennyson had purchased the estate of 
 Farringford, at Freshwater, in the Isle of Wight, and 
 the next year he took up his residence there. Mr. 
 Church gives the following description and history 
 of the place : — 
 
 The domain of Farringford can be seen on the travel- 
 ler's right hand as he makes his way westward from Fresh- 
 water Bay, lying at the foot of the inland slope of the 
 down. The house itself is not visible from any point of 
 this route, but a glimpse of the roof may be caught from 
 the ascent on the eastern side of the bay. The estate 
 extends to between four and five hundred acres, part of 
 them downland, and contains what is known as King's 
 Manor. The royal ownership indicated by this name is re- 
 corded by Domesday Book, where we find the following 
 entry: 'Ye King holds Frescewatre in demesne. It was 
 held by Tosti [Earl Tostig, brother of King Harold ; this, 
 of course, refers to the ' time of King Edward,' a standard 
 of comparison used throughout the Survey], and was then 
 assessed at 15 hides. It is now assessed at 6 hides. 
 There are fifteen ploughlands, two ploughlands are in 
 demesne, and 18 villages and 10 borderers employ 8 
 ploughs. There are seven servants and six acres of 
 meadow. It was worth in King Edward's time sixteen 
 pounds and afterwards twenty pounds ; but it is let 
 at thirty pounds."
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON-. 65 
 
 At this time, therefore, all Freshwater was what we 
 should call Crown lands. But it would appear that part 
 of it was afterwards bestowed on some ecclesiastical body. 
 This body seems to have been the Abbey of Quarr or Quar- 
 rera (so called from the stone quarries in the neighbour- 
 hood). Quarr was near the town of Ryde, and was one 
 of the first Cistercian monasteries established in England. 
 Its first foundation was due to Baldwin, Earl of Devon, 
 who endowed it in the thirty-second year of Henry I. Sub- 
 sequent benefactors added to its revenues, and at the dis- 
 solution its income was estimated at ;/^ 134 3 j. \\d. Some 
 of the local names recall this ecclesiastical ownership. 
 Among them are 'Maiden's Croft '('Virgin Mary's Field'), 
 'Abraham's Mead,' and 'The Clerk's Hill.' Lord Ten- 
 nyson has in his possession transference deeds signed by 
 Walter de Fferingford, evidently the chief owner of land 
 at Freshwater. . . . 
 
 The house, while not possessing any architectural pre- 
 tensions, has something singularly attractive about it. 
 Not the least of its charms are the creeping plants which 
 clothe it from roof-tree to foundation with a mantle ol 
 green. A delightful garden, laid out by the poet and 
 his wife, surrounds it, and beyond this again is a small 
 well-wooded park. Both house and park are sheltered 
 from the southwesterly gales by a ridge of down. West- 
 ward of the house is a walled garden, and beyond this 
 again the home or dairy farm. . . . 
 
 The poet's younger son Lionel was born here [in 1854]. 
 The tablet which commemorates him — he died on his 
 way home from India [April 20, 1886] — is to be seen in 
 Freshwater Church. ... A beautiful statue of St. John, 
 from the chisel of Miss Mary Grant, has been erected by 
 Lord and Lady Tennyson near the communion table of 
 the church in memory of their son. 
 
 VOL. I. — 5
 
 66 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie, who spent some weeks with Mrs. 
 Cameron (well known for her artistic photographs) 
 at Freshwater, refers to the place thus : — 
 
 The house at Farringford seemed like a charmed 
 palace, with green walls without, and speaking walls 
 within. There hung Dante with his solemn nose and 
 wreath; Italy gleamed over the doorways; friends' faces 
 lined the way ; books filled the shelves, and a glow of 
 crimson was everywhere ; the great oriel drawing-room 
 window was full of green and golden leaves, of the sound 
 of birds, and of the distant sea. 
 
 The very names of the people who have stood upon 
 the lawn at Farringford would be an interesting study for 
 some future biographer : Longfellow, Maurice, Kingsley, 
 the Duke of Argyll, Locker, Dean Stanley, the Prince 
 Consort. Good Garibaldi once planted a tree there, off 
 which some too ardent republican broke a branch before 
 twenty-four hours had passed. Here came Clough in the 
 last year of his life. Here Mrs. Cameron fixed her lens, 
 marking the well-known faces as they passed : Darwin 
 and Henry Taylor, Watts and Aubrey de Vere, Lecky 
 and Jowett, and a score of others. 
 
 I first knew the place in the autumn, but perhaps it is 
 even more beautiful in spring-time, when all day the lark 
 trills high overhead, and then when the lark has flown out 
 of our hearing the thrushes begin, and the air is sweet 
 with scents from the many fragrant shrubs. The woods 
 are full of anemones and primroses ; narcissus grows wild 
 in the lower fields; a lovely creamy stream of flowers 
 flows along the lanes, and lies hidden in the levels; hya- 
 cinth pools of blue shine in the woods; and then with a 
 later burst of glory comes the gorse, lighting up the 
 country round about, and blazing round about the beacon 
 
 J
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 67 
 
 hill. ... If you cross the little wood of nightingales and 
 thrushes, and follow the lane where the blackthorn hedges 
 shine in spring-time (lovely dials that illuminate to show 
 the hour), you come to the downs, and climbing their 
 smooth steeps you reach ' Mr. Tennyson's Down,' where 
 the beacon-staff stands firm upon the mound. Then, fol- 
 lowing the line of the coast, you come at last to the 
 Needles, and may look down upon the ridge of rocks that 
 rises, crisp, sharp, shining, out of the blue wash of fierce, 
 delicious waters. 
 
 The lovely places and sweet country all about Farring- 
 ford are not among the least of its charms. Beyond the 
 Primrose Island itself and the blue Solent, the New For- 
 est spreads its shades, and the green depths reach to the 
 very shores. Have we not all read of the forest where 
 Merlin was becharmed, where the winds were still in the 
 wild woods of Broceliande ? The forest of Brockenhurst, 
 in Hampshire, waves no less green, its ferns and depths 
 are no less sweet and sylvan, than those of Brittany. 
 
 Before an oak, so hollow, huge, and old 
 It look'd a tower of ruin'd mason-work, 
 At Merlin's feet the wily Vivien lay. 
 
 I have heard of Mr. Tennyson wandering for days to- 
 gether in the glades round about Lyndhurst. Some peo- 
 ple once told me of meeting a mysterious figure in a cloak 
 coming out of a deep glade, passing straight on, looking 
 neither to the right nor the left. ' It was either a ghost 
 or it was Mr. Tennyson,' said they. 
 
 The only poem published by Tennyson in 1S54 was 
 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' printed in the 
 ' Examiner ' of December 9, with the note : ' Writ- 
 ten after reading the first report of the " Times' " cor-
 
 68 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 respondent, where only 607 sabres are mentioned as 
 having taken part in the charge.' It was printed af- 
 terwards on a quarto sheet of four pages, with the fol- 
 lowing note at the bottom : — 
 
 Having heard that the brave soldiers at Sebastopol, 
 whom I am proud to call my countrymen, have a liking 
 for my ballad on the charge of the Light Brigade at 
 Balaclava, I have ordered a thousand copies of it to be 
 printed for them. No writing of mine can add to the 
 glory they have acquired in the Crimea ; but if what I 
 heard be true, they will not be displeased to receive these 
 copies of the ballad from me, and to know that those who 
 sit at home love and honour them. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 %th August, 1 8 55. 
 
 In the spring of 1854, Dr. Elisha Kent Kane, the 
 Arctic explorer, gave the name of ' Tennyson's Monu- 
 ment ' to a rocky formation in Greenland, of which 
 he gives the following description in his 'Arctic 
 Explorations ' : — 
 
 A single cliff of greenstone, marked by the slaty 
 limestone that once encased it, rears itself from a crum- 
 bled base of sandstones, hke the boldly chiselled rampart 
 of an ancient city. At its northern extremity, on the 
 brink of a deep ravine which has worn its way among the 
 ruins, there stands a solitary column or minaret-tower, as 
 sharply finished as if it had been cast for the Place Ven- 
 dome. Yet the length of the shaft alone is 480 feet, and 
 it rises on a plinth or pedestal itself 280 feet high. 
 
 I remember well the emotions of my party as it first 
 broke upon our view. Cold and sick as I was, I brought
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 69 
 
 back a sketch of it, which may have interest for the reader, 
 though it scarcely suggests the imposing dignity of this 
 magnificent landmark.^ Those who are happily familiar 
 with the writings of Tennyson, and have communed with 
 his spirit in the solitudes of a wilderness, will apprehend 
 the impulse that inscribed the scene with his name. 
 
 In the same year (1854) Rev. Frederic D. Maurice, 
 who had long been an intimate friend of the poet and 
 had stood godfather to his son Hallam, prefixed the 
 following dedication to his volume of 'Theological 
 Essays ' : — 
 
 To Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Poet- Laureate. 
 
 My dear Sir, — I have maintained in these Essays 
 that a theology which does not correspond to the deepest 
 thoughts and feelings of human beings cannot be a true 
 theology. Your writings have taught me to enter into 
 many of those thoughts and feelings Will you forgive 
 rne the presumption of offering you a book which at least 
 acknowledges them and does them homage ? 
 
 As the hopes which I have expressed in this volume 
 are more likely to be fulfilled to our children than to our- 
 selves, I might perhaps ask you to accept it as a present 
 to one of your name, in whom you have given me a very 
 sacred interest. Many years, I trust, will elapss before 
 he knows that there are any controversies in the world 
 into which he has entered. Would to God that in a few 
 more he may find that they have ceased ! At all events, 
 if he should ever look into these Essays, they may tell 
 him what meaning some of the former generation attached 
 to words which will be familiar and dear to his generation, 
 
 1 A full-page engraving from this sketch is given in Dr. 
 Kane's book.
 
 70 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 and to those that follow his, — how there were some who 
 longed that the bells of our churches might indeed 
 
 Ring out the darkness of the land, 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Sir, 
 
 Yours very truly and gratefully, 
 
 F. D. Maurice. 
 
 In May, 1855, the University of Oxford conferred 
 the degree of D. C. L. upon the Laureate. It is said 
 that ' although his colleagues in this honour were Sir 
 De Lacy Evans and Sir John Burgoyne, just returned 
 from their victorious exploits in the Crimea, the en- 
 thusiasm with which he was received had never been 
 surpassed.' 
 
 The same year is notable for the publication of 
 * Maud,' which was received by the majority of the 
 critics with even less favour than ' The Princess ' had 
 been, and on the merits of which their verdicts are 
 still divided. That there were certain obscurities in 
 the poem as first printed cannot be denied ; and the 
 additions and alterations made subsequently by the 
 author show that he came to see this defect, and en- 
 deavoured to supply the ' missing links ' in the plot. 
 The division into three parts is another obvious im- 
 provement, rendering the alternations of mood more 
 intelligible. It is amazing that so many of the critics 
 failed to recognise the dramatic character of the work, 
 though in the early editions it was not called a
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 71 
 
 * monodrama.' This putting a whole drama into the 
 mouth of a single speaker was a new form of poetry 
 which Tennyson might claim to have invented ; and 
 ' Maud ' still remains the sole example of it. 
 
 In 1856 the second edition of ' Maud ' appeared, 
 with most of the alterations to which reference has 
 been made. Dr. R. J. Mann also published 'Ten- 
 nyson's "Maud" Vindicated,' an admirable explana- 
 tion and defence of the poem. Tennyson, acknowl- 
 edging the receipt of the pamphlet, said : ' No one 
 with this essay before him can in future pretend to 
 misunderstand my dramatic poem " Maud." Your 
 commentary is as true as it is full.' ^ In replying to 
 another gentleman who had sent him a copy of a 
 favourable review, the poet wrote thus : — 
 
 I am much obliged to you for sending me your cri- 
 tique on my poem ; and happy to find that you approve of 
 it, and, unlike most of the critics (so-called), have taken 
 some pains to look into it and see what it means. There 
 has been from many quarters a torrent of abuse against 
 it ; and I have even had insulting anonymous letters : 
 indeed, I am quite at a loss to account for the bitter- 
 ness of feeling which this poor httle work of mine has 
 excited. 
 
 In 1857 the poet printed 'Enid and Nimue : or 
 the True and the False,' an Arthurian poem of consid- 
 erable length (139 pages), but decided not to pubHsh 
 
 ^ Extracts from this and other reviews of ' Maud ' will be 
 found in the notes on the poem.
 
 72 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 it. According to Mr. Shepherd, a few copies of it 
 'are said to be still extant in private hands.' 
 
 Nathaniel Hawthorne, describing a visit to an Ex- 
 hibition at Manchester in 1857, says: — 
 
 While I was among the Dutch painters, accosted 
 
 me. He told me that the ' Poet-Laureate ' (as he called 
 him) was in the Exhibition rooms, and, as I expressed 
 great interest, was kind enough to go in quest of him, — 
 not for the purpose of introduction, however, for he was 
 
 not acquainted with Tennyson. Soon Mr. returned, 
 
 and said he had found the Poet-Laureate, and, going into 
 the saloon of the Old Masters, we saw him there, in com- 
 pany with Mr. Woolner, whose bust of him is now in the 
 Exhibition. . . . 
 
 Gazing at him with all my eyes, I liked him well, and 
 rejoiced more in him than in all the wonders of the 
 Exhibition. 
 
 How strange that in these two or three pages I cannot 
 get one single touch that may call him up hereafter ! 
 
 I would gladly have seen more of this one poet of our 
 day, but forbore to follow him ; for I must own that it 
 seemed mean to be dogging him through the saloons, or 
 even to look at him, since it was to be done stealthily, if 
 at all. 
 
 He is as un-English as possible, — indeed, an English- 
 man of genius usually lacks the national characteristics, 
 and is great abnormally. 
 
 Un-English as he was, Tennyson had not, however, an 
 American look. I cannot well describe the difference, 
 but there was something more mellow in him, — softer, 
 sweeter, broader, more simple than we are apt to be. 
 Living apart from men as he does would hurt any one 
 of us more than it does him. I may as well leave him 
 here, for I cannot touch the central point.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 73 
 
 Referring to this narrative, Mr. James T. Fields, in 
 his * Yesterdays with Authors,' says : — 
 
 It was during one of his rambles with Alexander 
 Ireland through the Manchester Exhibition rooms that 
 Hawthorne saw Tennyson wandering about. I have 
 always thought it unfortunate that these two men of 
 genius could not have been introduced on that occasion. 
 Hawthorne was too shy to seek an introduction, and 
 Tennyson was not aware that the American author was 
 present. . . . When I afterwards told Tennyson that the 
 author whose ' Twice-Told Tales ' he happened to be then 
 reading at Farringford had met him at Manchester, but 
 did not make himself known, the Laureate said in his 
 frank and hearty manner; 'Why did n't he come up and 
 let me shake hands with him ? I am sure I should have 
 been glad to meet a man like Hawthorne anywhere.' 
 
 In the * Life of Sydney Dobell,' who had visited 
 the Isle of Wight for his health, is a letter written in 
 1857 from which the following is an extract : — 
 
 We have had many cloudy days lately, but even they 
 have been almost equally abnormal — soft, shady days, 
 with southwest winds, as tender often as spring, and with 
 thrushes singing in all the hedges, in a way that, at 
 another season, would be so exquisite, but now in the very- 
 death and funeral of the year, is sad enough, because un- 
 natural. I hardly think Tennyson has done well, as a 
 poet, in fixing his house in such exceptional conditions. 
 He lives, you know, about twenty miles from us along the 
 same coast. The country people are much amazed at his 
 bad hat and unusual ways, and believe devoutly that he 
 writes his poetry while mowing his lawn. However, they 
 hold him in great respect, from a perception of the
 
 74 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 honour in which he is held by their ' betters.' Our house- 
 wife here is a friend of his servant, and she entertained 
 us with an account of how said servant had lately been 
 awed. Opening to a ring at the door, when the Tenny- 
 sons were out, she saw a * tall, handsome gentleman ' 
 standing there, who, on learning they were not at home, 
 turned to go. 'What message shall I give?' quoth the 
 maid. ' Merely say Prince Albert called.' 
 
 Bayard Taylor, in his ' At Home and Abroad,' gives 
 the following account of a visit he made to Farring- 
 ford in this same year : — 
 
 I had so long known the greatest of living English 
 poets, Alfred Tennyson, not only through his works, but 
 from the talk of mutual friends, that I gladly embraced 
 an opportunity to know him personally, which happened 
 to me in June, 1857. He was then living at his home, 
 the estate of Farringford, near Freshwater, in the Isle of 
 Wight. I should have hesitated to intrude upon his 
 retirement, had I not been kindly assured beforehand 
 that my visit would not be unwelcome. The drive across 
 the heart of the island from Newport to Freshwater was 
 alone worth the journey from London. The softly un- 
 dulating hills, the deep green valleys, the blue waters of 
 the Solent, and the purple glimpses of the New Forest 
 beyond, formed a fit vestibule of landscape through 
 which to approach a poet's house. 
 
 As we drew near Freshwater, my coachman pointed 
 out Farringford, a cheerful gray country mansion, with a 
 small thick-grassed park before it, a grove behind, and 
 beyond all, the deep shoulder of the chalk downs, a gap 
 in which, at Freshwater, showed the dark blue horizon of 
 the Channel. Leaving my luggage at one of the two 
 little inns, I walked to the house with lines from ' Maud '
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 75 
 
 chiming in my mind. 'The dry-tongued laurel' shone 
 glossily in the sun, the cedar ' sighed for Lebanon ' on 
 the lawn, and ' the liquid azure bloom of a crescent of 
 sea ' glimmered afar. 
 
 I had not been two minutes in the drawing-room be- 
 fore Tennyson walked in. So unlike are the published 
 portraits of him that I was almost in doubt as to his 
 identity. The engraved head suggests a moderate 
 stature, but he is tall and broad-shouldered as a son of 
 Anak, with hair, beard, and eyes of southern darkness. 
 Something in the lofty brow and aquiline nose suggests 
 Dante, but such a deep, mellow chest-voice never could 
 have come from Italian lungs. 
 
 He proposed a walk, as the day was wonderfully clear 
 and beautiful. We climbed the steep combe of the chalk 
 cliff, and slowly wandered westward until we reached the 
 Needles, at the extremity of the island, and some three or 
 four miles distant from his residence. During the con- 
 versation with which we beguiled the way, I was struck 
 with the variety of his knowledge. Not a little flower on 
 the downs, which the sheep had spared, escaped his 
 notice, and the geology of the coast, both terrestrial and 
 submarine, was perfectly familiar to him. I thought of 
 a remark which I once heard from the lips of a dis- 
 tinguished English author [Thackeray], that Tennyson 
 was the wisest man he knew, and could well believe 
 that he was sincere in making it. 
 
 I shall respect the sanctity of the delightful family 
 circle to which I was admitted, and from which I parted 
 the next afternoon with true regret. Suffice it to say that 
 the poet is not only fortunate and happy in his family 
 relations, but that, with his large and liberal nature, his 
 sympathies for what is true and noble in humanity, and 
 his depth and tenderness of feeling, he deserves to be so.
 
 76 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 On the occasion of the marriage of the Princess 
 Royal to Frederick WiUiam of Prussia, Jan. 25, 
 1858, the Laureate wrote two additional stanzas to 
 the National Anthem, ' God save the Queen.' They 
 were printed in the London 'Times' of January 29. 
 
 In July, 1859, the first instalment of the 'Idylls of 
 the King 'was published, — the four poems, ' Enid,' 
 * Vivien,' ' Elaine,' and ' Guinevere,' as they were then 
 entitled. Ten thousand copies were sold in about six 
 weeks, and the critics were almost unanimous in their 
 eulogies of the volume. Among its warmest admirers 
 was Prince Albert, who sent his copy to the poet, 
 asking him to write his name in it. The note 
 continued : — 
 
 You would thus add a peculiar interest to the book 
 containing those beautiful songs, from the perusal of 
 which I derived the greatest enjoyment. They quite 
 rekindle the feeling with which the legends of King 
 Arthur must have inspired the chivalry of old, whilst the 
 graceful form in which they are presented blends those 
 feelings with the softer tone of our present age. 
 
 In 1862 a new edition of the ' Idylls' appeared, 
 with a dedication to the memory of the Prince, who 
 died in December, 1861. 
 
 It was not until 1869 that this ' master- work ' of 
 the poet was continued by the publication of four 
 more ' Idylls,' — ' The Coming of Arthur,' ' The Holy 
 Grail,' ' Pelleas and Ettarre,' and ' The Passing of Ar- 
 thur,' in which the ' Morte d'Arthur ' of 1842 is incor- 
 
 I
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 77 
 
 porated. In 1 8 7 2 * The Last Tournament ' (contributed 
 to the 'Contemporary Review' for December, 18 71) 
 and 'Gareth and Lynette ' appeared; and in 1885 
 ' Balin and Balan,' the last of the series, was included 
 in ' Tiresias and Other Poems.' In the latest editions 
 of the Laureate's collected works, the poems are ar- 
 ranged in ' twelve books ' (the original ' Enid ' being 
 divided into ' The Marriage of Geraint ' and ' Geraint 
 and Enid ') and are put in the order in which he in- 
 tended they should be read. In the order ol publica- 
 tion the last (or the portion of it included in the 
 'Morte d' Arthur ' of 1842) was the first, followed suc- 
 cessively by the third, fourth (these two, as just ex- 
 plained, being originally one), sixth, seventh, eleventh 
 (as the five were arranged in 1859), first, eighth, ninth, 
 twelfth (as arranged in 1869, the twelfth being the 
 amplification of the ' Morte d'Arthur '), second, tenth, 
 and fifth. ' Nave and transept, aisle after aisle, the 
 Gothic minster has extended, until, with the addition 
 of a cloister here and a chapel yonder, the structure 
 stands complete.' Stedman, from whom I quote this, 
 continues : — 
 
 It has grown insensibly, under the hands of one man 
 who has given it the best years of his life, — but some- 
 what as Wolf conceived the Homeric poems to have 
 grown, chant by chant, until the time came for the whole 
 to be welded together in heroic form. . . . It is the epic 
 of chivalry, — the Christian ideal of chivalry which we 
 have deduced from a barbaric source, — our conception
 
 78 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 of what knighthood should be, rather than what it really 
 was, but so skilfully wrought of high imaginings, fairy 
 spells, fantastic legends, and mediaeval splendours that 
 the whole work, suffused with the Tennysonian glamour 
 of golden mist, seems like a chronicle illuminated by 
 saintly hands, and often blazes with light like that which 
 flashed from the holy wizard's book when the covers were 
 unclasped. And, indeed, if this be not the greatest nar- 
 rative poem since ' Paradise Lost,' what other English 
 production are you to name in its place? Never so lofty 
 as the grander portions of Milton's epic, it is more evenly 
 sustained and has no long prosaic passages ; while ' Para- 
 dise Lost ' is justly declared to be a work of superhuman 
 genius impoverished by dreary wastes of theology. 
 
 The * Idylls ' as completed form ' a great connected 
 poem, dealing not only with the history and decadence 
 of the Round Table, but containing an allegorical 
 meaning illustrative of the origin, the struggles, and 
 the passing of the soul of man.' The late Dean Alford, 
 one of the poet's intimate friends, set forth this view 
 in the ' Contemporary Review ' for January, 1870. The 
 ' Idylls ' are to be read in the light of a passage in 
 the epilogue, which describes the king as shadowing 
 the Soul in its war with Sense. In this aspect they 
 deal with the very highest interests of man. ' One 
 noble design warms and unites the whole. In Arthur's 
 coming, his foundation of the Round Table, his strug- 
 gles and disappointment and departure, we see the 
 conflict continually maintained between the spirit and 
 the flesh ; and in the pragmatical issue we recognise
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 79 
 
 the bearing down in history, and in individual man, 
 of pure and lofty Christian purpose by the lusts of the 
 flesh, by the corruptions of superstition, by human 
 passions and selfishness.' 
 
 In July, 1859, the poet contributed 'The Grand- 
 mother's Apology' (entitled 'The Grandmother' 
 when included in the ' Enoch Arden ' volume in 
 1864) to 'Once a Week,' where it Avas accompanied 
 with an illustration by Millais, which, as Mr. Shep- 
 herd says, ' so beautifully embodies the pathos of the 
 poem, and is so inseparably connected with it in the 
 minds of those who first read it in the magazine, 
 that it seems a pity the two should ever have been 
 dissociated.* 
 
 On the 20th of July, 1859, the poet Longfellow 
 wrote in his diary : ' Finished the Four Idylls. The 
 first and third [' Enid ' and * Elaine '] could have 
 come only from a great poet. The second and fourth 
 ['Vivien' and 'Guinevere'] do not seem to me so 
 good.' This was apparently a hasty judgment after 
 a first reading; for later (August 12) he wrote to 
 James T. Fields thus: 'The "Idylls" are a brilliant 
 success, — rich tapestries, wrought as only Tennyson 
 could have done them, and worthy to hang beside " The 
 Faerie Queene." I believe there is no discordant voice 
 on this side the water.' When ' The Holy Grail ' 
 appeared in 1869, he wrote on Christmas Eve to 
 Fields : ' What dusky splendours of song there are
 
 8o THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 in King Alfred's new volume ! It is always a de- 
 light to get anything from him. His " Holy Grail " 
 and Lowell's " Cathedral " are enough for a holiday, 
 and make this one notable. With such '•' good works " 
 you can go forward to meet the New Year with a 
 conscience void of reproach.' 
 
 In August, 1859, Tennyson made a tour in Por- 
 tugal with Francis Turner Palgrave, who was then pre- 
 paring his ' Golden Treasury of English Songs and 
 Lyrics.' In the dedication to the Laureate, Mr. 
 Palgrave says : ' Your encouragement . . , led me 
 to begin the work ; and it has been completed under 
 your advice and assistance.' 
 
 The next year (i860) Tennyson gave nothing to 
 the public except * Sea Dreams,' in ' Macrnillan's 
 Magazine ' for January, and * Tithonus,' in the ' Corn- 
 hill Magazine ' (then edited by Thackeray) for Feb- 
 ruary; and in 1861 only 'The Sailor Boy,' contrib- 
 uted to * Victoria Regia,' — a Christmas volume of 
 miscellanies by various authors, edited by Emily Faith- 
 full. In 1862, besides the dedication to Prince Albert 
 in the new edition of the ' Idylls ' already mentioned, 
 he wrote the 'Ode: May the First, 1862,' sung at 
 the opening of the International Exhibition, and 
 printed in ' Eraser's Magazine ' for June. 
 
 In 1861, he revisited the Pyrenees, where he had 
 travelled with Arthur Hallam in his early manhood. 
 To this he alludes in the lines ' In the Valley of Cau-
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 8 1 
 
 teretz,' written at this time, though not printed until 
 1864: — 
 
 All along the valley, stream that flashest white, 
 
 Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night. 
 
 All along the valley, where thy waters flow, 
 
 I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years ago. 
 
 All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day, 
 
 The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away ; 
 
 For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed. 
 
 Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead. 
 
 And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree. 
 
 The voice of the dead was a living voice to me. 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough was in the Pyrenees at this 
 time, and writes in his diary of meeting the Tenny- 
 sons at Mont Dore-les-Bains, Luchon, and elsewhere. 
 At Luchon he found them * comfortably established 
 in pleasant lodgings out of the town, in maize fields, 
 not far from the river.' The Laureate told him that 
 * " CEnone " was written on the inspiration of the Pyre- 
 nees, which stood for Ida.' At Cauteretz, September 7, 
 Clough writes : ' To-day is heavy brouillard down to 
 the feet, or at any rate ankles, of the hills, and little 
 to be done. I have been out for a walk with A. T. to 
 a sort of island between two waterfalls, with pines on 
 it, of which he retained a recollection from his visit of 
 thirty-one years ago, and which, moreover, furnished 
 a simile to " The Princess." He is very fond of this 
 place, evidently.' 
 
 VOL. I. — 6
 
 82 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 The simile occurs in the fifth part of 'The Prin- 
 cess,' in the description of Ida standing 
 
 Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm 
 Tho' compass'd by two armies and the noise 
 Of arms ; and standing like a stately pine 
 Set in a cataract on an island-crag, 
 When storm is on the heights, and right and left 
 Suck'd from the dark heart of the long hills roll 
 The torrents, dash'd to the vale. 
 
 In 1863 the ' Welcome to Alexandra,' which Thack- 
 eray compared to the waving of a flaring pine-tree 
 torch on a windy headland, was published on the ar- 
 rival of the Princess in England on the 7th of March; 
 and in December the ' Attempts at Classical Metres 
 in Quantity ' appeared in the * Cornhill Magazine.' 
 
 In March, 1864, the Laureate contributed an ' Epi- 
 taph on the Late Duchess of Kent ' (the Queen's 
 mother, who had died on the i6th of that month) 
 to the ' Court Journal.' In August ' Enoch Arden 
 and Other Poems ' was published. The poem which 
 gives the title to the volume is * in its author's purest 
 idyllic style ; noticeable for evenness of tone, clear- 
 ness of diction, successful description of coast and 
 ocean, — finally, for the loveliness and fidelity of its 
 genre scenes.' ^ George William Curtis, reviewing it 
 in 1864, remarked: — 
 
 The fascinating fancy which Hawthorne elaborated 
 under the title ' Wakefield,' of a man quietly withdrawing 
 
 ^ Stedman.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 83 
 
 from his home and severing himself for many years from 
 his family, yet stealing to the windows in the darkness to 
 see wife and children and the changes tim.e works in his 
 familiar circle, is reproduced in ' Enoch Arden,' except 
 that the separation is involuntar}', and the unbetrayed 
 looking in upon the changes of years is not a mere psycho- 
 logical diversion, but an act of the highest moral heroism. 
 Indeed, the tale is profoundly tragical, and like the last 
 Idyll of the King [' Guinevere '], is a rare tribute to the mas- 
 ter-passion of the human heart. It is not the most subtle 
 selfishness, whispers the poet ; it is the perfection of self- 
 denial. Xavier de Maistre says that the Fornarina loved 
 her love more than her lover. Not so would Raphael's 
 Madonna have loved. Not so loved Enoch Arden. 
 There is no nobler tale of true love than his. 
 
 It is told with that consummate elegance in which 
 Tennyson has no peer. The English language has a 
 burnished beauty in his use of it which is marvellous. In 
 his earlier verses it was too dainty, too conspicuously fas- 
 tidious, and the words were chosen too much for them- 
 selves and their special suggestions and individual melody. 
 But his mastery of them now is manly. It is as striking 
 as Milton's, although entirely different. There are a 
 Miltonic and a Tennysonian blank verse in English litera- 
 ture ; is there any other ? 
 
 Mr. Henry J. Jennings tells the following story about 
 the poem : — 
 
 A sure test of its commandingly human quality is fur- 
 nished by the fact that it was on one occasion read to an 
 audience of the rudest, most illiterate people of the 
 ' slums ' of a great provincial town. Although the reader 
 had no marked gifts of elocution, the touching character 
 of the narrative held these poor folks in sobbing sympathy
 
 84 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 to the very end, and they understood it all, as one might 
 have read in the moisture of their rapt and hungering 
 eyes. Lord Tennyson, on being made acquainted with 
 this interesting circumstance, in thanking his informant, 
 said, ' If my poems have indeed power for good over the 
 people, it ought to be matter of great joy to me, and of 
 still greater thankfulness.' 
 
 ' Enoch Arden ' has been translated into French, 
 Italian, Spanish, Danish, Dutch, and German (by 
 several hands) ; and in 1867 a Latin version was 
 published by Prof. William Selwyn. 
 
 ' The Northern Farmer,' in the same volume with 
 ' Enoch Arden,' was the first of the Lincolnshire 
 dialect poems, remarkable alike for their humour and 
 pathos, which * revealed a new power ' in Tennyson. 
 
 The command of dialect had perhaps the least part in 
 this delightful surprise. The poem throbs with char- 
 acter ; every pulse in every line is the heart-beat of a 
 strongly marked individuality. . . . There are few things 
 in the way of word-portraiture more lifelike than the pic- 
 ture this self-willed, opinionated old-world farmer draws 
 of himself.^ 
 
 ' A Selection from the Works of Alfred Tennyson,' 
 published in the series of * Moxon's Miniature Poets,' 
 in 1865, contained six new poems : 'The Captain;* 
 ' On a Mourner ; ' ' Home they brought him slain wdth 
 spears ' (which, though not printed till now, is proba- 
 bly an earlier version of the song in * The Princess,' 
 * Home they brought her warrior dead ') ; and three 
 ^ Jennings.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSOM. 85 
 
 'Sonnets to a Coquette,' beginning, respectively, 
 'Caress'd or chidden by the dainty hand,' 'The form, 
 the form alone is eloquent,' and 'Wan Sculptor, weepest 
 thou to take the cast.' These sonnets are now printed 
 among the ' Juvenilia,' without the original heading. 
 
 On the 2ist of February, 1865, the poet's mother 
 died, at the age of eighty-four years. She had resided 
 for many years at Hampstead (London) with her 
 sister. Miss Mary Anne Fytche. 
 
 Early in 1865 there were rumours that the Queen 
 desired to confer some distinction upon the poet, and 
 the ' Athenrum ' announced that a baronetcy had 
 been offered him and accepted. The latter part of 
 the statement was incorrect. Nine years later, when 
 Disraeli was premier, the baronetcy was again offered 
 and declined. 
 
 In 1867 the series of twelve songs, entitled 'The 
 Window, or the Loves of the Wrens,' was printed 
 for private circulation at the press of Sir Ivor Bertie 
 Guest, of Canford Manor, now Lord Wimbounie, 
 with this dedication : ' These little songs, whose 
 almost sole merit — at least till they are wedded 
 to music — is that they are so excellently printed, 
 I dedicate to the printer.' The note prefixed to 
 them when published in 1870 informs us that they 
 were written at the request of Mr. Sullivan, to be 
 set to music by him. 
 
 * The Victim,' which had also been privately
 
 86 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 printed at Canford Manor, was contributed to ' Good 
 Words ' for January, 1868. The lines ' On a Spiteful 
 Letter ' appeared in ' Once a Week ' the same month ; 
 * Wages ' in ' Macmillan's Magazine ' for February ; a 
 few lines entitled * 1865-1866,' in 'Good Words' for 
 March ; and * Lucretius ' in ' Macmillan ' for May. 
 With the exception of the * 1 865-1 866,' these are 
 now included in the collected works of the poet. 
 
 In the summer of 1868 Longfellow visited his 
 brother poet at Farringford. In a letter to Mrs. 
 James T. Fields, dated at Bonchurch, July 19, he 
 says : ' We came last night from Fresl'^water, where 
 we had passed two happy days with Tennyson, — 
 not at his house, but mostly with him. He was very 
 cordial and very amiable, and gave up his whole time 
 to us.' 
 ^ In 1869 'The Holy Grail and Other Poems' was 
 
 published, forty thousand copies of the volume having 
 been ordered in advance. The same year the poet 
 was elected an Honorary Fellow of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge. The Fellows had previously subscribed 
 for his bust by Woolner, which now adorns the college 
 library. It may also be noted that a writer in ' Temple 
 Bar ' for May informed a deluded world that ' Mr. 
 Tennyson has no sound pretensions to be called a 
 great poet.' 
 
 In 1867 the poet had purchased an estate on 
 Blackdown, a moorland height rising above the village
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. o? 
 
 of Haslemere, in the northwestern corner of Sussex, 
 some forty-two miles from London; and here in 1869 
 he built a summer residence from the designs of his 
 friend, Mr. J. T. Knowles, editor of the ' Nineteenth 
 Century,' and an excellent architect withal. He 
 named the place Aldworth, after one of the old 
 Sellwood demesnes. The mansion stands on the 
 southern slope of the down, more than eight hundred 
 feet above the sea, commanding one of the broadest 
 and most beautiful views in all England. There is 
 an allusion to the scene in the verses addressed to 
 General Hawley : — 
 
 Our birches yellowing and from each 
 
 The light leaf falling fast, 
 While squirrels from our fiery beech 
 
 Were bearing off the mast, 
 You came, and look'd and loved the view 
 
 Long known and loved by me, 
 Green Sussex fading into blue 
 
 With one gray glimpse of sea. 
 
 It is indeed the whole of 'Green Sussex' that lies 
 before one as he looks from where the Fairlight Downs 
 dip into the Pitt Level on the left to Chichester on the 
 right. And indeed more than Sussex is visible : on one 
 side no small part of Kent can be seen ; and if one half 
 turns, the noble eminence of Leith Hill, and on the other 
 Portsmouth and the Hampshire Downs. The ' one gray 
 glimpse of sea' is where there is an opening in the South 
 Downs at Arundel.^ 
 
 ^ Church.
 
 88 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie says : — 
 
 Aldworth was built . . . when Mrs. Tennyson had 
 been ordered change, and Freshwater was found to be 
 unbearable and overcrowded during the summer months. 
 It must be borne in mind that to hospitable people there 
 are dangers from friendly inroads as well as from the 
 attacks of enemies. The new house, where for many 
 years past the family has spent its summers, stands on 
 the summit of a high lonely hill in Surrey, and yet it is 
 not quite out of reach of London life. It is a white stone 
 house with many broad windows facing a great view 
 and a long terrace, like some one of those at Siena or 
 Perugia, with a low parapet of stone, where ivies and 
 roses are trained, making a foreground to the lovely 
 haze of the distance. 
 
 In the Isle of Wight the poet had been greatly 
 annoyed in summer by * the vulgar curiosity of mobs 
 of tourists, who walked about his grounds, pointing 
 their telescopes and field-glasses at him, even indeed 
 flattening their inquisitive noses against his windows.' 
 At Aldworth, three miles from a railway station and 
 in a comparatively isolated situation high above the 
 surrounding country, he was quite safe from these 
 impudent intrusions. Nothing of the house but the 
 chimney-tops or the gables and pinnacles of the upper 
 windows can be seen from any point near at hand. * A 
 belt of dense foliage and undergrowth, hardly less im- 
 penetrable than stone walls, girdles it closely about ; 
 and from the outside it is impossible to get any idea
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 89 
 
 of the bright flower-gardens and pleasant glades that 
 
 lie hidden in recesses of the hazel copse.' 
 
 Within [to quote from a writer in the London ' World ' 
 who visited Aid worth in 1875] everything is ordered with 
 a quiet refined elegance that has in it, perhaps, just a 
 soup^ofi of an affectation of aestheticism not quite in 
 keeping with the spirit either of modern or of mediaeval 
 life. The hall, in spite of its richly tessellated pavement, 
 has a delightful sense of coolness in its soft half-light. 
 The lofty rooms have broad high windows, the light from 
 which is tempered by delicately coloured hangings ; walls 
 of the negative tints in which modern decorators delight, 
 diapered with dull gold ; and panelled ceilings of darkly 
 stained wood with moulded ribs and beams. High- 
 backed chairs, of ancient and uncompromising stiffness, 
 flank the table, typifying the poet's sterner moods ; while 
 in cosey corners are comfortable lounges that indicate 
 a tendency to yield sometimes to the soft seductions 
 of more effeminate inspirations. Nowhere is the spirit 
 vexed by garish ornament or the eye by glaring colours. 
 A few good etchings and paintings hang on the walls ; 
 among them an excellent copy of the Peter Martyr, which 
 is doubly valuable since the destruction of the original. 
 But there is one room in which all that is most interesting 
 in this house centres. The door opens noiselessly, and the 
 tread of your feet is muffled as you enter a dim corridor 
 divided from the room by a high screen. The air is heavy 
 with the odour of an incense not unfamiliar to men of 
 letters ; and if you could doubt whence it arose, your 
 doubts would be speedily dissolved as the occupant of 
 the chamber comes forward to meet you, the inseparable 
 pipe still between his teeth. The figure, though slightly 
 bent, bears the burden of sixty-six years lightly; the 
 dark mass of hair falling backward from the broad high
 
 9© THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 forehead, and the ' knightly growth fringing his lips,' 
 are but sparely streaked with silver ; and the face, though 
 rugged and deeply lined with thought, is full of calm dig- 
 nity and of a tenderness strangely at variance with his 
 somewhat brusque tone and manner. . . . Though the 
 poet, like most thinkers, is slow of speech, and given 
 to lapse into reverie, his powers of conversation are 
 considerable. He speaks with a full rolling Saxon accent 
 that to the over-refined ears of Cockneys would probably 
 sound like provincialism, but no person could be more 
 correctly emphatic in pronunciation ; and his ear is as 
 readily offended, if a word be shorn of its due power, as 
 a great musician's by discordant sounds, or a painter's 
 eye by false colouring ; and he does not allow the forms 
 of society to stand in the way of giving very free ex- 
 pression to his annoyance. . . . His chief delight is to sit 
 here in this quiet secluded study, surrounded by a few 
 choice books of favourite authors ; and when not working 
 at the desk, by the window that overlooks the pine glen 
 and the purple down westward, to lounge by the larger 
 one that looks down on the bright blossoming terrace 
 over the dense belt of beeches and hazels, where the 
 whirring of night-jars sounds ceaselessly in the twilight, 
 away to the gray lines of undulating hills and the streak 
 of silver sea. Whatever he is doing, the eternal pipe is 
 ever ready at hand, and a huge tobacco-jar, big enough 
 for an ancestral urn, on the floor beside him. At other 
 times he will wander down to the zigzag pathways that 
 meander in all directions through the tall hazel-twigs 
 which hem his house around, where one comes suddenly 
 on a little secluded glade bright with mossy verdure, or a 
 garden laden with odours from a score of pine-trees, or a 
 bigger lawn devoted to the innocent pursuit of croquet or 
 lawn-tennis. Less frequently he may be seen walking 
 through neighbouring byways, and exciting the curiosity
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 91 
 
 of the village folk by the strangeness of his mien and 
 the eccentricity of his costume. 
 
 Tennyson published nothing during 1870 and 1871 
 except 'The Last Tournament,' contributed to the 
 ' Contemporary Review ' for December in the latter 
 year; but 1872 is memorable for the appearance of 
 * Gareth and Lynette, and Other Poems.' It was now 
 generally assumed by the critics that the cycle of the 
 Arthurian Idylls was complete ; but, as we have seen, 
 another 'book' was added in 1885. 
 
 In the ' Library Edition ' of the poet's complete 
 works (1872-73) several poems previously suppressed 
 were restored under the head of ' Juvenilia ; ' and 
 two early sonnets, 'Alexander' and 'The Bridesmaid,' 
 were published for the first time. ' The Third of Feb- 
 ruary, 1852 ' (printed in the ' Examiner ' that year) and 
 'Literary Squabbles' (the 'Afterthought' of 'Punch,' 
 1846) were first acknowledged and included. Some 
 new passages in the ' Idylls of the King ' and the ex- 
 ordium ' To the Queen ' were also added. 
 
 'A Welcome to Marie AlexandrovTia, Duchess of 
 Edinburgh,' printed in the 'Times' early in 1874, 
 and afterwards issued on a separate sheet, is now 
 included in the collected works. 
 
 The ' Cabinet Edition ' of the poems, issued in 
 1874, contained some additional matter. The stanzas 
 entitled 'England and America in 1782,' the poem 
 in memory of Sir John Simeon (' In the Garden at
 
 92 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Swainston '), and * The Voice and the Peak ' now first 
 appeared ; and a new passage of nearly one hundred 
 and fifty lines was inserted in ' Merlin and Vivien ' 
 after the opening paragraph. 
 
 In 1875 the drama of ' Queen Mary ' was pubhshed. 
 The next year it was produced, with some abridgment 
 and modification, at the Lyceum Theatre in London, 
 Miss Bateman playing Mary, and Mr. Irving the minor 
 part of Philip II. of Spain. The experiment con- 
 firmed the opinion of the critics that the work was 
 better suited for the closet than the stage. 
 
 Late in 1876 (dated 1877) the Laureate published 
 another drama, ' Harold,' which has never been acted, 
 though it was received with more favour by the critics 
 than ' Queen Mary ' had been. Some were enthusias- 
 tic in their praises of both, George Eliot declaring 
 that ' Tennyson's plays run Shakespeare's close.' 
 
 During 1877 Tennyson contributed to the first 
 number of the ' Nineteenth Century ' (the name of 
 which is said to have been suggested by him) a prefa- 
 tory sonnet, with another entitled * Montenegro ; ' and 
 to subsequent numbers a ' Sonnet to Victor Hugo ' 
 and ' Achilles over the Trench.' He also wrote the 
 * Lines on Sir John Franklin ' for the cenotaph in 
 Westminster Abbey. 
 
 The next year (1878) he wrote the ballad of 'The 
 Revenge ' for the * Nineteenth Century.' When this 
 poem was read to Carlyle, he exclaimed, ' Eh ! he has
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 93 
 
 got the grip of it ! ' In the autumn Tennyson made 
 a tour in Ireland. At Killarney, as Mrs. Ritchie tells 
 us, he said to the boatman, ' When I last was here I 
 heard eight echoes, and now I only hear one.' The 
 man, who had often heard people quoting the Bugle 
 Song, replied, * Why, you must be the gentleman that 
 brought all the money to the place.' 
 
 In 1879, as already stated (page 45), 'The Lover's 
 Tale ' was published ; and the * Dedicatory Poem to 
 the Princess Alice ' and * The Defence of Lucknow ' 
 were contributed to the ' Nineteenth Century.' The 
 one-act play of ' The Falcon ' was brought out at the 
 St. James Theatre in London, with Mrs. Kendal as the 
 heroine. It was ' a genuine success, and the charm 
 of the dialogue furnished an intellectual delight rare 
 in those days of " brainless pantomime." ' 
 
 It was in April of this same year that Tennyson 
 went to see Irving as Hamlet ; and Mrs. Ritchie, 
 who was present at the same performance, refers to 
 the occasion thus : — 
 
 I once heard Mr. Tennyson talking to some actors, to 
 no less a person indeed than to Hamlet himself, for after 
 the curtain fell the whole play seemed to flow from off 
 the stage into the box where we had been sitting, and I 
 could scarcely tell at last where reality began and Shake- 
 speare ended. The play was over, and we ourselves seemed 
 a part of it still ; here were the players, and our own prince 
 poet, in that familiar simple voice we all know, explaining 
 the art, going straight to the point in his own downright
 
 94 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 fashion, criticising with delicate appreciation, by the sim- 
 ple force of truth and conviction carrying all before him. 
 ' You are a good actor lost,' one of these real actors said 
 to him. 
 
 In the spring of 1880 the Laureate was asked to 
 allow his name to be used as a candidate for the Lord 
 Rectorship of Glasgow University ; but learning that 
 he was being put forward as the nominee of the Con- 
 servative party among the students, he declined the 
 candidature. In a letter addressed to the gentlemen 
 who had requested him to stand for this honorary 
 position, he said : — 
 
 You are probably aware that some years ago the Glas- 
 gow Liberals asked me to be their candidate, and that I, 
 in like manner, declined; yet I would gladly accept a 
 nomination, after what has occurred on this occasion, if 
 at any time a body of students, bearing no political party 
 name, should wish to nominate me, or if both the Liberals 
 and Conservatives should happen to agree in foregoing 
 the excitement of a political contest, and in desiring a 
 Lord Rector who would not appear for installation, and 
 who would, in fact, be a mere roi fainiant, with nothing 
 but the literary merits you are good enough to appreciate. 
 
 All sensible people will approve Tennyson's refusal 
 to be a political candidate for a purely literary office. 
 Nothing, indeed, could well be more ridiculous than 
 the dragging of party considerations into a university 
 election of this character. 
 
 In the same year (1880) the volume entitled 
 ' Ballads and Other Poems ' was given to the world.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 95 
 
 It was dedicated to ' golden-haired Ally,' the poet's 
 little grandson, Alfred Tennyson. He was the son of 
 Mr. Lionel Tennyson, and was then only a year and a 
 half old. Mr. Stedman pays a fitting tribute to the 
 
 * Ballads ' when, after commenting with qualified praise 
 upon the dramas, he goes on to say : — 
 
 In striking contrast, Tennyson's recent lyrical poetry is 
 the afterglow of a still radiant genius. Here we see un- 
 dimmed the fire and beauty of his natural gift, and wisdom 
 increased with age. What a collection, short as it is, 
 forms the volume of ' Ballads ' issued in his seventy-first 
 year ! It opens with the thoroughly English story of 
 ' The First Quarrel,' with its tragic culmination, — 
 
 • And the boat went down that night, — the boat 
 went down that night ! ' Country life is what he 
 has observed, and he reflects it with truth of action 
 and dialect. ' The Northern Cobbler ' and ' The Village 
 Wife ' could be written only by the idyllist whose 
 Yorkshire ballads delighted us in 1866. But here are 
 greater things, two or three at his highest mark. The 
 passion and lyrical might of ' Rizpah ' never have been 
 exceeded by the author, nor, I think, by any other poet of 
 his day. ' The Revenge ' and ' Lucknow ' are magnificent 
 ballads. . . . ' The Voyage of Maeldune' is a weird and 
 vocal fantasy, unequally poetic, with the well-known 
 touch in every number. 
 
 The book drew from Theodore Watts the following 
 sonnet, *■ To Alfred Tennyson, on his publishing, in 
 his seventy-first year, the most richly various volume 
 of English verse that has appeared in his own 
 century ' : —
 
 96 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Beyond the peaks of Kdf a rivulet springs 
 
 Whose magic waters to a flood expand, 
 
 Distilling, for all drinkers on each hand. 
 
 The immortal sweets enveil'd in mortal things. 
 
 From honey'd flowers, from balm of zephyr-wings, 
 
 From fiery blood of gems,^ thro' all the land, 
 
 The river draws ; — then, in one rainbow-band, 
 
 Ten leagues of nectar o'er the ocean flings. 
 
 Steep'd in the riches of a poet's years, 
 
 Stain'd in all colours of man's destiny, 
 
 So, Tennyson, thy widening river nears 
 
 The misty main, and, taking now the sea. 
 
 Makes rich and warm with human smiles and tears 
 
 The ashen billows of Eternity. 
 
 In January, 1881, the play of* The Cup' was pro- 
 duced at the Lyceum Theatre, London, with Mr. 
 Irving and Miss Terry in the leading roles, and had a 
 more successful run than any of the Laureate's earlier 
 dramas. In the course of the year he contributed 
 the dramatic monologue ' Despair ' to the ' Nineteenth 
 Century/ and ' The Charge of the Heavy Brigade ' to 
 * Macmillan's Magazine.' 
 
 In March, 1882, the patriotic poem, 'Hands all 
 Round,' written in 1852 (see page 63), revised by 
 the poet and set to music by Mrs. Tennyson, was 
 sung by Mr. Santley at a concert in London on the 
 Queen's birthday. Certain good people, interested in 
 the temperance reform, were troubled at the refer- 
 
 1 According to a Mohammedan tradition, the mountains 
 of Kaf are entirely composed of gems, whose reflected splen- 
 dours colour the sky.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 97 
 
 ences in the song to ' drinking a health ' to England 
 and to Freedom ; and the Executive Committee of the 
 Good Templars, forgetful of the service the poet had 
 done their cause in ' The Northern Cobbler ' and of 
 the fact that he had exerted his influence in favour of 
 the movement to close public-houses on Sunday in 
 the Isle of Wight, passed a resolution remonstrating 
 against the ode ' in which drink was used as an ex- 
 pression of loyalty.' The Chief Templar sent the 
 Laureate a copy of the resolution, the receipt of 
 which was duly acknowledged by Mr. Hallam Tenny- 
 son as follows : — 
 
 My father begs me to thank the Committee of the 
 Executive of the Grand Lodge of England Good Tem- 
 plars for their resolution. No one hoaours more highly the 
 good work done by them than my father. I must, how- 
 ever, ask you to remember that the common cup has in 
 all ages been employed as a sacred symbol of unity, and 
 that my father has only used the word ' drink ' in refer- 
 ence to this symbol. I much regret that it should have 
 been otherwise understood. 
 
 An anecdote told by Mrs. Ritchie is not out of 
 place here. She relates that the poet was one day 
 walking in Covent Garden, when he was stopped by a 
 rough-looking man, who held out his hand, and said : 
 ' You 're Mr. Tennyson. Look here, sir, here am I. 
 I 've been drunk for six days out of the seven, but if 
 
 you will shake me by the hand, I 'm d d if I ever 
 
 get drunk again.' 
 
 VOL. I. — 7
 
 98 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 In November, 1882, another play from the Laure- 
 ate's pen, 'The Promise of May,' was performed at 
 the Globe Theatre in London. Though generally 
 condemned by the critics, it had a run of six weeks. 
 This was partially due to an incident of a somewhat 
 sensational character which occurred at one of the 
 earlier representations of the play. At the beginning 
 of the first scene the Marquis of Queensberry rose 
 from his seat in the stalls, and loudly protested against 
 what he regarded as Tennyson's attack upon free- 
 thinkers in the character of Edgar. After some delay 
 the performance was allowed to proceed, but at its 
 close the Marquis rose again, declaring himself a free- 
 thinker, and denouncing the play as a travesty of the 
 sect. The next day he explained in a morning paper 
 that his indignation had been particularly excited by 
 Edgar's comments on marriage. He added : — 
 
 I am a secularist and a freethinker, and, though I re- 
 pudiate it, a so-called atheist, and, as President of the 
 British Secular Union, I protest against Mr. Tennyson's 
 abominable caricature of an individual whom [jxV], I pre- 
 sume, he would have us believe represents some body of 
 people which, thanks for the good of humanity, most cer- 
 tainly does not exist among freethinkers. 
 
 But, as a writer in a London journal remarked in 
 the course of the controversy that followed, — 
 
 Edgar is not, as the critics will have it, a freethinker 
 drawn into crime by his Communistic theories ; Edgar is 
 not a protest against the atheism of the age ; Edgar is
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 99 
 
 not even an honest Radical nor a sincere follower of 
 Schopenhauer ; he is nothing thorough and nothing sin- 
 cere; but he is a criminal, and at the same time a gentle- 
 man. These are the two sides of his character. He has no 
 conscience until he is brought face to face with the con- 
 sequences of his crime, and in the awakening of that con- 
 science the poet has manifested his fullest and sublimest 
 strength. At our first introduction to Edgar we see him 
 perplexed with the haunting of a pleasure that has sated 
 him. ' Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die ' has 
 been his motto ; but we can detect that his appetite for 
 all pleasure has begun to pall. He repeats wearily the 
 formulas of a philosophy which he has followed because it 
 suits his mode of life. He plays with these formulae, but 
 they do not satisfy him. So long as he had on him the 
 zest of libertinism he did not in all probability trouble 
 himself with philosophy. But now he begins to hanker 
 after his position as a gentleman, as a member of society. 
 He feels he has outlawed himself. He has no one but 
 himself to look to. He must endeavour to justify himself 
 to himself. His selfishness compels him to take a step of 
 which he feels the wickedness and repugnancy. The 
 companionship of the girl he has ruined no longer gives 
 him pleasure ; he hates her tears because they remind him 
 of himself, — his proper self. He abandons her with a 
 pretence of satisfaction ; but the philosophical formulae 
 he repeats no more satisfy him than they satisfy this poor 
 girl whom he deserts. Her innocence has not, however, 
 been wantonly sacrificed by the dramatist. She has sown 
 the seed of repentance in her seducer, though the fruit is 
 slow in ripening. Years after, he returns like the ghost 
 of a murderer to the scene of his crime. He feels re- 
 morse. He is ashamed of it ; he battles against it ; he 
 hurls the old formulas at it; he acts the cynic more 
 thoroughly than ever. But he is changed. He feels a
 
 lOO THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 desire to ' make amends.' Yet that desire is still only a 
 form of selfishness. He has abandoned the ' Utopian 
 idiocy ' of Communism, — perhaps, as he says with the 
 self-mockery that makes the character so individual and 
 remarkable, because he has inherited estates. His posi- 
 tion of gentleman is forced on his notice ; he would qual- 
 ify himself for it, selfishly and without doing excessive 
 penance. To marry the surviving sister and rescue the 
 old father from ruin would be a meritorious act. He sets 
 himself to perform it. At first everything goes well for 
 him ; the old weapons of fascination that had worked the 
 younger sister's ruin now conquer the heart of the elder. 
 He is comfortable in his scheme of reparation, and ' lays 
 that flattering unction to his soul.' Suddenly, however, 
 the girl whom he has betrayed and whom he thought 
 dead returns ; she hears him repeating to another the 
 words of love she herself had caught from him and be- 
 lieved. ' Edgar,' she cries, and staggers forth from her 
 concealment, as she forgives him with her last breath, 
 and bids him make her sister happy. Then, and not till 
 then, the true soul of the man rushes to his lips ; he 
 recognises his wickedness, he knows the blankness of his 
 life. That is his punishment. He feels then and will 
 always feel aspirations after good which he can never or 
 only imperfectly fulfil. The position of independence on 
 which he prided himself is wrested from him ; he is 
 humiliated ; the instrument of his selfish repentance turns 
 on him, with a forgiveness that annihilates him ; the 
 bluff and honest farmer, whom he despises, triumphs over 
 him, not with the brute force of an avenging hand, but 
 with the pre-eminence of superior morality. Edgar quits 
 the scene, never again, we can well believe, to renew his 
 libertine existence, but to expiate with lifelong contrition 
 the monstrous wickedness of the past. This is dramatic 
 justice.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. loi 
 
 Characterisation so subtle was of course beyond the 
 ken of the average theatre-goer, and even of the aver- 
 age dramatic critic. We need not wonder that the 
 popular interest in the play, when the Queensberry 
 episode had ceased to be a nine days' wonder, soon 
 died out. 
 
 In the autumn of 1883, Tennyson accompanied 
 Mr. Gladstone on a sea excursion to the northern 
 parts of the Continent. At Copenhagen he was 
 invited by the King of Denmark to meet the Czar 
 and Czarina, the King and Queen of Greece, and the 
 Princess of Wales. The next day the royal party 
 visited the steamer on which the Laureate was a 
 passenger, and at their urgent request he read 
 them some of his poems. It is reported that he was 
 enthusiastically applauded, ' the royal ladies being 
 especially demonstrative in the expression of their 
 admiration.' 
 
 During this voyage the Orkneys were visited, and 
 the Premier and the Laureate were presented with the 
 freedom of the borough of Kirkwall. Mr. Gladstone, 
 in acknowledging the honour, referred to his eminent 
 companion thus : — 
 
 I believe that in this case the honour is not on one side 
 only, but on both, and you will do well to associate your- 
 self with him as well as ask him to associate himself with 
 you. Mr. Tennyson's life and labours correspond in 
 point of time as nearly as possible to my own, but Mr. 
 Tennyson's exertions have been on a higher plane of
 
 I02 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 human action than my own. He has worked in a higher 
 field, and his work will be more durable. We public men 
 who play a part which places us much in view of our 
 countrymen, — we are subject to the danger of being 
 momentarily intoxicated by the kindness, the undue 
 homage of kindness, we may receive. It is our business 
 to speak, but the words which we speak have wings, and 
 fly away and disappear. The work of Mr. Tennyson is 
 of a higher order. I anticipate for him the immortality 
 for which England and Scotland have supplied, in the 
 course of their long national life, many claims. Your 
 record to-day of the additions which have been made to 
 your municipal body may happen to be examined in 
 distant times, and some may ask with regard to the Prime 
 Minister, ' Who was he, and what did he do? We know 
 nothing about him.' But the Poet-Laureate has written 
 his own song on the hearts of his countrymen that can 
 never die. Time is powerless against him, and I believe 
 this, that were the period of inquiry to be so long distant 
 as between this day and the time when Maeshowe^ was 
 built, still, in regard to the Poet-Laureate of to-day, there 
 would be no difficulty in stating who he was and what he 
 had done to raise the intellects and hearts of his fellow- 
 creatures to a higher level, and by so doing acquire a 
 deathless fame- 
 In the latter part of 1883 the Queen offered a 
 peerage to Tennyson, and this time he accepted the 
 
 1 This remarkable tumulus is about nine miles from Kirkwall. 
 It is a conical mound thirty-five feet in height, and one hundred 
 and twenty feet in diameter at the base. It was opened in 
 1861, and was found to be a chambered barrow of elaborate 
 construction. Runic inscriptions were found within, which are 
 believed to be of the twelfth century ; but it is supposed that 
 the building was old and roofless when the runes were inscribed, 
 and really belongs to a much earlier period. 
 
 J
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 1 03 
 
 honour. He was gazetted Baron of Aldworth and 
 Farringford on the i8th of the following January, 
 Among the many congratulatory letters he received 
 was one from Susan Epton, an old woman who 
 had been in the service of his father and afterwards 
 lady's maid to Mrs. Tennyson. * I have received 
 many letters of congratulation,' the poet remarked in 
 a letter to a friend, ' some from great lords and ladies, 
 but the affectionate remembrance of good old Susan 
 Epton and her sister touched me more than all these.' 
 There were those, however, who found fault with 
 the Laureate for consenting to become Lord Tennyson. 
 ' Not only could no fame accrue to him from a title, 
 but it was urged that, by taking one, he was scarcely 
 true to his own ideals, — at all events, that he did not 
 rise to the height of his own inspiration.' I know of 
 no better answer to this than has been made by an 
 American and a republican. Mr. Stedman says : 
 
 When the Laureate was raised to the peerage — a station 
 which he twice declined in middle life — he gained some 
 attention from the satirists, and his acceptance of rank 
 no doubt was honestly bemoaned by many sturdy radicals. 
 It is difficult, nevertheless, to find any violation of principle 
 or taste in the acceptance by England's favourite and of- 
 ficial poet of such an honour, bestowed at the climax of 
 his years and fame. Republicans should bear in mind 
 that the republic of letters is the only one to which Alfred 
 Tennyson owed allegiance ; that he was the ' first citizen ' 
 of an ancient monarchy, which honoured letters by grate- 
 fully conferring upon him its high traditional award. It
 
 104 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 would be truckling for an American, loyal to his own form 
 of government, to receive an aristocratic title from some 
 foreign potentate. Longfellow, for example, promptly 
 declined an order tendered him by the King of Italy. But 
 a sense of fitness, and even patriotism, should make it 
 easy for an Englishman, faithful to a constitutional 
 monarchy, to accept any well-earned dignity under that 
 system. In every country it is thought worth while for 
 one to be the founder of his family ; and in Great Britain 
 no able man could do more for descendants, to whom he 
 is not sure of bequeathing his talents, than by handing 
 down a class-privilege, even though it confers no additional 
 glory upon the original winner. Extreme British demo- 
 crats, who openly or covertly wish to change the form 
 of government, and even communists, are aware that 
 Tennyson does not belong to their ranks. He has been a 
 liberal conservative, — liberal .n humanity and progressive 
 thought, strictly conservative in allegiance to the national 
 system. As for that, touch but the territory, imperil the 
 institutions of Great Britain, and Swinburne himself — 
 the pupil of Landor, Mazzini, and Hugo — betrays the 
 blood in his veins. Tennyson, a liberal of the Maurice 
 group, has been cleverly styled by Whitman a ' poet of 
 feudalism ; ' he is a celebrator of the past, of sovereignty 
 and knighthood ; he is no lost leader, * just for a ribbon ' 
 leaving some gallant cause forsworn or any song unsung. 
 In all fairness, his acceptance of rank savours less of in- 
 consistency than does the logic of those who rail at the 
 world for neglect of genius, and then upbraid them both 
 for coming to an understanding. 
 
 In the latter part of 1884 the poet published 
 ' Becket,' the longest of his dramas, completing ' the 
 historic trilogy.' In the dedication to the Earl of Sel-
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON: 1 05 
 
 borne, the author states that the play is * not intended 
 in its present form to meet the exigencies of our 
 modem theatre,' and no attempt has been made to 
 put it on the stage.'' Like its predecessors in the 
 historical series, it is a drama for the reader and the 
 student rather than the actor and the play-goer. Mr. 
 J. R. Green, the historian, says that ' all his re- 
 searches into the annals of the twelfth century had 
 not given him so vivid a conception of the character 
 of Henry II. and his court as was embodied in 
 Tennyson's " Becket ; " ' and Rev. Dr. Van Dyke re- 
 marks that, 'backed by an authority like this, it is 
 not too daring to predict that the day is coming when 
 the study of Shakespeare's historical plays will be 
 reckoned no more important to an understanding of 
 English history than the study of Tennyson's Trilogy.' 
 
 Other noteworthy events in the biographical rec- 
 ord for 1884 were the Laureate's election to the presi- 
 dency of the Incorporated Society of Authors, and 
 the marriage of his eldest son Hallam. 
 
 In 1885 ' Tiresias and Other Poems ' was published, 
 — a volume as remarkable in some respects as the 
 
 * Ballads ' of five years before. * The Wreck ' and 
 
 * Despair ' were full of power ; and ' To-morrow ' and 
 
 'The Spinster's Sweet- 'arts ' were no\vise inferior to 
 
 ^ Since this was written, * Becket,' somewhat condensed and 
 modified for presentation on the stage, has been brought out 
 by Mr. Irving at the Lyceum Theatre in London and also in 
 this country. See note on page 322 below.
 
 io6 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 the earlier poems in dialect. * Balin and Balan,' as al- 
 ready stated, concluded the series of Arthurian Idylls. 
 The dedication of the volume was as follows : — 
 
 I 
 
 TO MY GOOD FRIEND 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 WHOSE GENIUS AND GENIALITY 
 
 WILL BEST APPRECIATE WHAT MAY BE BEST 
 
 AND MAKE MOST ALLOWANCE FOR WHAT MAY BE WORST 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 IS 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 
 
 During the same year, * The Fleet ' was contributed 
 to the 'Times' (April 23), 'To H. R. H. Princess 
 Beatrice ' to the same journal (July 23), and ' Vastness ' 
 to ' Macmillan's Magazine ' for November. 
 
 In 1886 'Locksley Hall, Sixty Years After,' ap- 
 peared, — forty-four years after the first ' Locksley 
 Hall ' electrified the literary world. Naturally the 
 later poem was compared with the earlier, and by 
 many critics was pronounced the inferior of the two. 
 They not only did no justice to it, but, as Mr. R. H. 
 Hutton intimated in his masterly review in the ' Spec- 
 tator ' (December 18), it seemed doubtful whether 
 they had carefully read it. He adds : — 
 
 We venture to say that it is at least as fine a picture of 
 age reviewing the phenomena of life, and reviewing them 
 with an insight impossible to youth into all that threatens 
 man with defeat and degradation, though of course without
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 107 
 
 any of that irrepressible elasticity of feeling which shows 
 even by the very wildness and tumult of its despair that 
 despair is, for it, ultimately impossible, as Tennyson's 
 earlier poem was of youth passionately resenting the 
 failure of its first bright hope, and yet utterly unable to 
 repress the ' promise and potency ' of its buoyant vitality. 
 The difference between the ' Locksley Hall ' of Tennyson's 
 early poems and the ' Locksley Hall ' of his latest is this, 
 — that in the former all the melancholy is attributed to 
 personal grief, while all the sanguine visionariness which 
 really springs out of overflowing vitality justifies itself by 
 dwelling on the cumulative resources of science and the 
 arts; in the latter, the melancholy in the man, a result 
 of ebbing vitality, justifies itself by the failure of knowl- 
 edge and science to cope with the moral horrors which 
 experience has brought to light, while the set-off against 
 that melancholy is to be found in a real personal experi- 
 ence of true nobility in man and woman. Hence those 
 who call the new ' Locksley Hall ' pessimist seem to us 
 to do injustice to that fine poem. No one can expect age 
 to be full of the irrepressible buoyancy of youth. Now 
 Tennyson's poem shows us these happier aspects of age, 
 though it shows us also that exaggerated despondency in 
 counting up the moral evils of life which is one of the 
 consequences of dwindling vitality. Nothing could well 
 be finer than Tennyson's picture of the despair which his 
 hero would feel if he had nothing but ' evolution ' to depend 
 on, or than the rebuke which the speaker himself gives to 
 that despondency when he remembers how much more 
 than evolution there is to depend on, — how surely that 
 has been already ' evolved ' in the heart of man which, 
 itself inexplicable, yet promises an evolution far richer 
 and more boundless than is suggested by any physical 
 law. The final upshot of the swaying tides of progress 
 and retrogression, in their periodic advance and retreat, is,
 
 lo8 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 he tells us, quite incalculable by us, the complexity of the 
 forward and backward movements of the wave being 
 beyond our grasp ; and yet he is sure that there is that 
 in us which supplies an ultimate solution of the riddle. 
 ... On the whole, we have here the natural pessimism 
 of age in all its melancholy, alternating with that highest 
 mood like ' old experience,' which, in Milton's phrase, 
 ' doth attain to something like prophetic strain.' The 
 various eddies caused by these positive and negative 
 currents seem to us delineated with at least as firm a 
 hand as that which painted the tumultuous ebb and flow 
 of angry despair and angrier hope in the bosom of the 
 deceived and resentful lover of sixty years since. The 
 later ' Locksley Hall ' is in the highest sense worthy of 
 its predecessor. 
 
 And so, it seems to me, it must appear to every one 
 who reads it aright. 
 
 In 1887 Mr. Hallam Tennyson published 'Jack 
 and the Bean-Stalk,' a version of the familiar old 
 child's tale in mock-heroic hexameters which are 
 particularly good examples of that classic measure in 
 English. I happen to know that Lord Tennyson 
 regarded them as quite faultless in their way. The 
 illustrations of the book are from unfinished sketches 
 by Randolph Caldecott. 
 
 On the 20th of April in the same year (1886), 
 the poet's younger son, Lionel, died on the voyage 
 home from India. Reference has already been made 
 (page 65) to the monument erected to his memory in 
 Freshwater church. A tribute more enduring than 
 brass or marble, and more beautiful than sculptor
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 109 
 
 could carve, is built in lofty and tender rhyme in his 
 father's lines addressed to the Marquis of Dufferin 
 and Ava, which are the dedication of * Demeter and 
 Other Poems,' published in 1889. 
 
 The appearance of that volume is the next note- 
 worthy event in the biography of the Laureate. It is 
 said that twenty thousand copies were sold within a 
 week after it came out. As the work of an octogena- 
 rian it was every way remarkable. A writer in the 
 * Critic ' (New York) well says of it : — 
 
 The Laureate has been spared the touch of senility 
 which so often comes to the poets who survive to write at 
 the age of fourscore ; there is no indication or hint of any 
 loss of mental vigour, no sign of weariness of the world, 
 and no token of physical infirmity : on the contrary, the 
 poems in this volume are full of strength ; and the glow 
 of beauty, the breadth of vision, and the rare inspiration 
 which have always been conspicuously characteristic feat- 
 ures of his work, are here to be found undiminished. 
 We should have to go back many years — and many vol- 
 umes — to find one of Tennyson's books that is in all re- 
 spects so satisfactory and enjoyable : from the first poem 
 to the last there is an evenness of excellence in the work- 
 manship, a clearness of expression, and above all a high- 
 heartedness and content which are emblematic of a happy, 
 peaceful, and thoughtful life, — a hf e which enables the 
 poet to look forward with these words, — 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark ! 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell 
 
 \Vhen I embark :
 
 no THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 
 When I have crost the bar. 
 
 Several of the poems are written to personal friends, 
 and one of the longest as well as most delightful — ' The 
 Ring' — is inscribed to Mr. Lowell. The poem which 
 gives its title to the book is addressed to Professor Jebb, 
 the eminent Greek scholar, of whom the poet writes : — 
 
 Fair things are slow to fade away, 
 Bear witness you, that yesterday 
 
 From out the Ghost of Pindar in you 
 Roll'd an Olympian. . . . 
 
 In ' Demeter and Persephone ' one renews the old-time 
 pleasure found in ' CEnone and Ulysses,' — blank verse 
 musical and everywhere beautiful such as only Tennyson 
 has written. . . . The two poems which have for us the 
 greatest charm are ' Merlin and the Gleam ' and ' The 
 Progress of Spring.' In its manner the latter reminds 
 one of the exquisitely wrought odes of Keats. 
 
 Dr. Van Dyke regards ' Merlin and the Gleam ' 
 as 'the most important, and in some respects the 
 most beautiful,' of Tennyson's art-poems, — a group 
 remarkable ' for the light which they throw upon his 
 artistic principles and tastes.' He adds : — 
 
 The wonder is that none of the critics seem to have 
 recognised it for what it really is, — the poet's own de- 
 scription of his life-work, and his clear confession of faith 
 as an idealist.
 
 OF LORD TEJSINYSON. m 
 
 The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 
 
 this is the 'Gleam' that Tennyson has followed. It 
 glanced first on the world of fancy with its melodies and 
 pictures, dancing fairies and falling torrents. Then it 
 touched the world of humanity ; and the stories of man's 
 toil and conflict, the faces of human love and heroism, 
 were revealed. Then it illuminated the world of imagina- 
 tion ; and the great epic of Arthur was disclosed to the 
 poet's vision in its spiritual meaning, the crowning of the 
 blameless king. Then it passed through the valley of 
 the shadow of death, and clothed it with light : — 
 
 And broader and brighter 
 
 The Gleam flying onward, 
 
 Wed to the melody, 
 
 Sang thro' the world ; 
 
 And slower and fainter, 
 
 Old and weary. 
 
 But eager to follow, 
 
 I saw, whenever 
 
 In passing it glanced upon 
 
 Hamlet or city. 
 
 That under the Crosses 
 
 The dead men's garden, 
 
 The mortal hillock 
 
 Would break into blossom ; 
 
 And so to the land's 
 
 Last limit I came — 
 
 And can no longer. 
 
 But die rejoicing. 
 
 For thro' the Magic 
 
 Of Him the Mighty, 
 
 Who taught me in childhood, 
 
 There on the border 
 
 Of boundless Ocean,
 
 112 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 And all but in Heaven 
 Hovers The Gleam. 
 
 Not of the sunlight, 
 Not of the moonlight, 
 ^ Not of the starlight ! 
 
 O young Mariner, 
 Down to the haven, 
 Call your companions. 
 Launch your vessel, 
 And crowd your canvas. 
 And, ere it vanishes 
 Over the margin. 
 After it, follow it. 
 Follow ' The Gleam.* 
 
 That is the confession of a poet's faith in the Ideal. It 
 is the cry of a prophet to the younger singers of a faithless 
 and irresolute generation. 
 
 If * Crossing the Bar,' which formed the epilogue to 
 this volume, had proved, as some of us feared it might 
 be, the ' Swan Song ' of the venerable poet, it could 
 not have been sweeter or nobler. In the words of 
 the critic whom I have just quoted, it is ' perfect poetry, 
 — simple even to the verge of austerity, yet rich with 
 the suggestions of wide ocean and waning light and 
 vesper bells ; easy to understand and full of music, 
 yet opening inward to a truth which has no words, 
 and pointing onward to a vision which transcends all 
 forms ; it is a delight and a consolation, a song for 
 mortal ears, and a prelude to the larger music of 
 immortality.' 
 
 The Laureate's eightieth birthday, Aug. 6, 1889,
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 1 13 
 
 called forth many apt tributes both in prose and verse. 
 From the latter I may quote here Mr. Theodore Watts's 
 sonnet in the 'Athenaeum' of August 10 : — 
 
 THE EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Another birthday breaks ; he is with us still. 
 There, thro' the branches of the glittering trees, 
 The birthday sun gilds grass and flower ; the breeze 
 Sends forth, methinks, a thrill, — a conscious thrill 
 That tells yon meadows by the steaming rill — 
 Where, o'er the clover waiting for the bees, 
 The mist shines round the cattle to their knees — 
 Another birthday breaks ; he is with us still. 
 For Nature loves him, — loves our Tennyson : 
 I think of heathery Aldworth, rich and rife 
 With greetings of a world his song hath won ; 
 I see him there with loving son and wife, 
 His fourscore years a golden orb of life : 
 My proud heart swells to think what he hath done. 
 
 August 6, at sunrise. 
 
 Rev. H. D. Rawnsley sent the following sonnet to 
 ' Macmillan's Magazine ' for September, 1889 : — 
 
 TO LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 The fourscore years that blanch the heads of men 
 Touch not immortals, and we bring to-day 
 No flowers to twine with laurel and with bay, 
 Seeing the spring is with thee now, as when 
 Above the wold and marsh and mellowing fen 
 Thy song bade England listen. Powers decay, 
 Hands fail, eyes dim, tongues scarce their will can say, 
 VOL. I. — 8
 
 114 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 But still Heaven's fire burns bright within thy pen. 
 
 O singer of the knightly days of old ! 
 
 O ringer of the knell to lust and hate ! 
 
 O bringer of new hope from memory's shrine ! 
 
 When God hath set in Heaven thy harp of gold, 
 
 The souls that made this generation great 
 
 Shall own the voice that help'd their hearts was thine. 
 
 In 1890 a portrait of the Laureate, in his robes as 
 D. C. L,, by Mr. G. F. Watts, was given to Trinity 
 College, Cambridge. 
 
 The following stanzas are from a poem by Mr. 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich, which appeared in the 'At- 
 lantic Monthly' for March, 1890: — 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 Shakespeare and Milton — what third blazon'd name 
 
 Shall lips of after ages link to these ? 
 
 His who, beside the wide-encircling seas, 
 Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim, 
 For threescore years ; whose word of praise was fame, 
 
 Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities. 
 
 What strain was his in that Crimean war? 
 A bugle-call in battle; a low breath. 
 Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death ! 
 So year by year the music roll'd afar, 
 From Euxine waves to flowery Kandahar, 
 Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath. 
 
 Others shall have their little space of time, 
 Their proper niche and bust, then fade away 
 Into the darkness, poets of a day;
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 115 
 
 But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme, 
 Thou shalt not pass ! Thy fame in every clime 
 On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway. 
 
 In 1 89 1 the poet published nothing except ' A Song,' 
 contributed to the ' New Review ' for March. It was 
 generally known in the latter part of the year that he 
 was finishing another play on which he had been en- 
 gaged for some time ; and early in 1892 this was pro- 
 duced in New York by Mr. Augustin Daly, and soon 
 afterwards published under the title of ' The Forest- 
 ers, Robin Hood and Maid Marian.' 
 
 Its success on the stage in New York, and later in 
 Boston, was of no doubtful character \ and the verdict 
 of our best dramatic critics was decidedly in its favour. 
 Mr. William Winter, in the New York * Tribune,' re- 
 ferred to it as follows : — 
 
 The realm into which this play allures its auditor is the 
 realm of ' Ivanhoe,' — the far-off, romantic region of 
 Sherwood Forest, in the ancient days of stout King 
 Richard the First. It is not the England of the mine and 
 the workshop that he represents, and neither is it the 
 England of the trim villa and the formal landscape ; it is 
 the England of the feudal times, — of gray castle towers 
 and armoured knights, and fat priests and wandering min- 
 strels, and crusades and tournaments. To enter into that 
 realm is to leave the barren world of prose ; to feel again 
 the cool, sweet winds of summer upon the brow of youth ; 
 to catch, in fitful glimpses, the shimmer of the Lincoln 
 green in the sunlit, golden glades of the forest, and to 
 hear the merry note of the huntsman commingled, far 
 away, with 'horns of Elfland faintly blowing.'
 
 Il6 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 For once the public is favoured with a serious poetical 
 play, which aims simply to diffuse happiness by arousing 
 sympathy with pleasurable scenes and picturesque persons, 
 with virtue that is piquant and humour that is refined. 
 The play is pastoral comedy, written partly in blank verse 
 and partly in prose, and cast almost wholly out of doors, 
 — in the open air and under the greenwood tree, — and, in 
 order to stamp its character beyond doubt or question, 
 one scene of it is frankly devoted to a convocation of 
 fairies around Titania, their queen. 
 
 ' Robin Hood ' as a technical drama is frail. Its 
 movement, indeed, is not more indolent than that of its 
 lovely prototypes in Shakespeare, — ' As You Like It ' and 
 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.' With all the pastorals 
 Time ambles. But, on the other hand, Tennyson's piece 
 is not a match for either of those Shakespearian works, in 
 massiveness of dramatic signification or in the element of 
 opportunity for the art of acting. Its charm resides more 
 in being than in doing, and therefore it is more a poem 
 than a play, and perhaps more a picture than a poem. It 
 is not one of those works that arouse, agitate, and impel. 
 It aims only to create and sustain a pleased condition ; and 
 that aim it has accomplished. No spectator will be deeply 
 moved by it, but no spectator will look at it without delight. 
 While, however, ' Robin Hood ' as a drama is frail, it is 
 by no means destitute of the dramatic element. It depicts 
 a central character in action, and it tells a representative 
 love-story, — a story in which the oppressive persecutor of 
 impoverished age is foiled and discomfited, in which faith- 
 ful affection survives the test of trial, and in which days 
 of danger end at last in days of bHssful peace. . . . 
 
 The characters were creatures of flesh and blood to the 
 author, and they come out boldly; therefore Marian Lea 
 is a woman of the Rosalind order, — handsome, noble, 
 magnanimous, unconventional, passionate in nature, but
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 117 
 
 sufficient unto herself, humorous, playful, and radiant 
 with animal spirits. The chief exaction of the part is 
 simplicity, which yet must not be allowed to degenerate 
 into tameness. The sweet affection of a daughter for her 
 father, the coyness yet the allurement of a girl for her 
 lover, the refinement of high birth, the lithe bearing and 
 free demeanour of a child of the woods, and the pre- 
 dominant dignity of purity and honour, — these are the 
 salient attributes of the part. The success of the comedy 
 is largely dependent upon the enchantment that is dif- 
 fused by Marian; yet the burden of the acting is laid 
 upon Robin. The character is a crystal of manliness, 
 chivalry, and sentiment. Robin is brave, bluff, impetuous, 
 humorous, ardent in his feelings, yet not inapt to muse 
 and moralise, devoted to liberty, humane, affectionate, a 
 faithful friend and a fearless foe. 
 
 In a kindred vein the ' Athenaeum ' aptly calls ' The 
 Foresters ' a ' picture-play,' — that is, ' one in which 
 the characters themselves, although sufficiently deline- 
 ated to become individualised, are really part of the 
 scene, and could hardly exist, and could hardly have 
 a right of existence, apart from the scene.' If we do 
 not recognise the fact that * The Foresters ' is a work 
 of this special kind, we are liable to misjudge it. 
 ' While in other forms of poetic art the scene 
 wherein takes place the movement, lyric or dramatic, 
 must never be so obtruded as to take more than a 
 subordinate place, — must not, howsoever beautiful 
 and new, distract our attention from the movement of 
 the human passion, — in scenic poetr)', on the con- 
 trary, the scene, " clothed," as the feudal writers would
 
 Il8 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 say, with the " people," is of equal importance with the 
 movement of the story.' The critic goes on to say : 
 
 In every play a story there must, of course, be, or the 
 materials would not cohere. But if the plot is too com- 
 plex or too absorbing, if the incidents are too striking, if 
 the characters in their loves and hates are too intense, 
 then is seen that mingling of one kind of art with another 
 which is at the root of almost every kind of artistic 
 failure. . . . 
 
 That the plot of ' The Foresters ' is purposely made 
 slight, that the intensity of the interest and of the passion 
 is purposely kept down in order that a true picture-play 
 may be produced, is made manifest by the way in which 
 the materials are laid out and manipulated by the drama- 
 tist. Certain of Lord Tennyson's poems — especially the 
 late ones, such as ' Rizpah ' and ' Happy,' where the power 
 of touching, and even of violently disturbing, the soul is 
 carried to the very limit permissible to art — show how 
 strong is his hand for the strongest effects, when he con- 
 siders that such effects are in harmony with the kind of 
 poetic art in which he is at the moment working ; and yet 
 in the play before us he seems to take trouble to avoid 
 strong effects. Take the very framework of the story, 
 which is original. Marian's father, Sir Richard Lea, 
 owes the Abbot of St. Mary two thousand marks — 
 borrowed to ransom Walter Lea, Marian's brother, from 
 Paynim slavery. The abbot's brother, the Sheriff of Not- 
 tingham, a partisan of Prince John's, offers to pay this 
 debt and so save the estate from foreclosure, on condi- 
 tion that he may wed Marian, who is affianced to the Earl 
 of Huntington (Robin Hood). Now, the ransom having 
 already been paid, the efforts to obtain the mortgage 
 money are inspired simply by the desire to save the land. 
 Over and over again ' the land ' is the cry, not the
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 119 
 
 brother, not the son. A vis tnotrix of this kind is no 
 doubt sufficiently strong for a picture-play. But let us 
 suppose that the dramatist had set out to write a play in 
 which the movement was governed by the warring of deep 
 emotions and passions; nothing would then have been 
 easier than to make the quest of the two thousand marks 
 a real source of tragic interest in which Marian's love for 
 Robin Hood would be at struggle with her intense desire 
 to get that money in order to ransom her brother. 
 
 The horrors of Moorish slavery sat upon the mediaeval 
 imagination like a nightmare, and no wonder. History 
 has no darker chapter than that which records those hor- 
 rors. Many a follower of Richard who would have boldly 
 confronted death by torture would have paled at the idea 
 of the lifelong woe of Paynim slavery. If the two thou- 
 sand marks had been required, not to save the land, but 
 to save a beloved brother, a beloved son, from the slavery 
 in which he was known to be languishing, an intense in- 
 terest would have been lent to the quest of the two thou- 
 sand marks, and the warring of two deep emotions in the 
 soul of the heroine, so important not only in tragedy, but 
 also in tragi-comedy, would have been achieved. The 
 plot could most easily have been so cast as to acquire 
 that intense interest. A palmer, for instance, might have 
 come with a message from the son, a message full of 
 touching details of his anguish, — details of a sufficiently 
 painful kind to awaken that deep conflict in Marian's 
 breast between her love for Robin Hood and her love 
 and pity for her brother at which we have hinted. There 
 is no exaltation of passion, or even of frenzy, that the 
 dramatist might not have got out of such a complication. 
 And there are throughout the play many situations where 
 the storj' might have been intensified had what is called 
 ' sensation ' been the quest, — situations which might have 
 been legitimately used had the play been a tragedy or a
 
 I20 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 tragi-comedy. He whose dramatis persona are outlaws 
 (the chief of whom has to struggle for the possession of 
 his mistress) must indeed be poor in invention if he pauses 
 from want of strong situations. But in the ' picture-play ' 
 such a strong interest would have marred the unity of 
 the impression — the organic harmony of the picture 
 — as much as the introduction of an interest too absorb- 
 ing for a scenic tale mars the scenic organism of ' Adam 
 Bede.' 
 
 Early in the following October (1892) it was an- 
 nounced that Lord Tennyson was dangerously sick, 
 and at 1.35 a.m. on the 7th he passed peacefully 
 away. Sir Andrew Clark, who had remained by his 
 old friend and patient to the last, said afterwards to 
 a representative of the London press : ' Lord Tenny- 
 son has had a gloriously beautiful death. In all my 
 experience I have never witnessed anything more glo- 
 rious. There were no artificial lights in the chamber, 
 and all was in darkness save for the silvery light of 
 the moon at its full. The soft beams of light fell 
 upon the bed, and played upon the features of the 
 dying poet like a halo of Rembrandt.' 
 
 Dr. Dabbs, who was also in attendance, wrote 
 thus : — 
 
 Nothing could have been more striking than the scene 
 during the last few hours. On the bed a figure of breath- 
 ing marble, flooded and bathed in the light of the full 
 moon streaming through the oriel window ; his hand 
 clasping the Shakespeare which he had asked for but 
 recently, and which he had kept by him to the end ; the 
 
 I
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 121 
 
 moonlight ; the majestic figure as he lay there ' drawing 
 thicker breath,' — irresistibly brought to our minds his 
 own ' Passing of King Arthur.' His last conscious words 
 were words of love addressed to wife and son, — words 
 too sacred to be written here. 
 
 We learn from another source that when the 
 Shakespeare was handed to the dying poet in re- 
 sponse to his request, he •' with his own hands turned 
 the leaves till he had found " Cymbeline." His eyes 
 were fixed on the pages, but whether and how much 
 he read no one will ever know, for again he lay in 
 dream or slumber, or let his eyes rest on the scene 
 outside.' 
 
 On Wednesday, October 12, the poet was buried 
 in the ' Poets' Corner ' of Westminster Abbey. The 
 London ' Times ' of the next day begins its detailed 
 account of the services as follows : — 
 
 All that was mortal of the late Poet-Laureate has been 
 laid to rest with all honour and simplicity side by side with 
 the dust of Chaucer, Spenser, Jonson, Dryden, Cowley, 
 and Browning. Of the immortal memory which surely 
 belongs to his poetry, instinct with strength, purity, grace, 
 and music, this is not the place to speak. Yet the solemn 
 ceremony in Westminster Abbey yesterday forms the 
 strongest possible testimony of the national belief that the 
 late Lord Tennyson is distinctly and emphatically one of 
 the immortals. Inside the Abbey and without the same 
 testimony was given in different ways. Within the walls 
 the privileged seats were filled by an assemblage emi- 
 nently representative of the whole English-speaking race. 
 The Sovereign and the leading members of the Royal
 
 122 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Family had their official representatives present and sent 
 their tributes of affection and regret ; the two Archbishops 
 were the embodiment of the Church of England. States- 
 men of either party stood in common sorrow at the grave- 
 side ; medicine, the law, art, the drama, poetry, literature, 
 science, and even the crude socialism of the day were rep- 
 resented by leading men, who shared in one deep feeling 
 of general loss. For the time, doubtless, all of them felt, 
 as they stood in mournful silence, as Tennyson felt when 
 he wrote of the Duke of Wellington, — 
 
 The last great Englishman is low. 
 
 And their feeling was clearly shared by the seething 9 
 
 crowd of men and women without, waiting for the Abbey 
 doors to be opened, in the hope, not indeed of catching a 
 passing glimpse of the ceremonial, but of hearing the 
 music of the organ and the singing of the choir or of 
 catching in the distance the solemn sentences of the ser- 
 vice. Not less impressive was the throng of those who, 
 despairing of obtaining even standing-room in the Abbey 
 during the time while the service of burial proceeded, 
 waited in patience without, and then, when all was over, 
 poured in an uninterrupted stream through the doors to 
 take one last look at the grave, and perhaps to lay near it 
 some humble tribute of affection. In brief, the occasion 
 was altogether unique in its grandeur and its simplicity ; 
 and the day was one deserving to be recorded, not merely 
 by reason of its present and pathetic interest, but also as 
 a piece of English history. 
 
 The two anthems sung at the funeral service were 
 settings of words by the dead Laureate : the first be- 
 ing the beautiful 'Crossing the Bar,' set simply and 
 impressively by Professor Bridge, the Abbey organist,
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 123 
 
 *in C major for four-part choir without accompani- 
 ment ; ' and the second, Lady Tennyson's musical 
 rendering of ' The Silent Voices,' a ' gentle and ex- 
 pressive melody in F minor very effectively harmo- 
 nised for four voices with organ accompaniment by 
 Professor Bridge.' 
 
 Then [to quote again from the 'Times'] came the last 
 scene at the grave-side. The clergy and the mourners 
 and the coffin, with the pall-bearers, advanced, to the 
 strains of Chopin's ' Marche Funebre,' and here for the 
 first time the Dean took part in the service, reading the 
 committal to the grave and the prayer and collect. Close 
 by the Dean and on his right hand were the Masters of 
 Trinity College and of Balliol, of whom the last-named 
 lingered long by the grave. Close to them was a little 
 boy, a grandson of Lord Tennyson. Behind the little boy 
 were Mr. and Mrs. Augustine Birrell. At the far end from 
 the Dean were the Hon. Mr. and Mrs. Hallam Tennyson, 
 the former upright and calm, the latter with her head 
 bowed and closely veiled. Immediately behind them was 
 Mr. Irving, and not far back in the throng of mourners, 
 Mr. Lewis Morris. Behind the principal mourners, again, 
 was the Speaker of the House of Commons. Lord Salis- 
 bury kept his original place in relation to the coffin. Soon 
 all was over, and it was almost a relief to hear the choir 
 singing in triumphant harmony Heber's hymn ' Holy, 
 Holy, Holy ' (' Nicaea '), which Lord Tennyson chose for 
 his son's wedding and considered to be the most beauti- 
 ful of hymns. Then, after the blessing had been said by 
 the Dean, one mourner after another gazed long at the 
 open grave, and left the Abbey amidst the silent crowd, 
 while the ' Dead March ' in ' Saul ' came floating from the 
 organ.
 
 124 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 Surely we may say, as another has said, that 
 * Tennyson's burial was of a piece with his life, which 
 was full of dignity and of calm and of an unbroken 
 steadfastness. Had any verse but his own been sung 
 over him, it could but have been the unequalled, Ely- 
 sian lines of Virgil, telling how among the odorous 
 laurels, and among " fields invested with purpureal 
 gleams," chanting together by the waters, and crowned 
 with snowy wreaths, are warriors and priests, and all 
 who deserve well of mankind : — 
 
 Quique pii vates, et Phoebe digna locuti.' 
 
 The grave of the Laureate is in the aisle of the 
 South Transept ('Poets' Corner'), near the entrance 
 to the Royal Chapels. Next to it is the grave of 
 Browning, with its white stone slab inscribed * Robert 
 Browning, 1889,' and close by is the Dryden memo- 
 rial. On the other side is the slab which bears record 
 that 'near this stone are buried Geoffrey Chaucer, 
 1400 j Francis Beaumont, 1616; Sir John Denham, 
 1669; Sir Robert Moray, first President of the Royal 
 Society, 1673; John Dryden, 1700.' Immediately 
 above the spot is the beautiful Chaucer window, over 
 the tomb of the poet, the incidents in the ' Canterbury 
 Pilgrimage ' being reproduced in the stained glass 
 through which the chastened light falls on the monu- 
 ments below. The busts of Longfellow and Milton 
 are in the same corner, with the memorials of Thomas 
 Gray, Ben Jonson, and Samuel Butler.
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON, 
 
 125 
 
 It was generally known before the death of Lord 
 Tennyson that he had another volume of verse in the 
 printer's hands ; and this was published, a few weeks 
 later, with the title, ' The Death of CEnone, Akbar's 
 Dream, and Other Poems.' Mr. Lionel Johnson, in 
 the London 'Academy' for Nov. 5, 1892, well says 
 of it : — 
 
 Like Browning's 'Asolando,' Tennyson's posthumous 
 volume is full of fine things, not unworthy of his prime : 
 all varieties of Tennysonian thought and music are to be 
 found in this little book of twenty-four poems. ' The 
 Death of CEnone,' ' St. Telemachus,' and ' Akbar's 
 Dream' are narrative or meditative poems in blank 
 verse ; ' The Bandit's Death ' and ' Charity ' are rhymed 
 dramatic idyls ; ' The Churchwarden and the Curate ' is a 
 dramatic study of Lincolnshire humours in the Lincoln- 
 shire dialect ; ' Kapiolani ' is a piece of savage heroism 
 chanted in unrhymed rhythm. There are five occasional 
 poems, three of them dedicatory, one patriotic, and one 
 memorial ; there are some eight poems of what may be 
 termed cosmic emotion and spiritual speculation, mostly 
 written in long and sonorous measures ; three simple 
 lyrics ; and one sonnet. 
 
 It is very noticeable that Tennyson's later verse has 
 renounced much of that rich intricacy of workmanship 
 which used to distinguish it : the emble?na verviiculatu7n, 
 in Lucilius's phrase, — intricate mosaic-work in words, — 
 which was at once the poet's glory and his peril, ceased 
 to fascinate him. Like his own 'laborious orient ivory, 
 sphere in sphere,' so his verse was a mar\'el of dexterous, 
 cunning craft ; but it is no new reproach or heresy to dare 
 to say that the work was sometimes over-delicate or gor- 
 geous. His later verse was more direct in its beauty.
 
 126 THE LIFE AND WORKS 
 
 more classical and severe ; it became more Virgilian, less 
 Statian; less opulent, more austere. It relied more and 
 more upon the powers of rhythm, and less upon the 
 charms of rhyme ; and while something of the old 
 peculiar magic was lost, we were compensated by the 
 greater simplicity and strength. No one doubts that the 
 'Lotos-Eaters,' ' Ulysses,' and many more of the poems 
 which we have known for years, including some score of 
 lyrics, will be held his greatest work ; but in my judg- 
 ment the books of his old age contain poems finer than 
 any but the very finest works of his middle age and 
 youth. . . . 
 
 There is much beauty and power in the book. . . . 
 Even so shght a thing as 'The Journey' contains the 
 perfect line, ' Ralph went down like a fire to the fight ; ' 
 and 'The Silent Voices' are still echoing in our ears, 
 while ' The Making of Man,' ' Faith,' and ' God and the 
 Universe ' are triumphs of rhythm and of prophetic fire, of 
 Delphic majesty and vision. But it is of little avail to 
 spend words upon these things just now. Under the 
 shadow of death not even the criticism of a master would 
 be of much value. 
 
 Year will graze the heel of year, 
 But seldom comes the poet here, 
 And the Critic's rarer still ! 
 
 In closing this imperfect sketch of the life and 
 literary career of Tennyson, let me say that he seems 
 to me one of the most fortunate of poets : fortunate 
 in his birth and the surroundings and influences of 
 his boyhood ; fortunate in his university teachers and 
 friends, to whom he alludes so eloquently in 'The 
 Two Voices ; ' fortunate in the experiences, though
 
 OF LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 127 
 
 the chief of these was the loss of his dearest friend, 
 that led to the silence of ten years, during which his 
 genius was maturing without the necessity of his earn- 
 ing his bread with the pen, as many poets have been 
 compelled to do ; fortunate in later years in knowing 
 no more of poverty (if poverty it could be called) 
 than might suffice to give a zest to the prosperity and 
 renown that followed ; fortunate in his marriage and 
 in his whole domestic life ; fortunate in his old age, 
 blest as it was with all that should accompany old age, 
 * honour, love, and troops of friends ; ' fortunate even 
 in his death, which was heralded by no impairment of 
 his powers and attended with no prolonged sickness 
 and suffering ; and fortunate in the place that pos- 
 terity will accord him in the royal succession of the 
 great English poets. 
 
 W. J. R.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 VOL. I. — 9
 
 I 
 I
 
 yictoria. 
 Mezzotint by G. W. H. Ritchie.
 
 I
 
 i
 
 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Revered, beloved — O you that hold 
 
 A nobler office upon earth 
 
 Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
 Could give the warrior kings of old, 
 
 Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
 To one of less desert allows 
 This laurel greener from the brows 
 
 Of him that utter d nothing base ; 
 
 And should your greatness, and the care 
 That yokes with empire, yield you time 
 To make demand of modern rhyme 
 
 If aught of ancient worth be there ; 
 
 Then — while a sweeter music wakes. 
 And thro wild March the throstle calls. 
 Where all about your palace-walls 
 
 The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes —
 
 132 TO THE QUEEN. 
 
 Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
 For thd' the faults were thick as dust 
 In vacant chambers, I could trust 
 
 Your kifidtiess. May you rule us long, 
 
 And leave us rulers of your blood 
 As noble till the latest day ! 
 May children of our children say, 
 
 ' She wrought her people lasting good ; 
 
 ' Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
 
 God gave her peace ; her land reposed ; 
 
 A thousand claims to reveretice closed 
 In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 
 
 ^ And statesmen at her council met 
 Who knew the seasons when to take 
 Occasion by the hand, and 'make 
 
 The bo2inds of freedom wider yet 
 
 ' By shaping some august decree. 
 
 Which kept her throne unshaken still, 
 Broad-based upon her people' s will, 
 
 And compassed by the inviolate sea.' 
 
 March, 1851.
 
 JUVENILIA. 
 
 CLARIBEL. 
 
 A MELODY. 
 
 I. 
 
 Where Claribel low-lieth ^ 
 The breezes pause and die, "^ 
 Letting the rose-leaves fall : ^ 
 But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, ^ 
 Thick-leaved, ambrosial, v ^ 
 With an ancient melody <- 
 Of an inward agony, ^ 
 Where Claribel low-lieth. ^ 
 
 II. 
 
 At eve the beetle boometh 
 Athwart the thicket lone : 
 
 At noon the wild bee hummeth 
 About the moss'd headstone :
 
 134 
 
 CLARIBEL. 
 
 At midnight the moon cometh, 
 
 And looketh down alone. 
 Her song the lintwhite swelleth, 
 The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 
 
 The callow throstle lispeth, 
 The slumbrous wave outwelleth, 
 The babbling runnel crispeth, 
 The hollow grot replieth 
 Where Claribel low-lieth.
 
 NOTHING WILL DIE. 135 
 
 NOTHING WILL DIE. 
 
 When will the stream be aweary of flowing 
 
 Under my eye? 
 When will the wind be aweary of blowing 
 
 Over the sky? 
 When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? 
 When will the heart be aweary of beating? 
 
 And nature die? 
 Never, oh ! never, nothing will die ; 
 
 The stream flows, 
 
 The wind blows, 
 
 The cloud fleets, 
 
 The heart beats, 
 
 Nothing will die. 
 
 Nothing will die ; 
 All things will change 
 Thro* eternity. 
 'T is the world's winter ; 
 Autumn and summer
 
 136 NOTHING WILL DIE. 
 
 Are gone long ago ; 
 Earth is dry to the centre, 
 But spring, a new comer, 
 A spring rich and strange, 
 Shall make the winds blow 
 Round and round, 
 Thro' and thro', 
 
 Here and there, 
 
 Till the air 
 And the ground 
 Shall be fill'd with life anew. 
 
 The world was never made ; 
 
 It will change, but it will not fade. 
 
 So let the wind range ; 
 
 For even and morn 
 
 Ever will be 
 
 Thro' eternity. 
 Nothing was born ; 
 Nothing will die ; 
 All things will change. 
 
 (
 
 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 137 
 
 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 
 
 Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing 
 
 Under my eye ; 
 Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing 
 
 Over the sky. 
 One after another the white clouds are fleeting; 
 Every heart this May morning in joyance is 
 beating 
 
 Full merrily ; 
 Yet all things must die. 
 The stream will cease to flow; 
 The wind will cease to blow ; 
 The clouds will cease to fleet ; 
 The heart will cease to beat ; 
 For all things must die. 
 All things must die. 
 Spring will come never more. 
 
 Oh ! vanity ! 
 Death waits at the door.
 
 138 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 
 
 See ! our friends are all forsaking 
 
 The wine and the merrymaking. 
 
 We are call'd — we must go. 
 
 Laid low, very low, 
 
 In the dark we must lie. 
 
 The merry glees are still ; 
 
 The voice of the bird 
 
 Shall no more be heard, 
 
 Nor the wind on the hill. 
 
 Oh! misery! 
 Hark ! death is calling 
 While I speak to ye, 
 The jaw is falling, 
 The red cheek paling. 
 The strong limbs failing ; 
 Ice with the warm blood mixing; 
 The eyeballs fixing. 
 Nine times goes the passing bell : 
 Ye merry souls, farewell. 
 
 The old earth 
 
 Had a birth, 
 
 As all men know, 
 
 Long ago. 
 And the old earth must die.
 
 ALL THINGS WILL DIE. 139 
 
 So let the warm winds range, 
 
 And the blue wave beat the shore ; 
 
 For even and morn 
 
 Ye will never see 
 
 Thro' eternity. 
 
 All things were born. 
 
 Ye will come never more, 
 
 For all things must die.
 
 140 LEONINE ELEGIACS. 
 
 LEONINE ELEGIACS. 
 
 Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad 
 valley dimm'd in the gloaming: 
 
 Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far 
 river shines. 
 
 Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of 
 rose-blowing bushes, 
 
 Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. 
 
 Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grass- 
 hopper carolleth clearly; 
 
 Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet 
 halloos ; 
 
 Winds creep ; dews fall chilly : in her first sleep 
 earth breathes stilly : 
 
 Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur 
 and mourn. 
 
 Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmering water 
 outfloweth : 
 
 Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the 
 dark hyaline.
 
 LEONINE ELEGIACS. 141 
 
 Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two 
 
 peaks ; but the Naiad 
 Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in 
 
 her breast. 
 The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all 
 
 things bringeth, 
 Smoothing the wearied mind : bring me my love, 
 
 Rosalind. 
 Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not 
 
 morning or even. 
 False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet 
 
 RosaHnd?
 
 142 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS, 
 
 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS 
 
 OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. 
 
 God ! my God ! have mercy now. 
 
 1 faint, I fall. Men say that Thou 
 Didst die for me, for such as me, 
 Patient of ill, and death, and scorn. 
 And that my sin was as a thorn 
 Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, 
 Wounding Thy soul. — That even now, 
 In this extremest misery 
 
 Of ignorance, I should require 
 A sign ! and if a bolt of fire 
 Would rive the slumbrous summer noon 
 While I do pray to Thee alone, 
 Think my belief would stronger grow ! 
 Is not my human pride brought low? 
 The boastings of my spirit still? 
 The joy I had in my freewill
 
 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 143 
 
 All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? 
 And what is left to me, but Thou, 
 And faith in Thee? Men pass me by; 
 Christians with happy countenances — 
 And children all seem full of Thee ! 
 And women smile with saint-like glances 
 Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd 
 Above Thee, on that happy morn 
 When angels spake to men aloud. 
 And Thou and peace to earth were born. 
 Goodwill to me as well as all — 
 I one of them : my brothers they : 
 Brothers in Christ — a world of peace 
 And confidence, day after day ; 
 And trust and hope till things should cease, 
 And then one Heaven receive us all. 
 
 How sweet to have a common faith ! 
 
 To hold a common scorn of death ! 
 
 And at a burial to hear 
 
 The creaking cords which wound and eat 
 
 Into my human heart, whene'er 
 
 Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear. 
 
 With hopeful grief, were passing sweet !
 
 144 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 
 
 Thrice happy state again to be 
 The trustful infant on the knee ! 
 Who lets his rosy fingers play 
 About his mother's neck, and knows 
 Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. 
 They comfort him by night and day; 
 They light his little life alway ; 
 He hath no thought of coming woes; 
 He hath no care of life or death ; 
 Scarce outward signs of joy arise, 
 Because the Spirit of happiness 
 And perfect rest so inward is ; 
 And loveth so his innocent heart 
 Her temple and her place of birth, 
 Where she would ever wish to dwell. 
 Life of the fountain there, beneath 
 Its salient springs, and far apart, 
 Hating to wander out on earth. 
 Or breathe into the hollow air. 
 Whose chillness would make visible 
 Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, 
 Which, mixing with the infant's blood, 
 Fulfils him with beatitude. 
 Oh ! sure it is a special care
 
 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. HS 
 
 Of God, to fortify from doubt, 
 To arm in proof, and guard about 
 With triple-mailed trust, and clear 
 Delight, the infant's dawning year. 
 
 Would that my gloomed fancy were 
 
 As thine, my mother, when with brows 
 
 Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld 
 
 In thine, I Hsten'd to thy vows. 
 
 For me outpour'd in holiest prayer — 
 
 For me unworthy ! — and beheld 
 
 Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew 
 
 The beauty and repose of faith, 
 
 And the clear spirit shining thro'. 
 
 Oh ! wherefore do we grow awry 
 
 From roots which strike so deep ? why dare 
 
 Paths in the desert? Could not I 
 
 Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, 
 
 To the earth — until the ice would melt 
 
 Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? 
 
 What Devil had the heart to scathe 
 
 Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush the dew 
 
 From thine own lily, when thy grave 
 
 Was deep, my mother, in the clay? 
 
 VOL. I. — lO
 
 146 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 
 
 Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I 
 
 So little love for thee? But why 
 
 Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray 
 
 To one who heeds not, who can save 
 
 But will not? Great in faith, and strong 
 
 Against the grief of circumstance 
 
 Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if 
 
 Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive 
 
 Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, 
 
 Unpiloted i' the echoing dance 
 
 Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low 
 
 Unto the death, not sunk ! I know, 
 
 At matins and at evensong, 
 
 That thou, if thou wert yet alive. 
 
 In deep and daily prayers would'st strive 
 
 To reconcile me with thy God. 
 
 Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold 
 
 At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — 
 
 ' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, 
 
 My Lord, if so it be Thy will;' 
 
 Would'st tell me I must brook the rod 
 
 And chastisement of human pride; 
 
 That pride, the sin of devils, stood 
 
 Betwixt me and the light of God ;
 
 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. I47 
 
 That hitherto I had defied 
 
 And had rejected God ; that grace 
 
 Would drop from His o'er-brimming love, 
 
 As manna on my wilderness, 
 
 If I would pray ; that God would move 
 
 And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, 
 
 Sweet in their utmost bitterness, 
 
 Would issue tears of penitence 
 
 Which would keep green hope's life. Alas ! 
 
 I think that pride hath now no place 
 
 Nor sojourn in me. I am void. 
 
 Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. 
 
 Why not believe then? Why not yet 
 Anchor thy frailty there, where man 
 Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea 
 At midnight, when the crisp slope waves 
 After a tempest, rib and fret 
 The broad-imbased beach, why he 
 Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? 
 Wherefore his ridges are not curls 
 And ripples of an inland mere? 
 Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can 
 Draw down into his vexed pools
 
 148 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 
 
 All that blue heaven which hues and paves 
 The other? I am too forlorn, 
 Too shaken : my own weakness fools 
 My judgment, and my spirit whirls, 
 Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. 
 
 ' Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth, 
 
 The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, 
 
 When I went forth in quest of truth, 
 
 ' It is man's privilege to doubt, 
 
 If so be that from doubt at length 
 
 Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, 
 
 An image with profulgent brows, 
 
 And perfect limbs, as, from the storm 
 
 Of running fires and fluid range 
 
 Of lawless airs, at last stood out 
 
 This excellence and solid form 
 
 Of constant beauty. For the ox 
 
 Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills 
 
 The horned valleys all about, 
 
 And hollows of the fringed hills 
 
 In summer heats, with placid lows 
 
 Unfearing, till his own blood flows 
 
 About his hoof. And in the flocks
 
 SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 149 
 
 The lamb rejoiceth in the year, 
 
 And raceth freely with his fere, 
 
 And answers to his mother's calls 
 
 From the flower'd furrow. In a time, 
 
 Of which he wots not, run short pains 
 
 Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from whence 
 
 He knows not, on his light there falls 
 
 A shadow; and his native slope, 
 
 Where he was wont to leap and climb. 
 
 Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. 
 
 And something in the darkness draws 
 
 His forehead earthward, and he dies. 
 
 Shall man live thus, in joy and hope 
 
 As a young lamb, who cannot dream, 
 
 Living, but that he shall live on? 
 
 Shall we not look into the laws 
 
 Of life and death, and things that seem. 
 
 And things that be, and analyse 
 
 Our double nature, and compare 
 
 All creeds till we have found the one, 
 
 If one there be?' Ay me ! I fear 
 
 All may not doubt, but everyv/here 
 
 Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, 
 
 Whom call I Idol? Let Thy dove
 
 ISO SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS. 
 
 Shadow me over, and my sins 
 Be unremember'd, and Thy love 
 Enlighten me. Oh ! teach me yet 
 Somewhat before the heavy clod 
 Weighs on me, and the busy fret 
 Of that sharp-headed worm begins 
 In the gross blackness underneath. 
 
 O weary life ! O weary death ! 
 O spirit and heart made desolate ! 
 O damned vacillating state !
 
 THE KRAKEN. 151 
 
 THE KRAKEN. 
 
 Below the thunders of the upper deep, 
 
 Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea. 
 
 His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep 
 
 The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee 
 
 About his shadowy sides : above him swell 
 
 Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 
 
 And far away into the sickly light, 
 
 From many a wondrous grot and secret cell 
 
 Unnumber'd and enormous polypi 
 
 Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. 
 
 There hath he lain for ages and will lie 
 
 Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, 
 
 Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; 
 
 Then once by man and angels to be seen, 
 
 In roarincr he shall rise and on the surface die.
 
 152 SOA'G. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The winds, as at their hour of birth, 
 Leaning upon the ridged sea, 
 
 Breathed low around the rolling earth 
 With mellow preludes, ' We are free.' 
 
 The streams through many a lilied row 
 Down-carolling to the crisped sea. 
 
 Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow 
 
 Atween the blossoms, ' We are free.'
 
 LILIAN. 
 
 LILIAN. 
 
 153 
 
 I. 
 
 Airy, fairy Lilian, 
 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
 When I ask her if she love me. 
 Claps her tiny hands above me, 
 
 Laughing all she can ; 
 She '11 not tell me if she love me, 
 
 Cruel little Lilian. 
 
 II. 
 When my passion seeks 
 Pleasance in love-sighs. 
 She, looking thro' and thro' me 
 Thoroughly to undo me, 
 
 Smiling, never speaks : 
 So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
 From beneath her gathered wimple 
 Glancing with black-beaded eyes. 
 Till the lightning laughters dimple 
 
 The baby-roses in her cheeks ; 
 Then away she flies.
 
 1 54 LILIAiV. 
 
 m. 
 Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 
 
 Gaiety without eclipse 
 
 Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
 
 Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 
 
 When from crimson-threaded lips 
 Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
 Prythee weep, May Lilian. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Praying all I can, 
 If prayers will not hush thee. 
 
 Airy Lilian, 
 Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 
 
 Fairy Lilian.
 
 Airy, Fairy Lilian. 
 
 Lilian. 
 Photo-Etching from Painting by Maud Humphrey.
 
 ISABEL. 155 
 
 ISABEL. 
 
 I. 
 
 Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed 
 With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, 
 Clear, without heat, undying, tended by 
 
 Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane 
 
 Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread, 
 
 Madonna-wise on either side her head ; 
 
 Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign 
 The summer calm of golden charity, 
 
 Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, 
 Revered Isabel, the crown and head, 
 
 The stately flower of female fortitude. 
 Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.
 
 156 ISABEL. 
 
 II. 
 The intuitive decision of a bright 
 
 And thorough-edged intellect to part 
 Error from crime ; a prudence to withhold ; 
 The laws of marriage character'd in gold 
 
 Upon the blanched tablets of her heart ; 
 A love still burning upward, giving light 
 To read those laws ; an accent very low 
 In blandishment, but a most silver flow 
 
 Of subtle-paced counsel in distress. 
 Right to the heart and brain, tho' undescried, 
 
 Winning its way with extreme gentleness 
 Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; 
 A courage to endure and to obey ; 
 A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, 
 Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, 
 The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. 
 
 III. 
 The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon ; 
 A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, 
 Till in its onward current it absorbs 
 With swifter movement and in purer light 
 The vexed eddies of its wayward brother :
 
 ISABEL. 157 
 
 A leaning and upbearing parasite, 
 Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite 
 With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs 
 Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other — 
 Shadow forth thee : — the world hath not 
 another 
 (Tho' all her fairest forms are types of thee, 
 And thou of God in thy great charity) 
 Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity.
 
 IS8 MARIANA. 
 
 MARIANA. 
 
 * Mariana in the moated grange.' 
 
 Measure for Measure. 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots 
 Were thickly crusted, one and all : 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 
 That held the pear to the gable-wall. 
 The broken sheds look'd sad and strange : 
 Unlifted was the clinking latch ; 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 Upon the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
 
 He cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
 She could not look on the sweet heaven, 
 
 Either at morn or eventide.
 
 MARIANA. 159 
 
 After the flitting of the bats, 
 
 When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
 She drew her casement-curtain by, 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
 She only said, 'The night is dreary. 
 
 He Cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 Upon the middle of the night. 
 
 Waking she heard the night-fowl crow : 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
 
 From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 Came to her : without hope of change, 
 In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn. 
 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
 About the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said, ' The day is dreary, 
 
 He Cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 About a stone-cast from the wall 
 
 A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
 
 l6o MARIANA. 
 
 And o'er it many, round and small, 
 
 The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
 Hard by a poplar shook alway, 
 All silver-green with gnarled bark: 
 For leagues no other tree did mark 
 The level waste, the rounding gray. 
 She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
 
 He Cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 T would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 And ever when the moon was low, 
 
 And the shrill winds were up and away, 
 In the white curtain, to and fro, 
 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
 But when the moon was very low, 
 
 And wild winds bound within their cell. 
 The shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across her brow. 
 
 She only said, ' The night is dreary. 
 
 He cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, ' I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! '
 
 MARIANA. i6i 
 
 All day within the dreamy house, 
 
 The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
 The blue fly sung in the pane ; the mouse 
 
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, 
 Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
 Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, 
 Old footsteps trod the upper flioors, 
 Old voices call'd her from without. 
 She only said, ' My life is dreary, 
 
 He Cometh not,' she said ; 
 She said, * I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead ! ' 
 
 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 
 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 Which to the wooing wind aloof 
 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
 When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
 Athwart the chambers, and the day 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 Then, said she, ' I am very dreary. 
 
 He will not come,' she said; 
 She wept, * I am aweary, aweary, 
 O God, that I were dead ! ' 
 
 VOU. 1. — II
 
 1 62 TO 
 
 TO . 
 
 I. 
 Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, 
 Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atvvain 
 The knots that tangle human creeds. 
 The wounding cords that bind and strain 
 The heart until it bleeds, 
 Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn 
 
 Roof not a glance so keen as thine : 
 If aught of prophecy be mine, 
 Thou wilt not live in vain. 
 
 II. 
 
 Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ; 
 
 Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow : 
 
 Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now 
 With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. 
 Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords 
 
 Can do away that ancient lie; 
 
 A gentler death shall Falsehood die. 
 Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.
 
 TO . 163 
 
 III. 
 
 Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, 
 
 Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need. 
 
 Thy kingly intellect shall feed, 
 Until she be an athlete bold, 
 And weary with a finger's touch 
 
 Those writhed limbs of lightning speed ; 
 Like that strange angel which of old. 
 
 Until the breaking of the light, 
 Wrestled with wandering Israel, 
 
 Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, 
 And heaven's mazed signs stood still 
 In the dim tract of Penuel.
 
 1 64 MADELINE. 
 
 MADELINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, 
 No tranced summer calm is thine, 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, 
 Sudden glances, sweet and strange, 
 
 Delicious spites and darling angers, 
 And airy forms of flitting change. 
 
 II. 
 
 Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
 Thou art perfect in love-lore. 
 Revealings deep and clear are thine 
 Of wealthy smiles : but who may know 
 Whether smile or frown be fleeter? 
 Whether smile or frown be sweeter, 
 
 Who may know? 
 Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
 
 MADELIXE. 165 
 
 Light-glooming over eyes divine, 
 
 Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine. 
 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 
 Thy smile and frown are not aloof 
 
 From one another, 
 
 Each to each is dearest brother; 
 Hues of the silken sheeny woof 
 
 Momently shot into each other. 
 All the mystery is thine ; 
 
 Smiling, frowning, evermore, 
 
 Thou art perfect in love-lore, 
 Ever varying Madeline. 
 
 III. 
 
 A subtle, sudden flame. 
 
 By veering passion fann'd, 
 About thee breaks and dances : 
 
 When I would kiss thy hand. 
 The flush of anger'd shame 
 O'erflows thy calmer glances, 
 And o'er black brows drops down 
 A sudden-curved frown : 
 But when I turn away. 
 Thou, willing me to stay,
 
 1 66 MADELINE. 
 
 Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest ; 
 
 But, looking fixedly the while, 
 All my bounding heart entanglest 
 
 In a golden-netted smile ; 
 Then in madness and in bliss. 
 If my lips should dare to kiss 
 Thy taper fingers amorously, 
 Again thou blushest angerly; 
 And o'er black brows drops down 
 A sudden-curved frown.
 
 "When merry milkmaids click the latch." 
 
 The Owl 
 
 Photogravure from painting by E. H. Garrett.
 
 
 
 t 
 
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 e 
 
 iS-v' /« 
 
 ^ 
 
 ft. 
 
 •**
 
 SONG— THE OWL. 1 67 
 
 SONG — THE OWL. 
 
 I. 
 
 When cats run home and light is come, 
 
 And dew is cold upon the ground, 
 
 And the far-ofif stream is dumb, 
 
 And the whirring sail goes round, 
 
 And the whirring sail goes round ; 
 
 Alone and warming his five wits, 
 
 The white owl in the belfry sits. 
 
 n. 
 When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
 And rarely smells the new-mown hay. 
 And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
 Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
 Twice or thrice his roundelay; 
 Alone and warming his five wits, 
 The white owl in the belfry sits.
 
 1 68 SECOND SONG. 
 
 SECOND SONG. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 I. 
 
 Thy tuwhits are lull'd, I wot, 
 
 Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, 
 Which upon the dark afloat, 
 So took echo with delight, 
 So took echo with delight. 
 
 That her voice untuneful grown, 
 Wears all day a fainter tone. 
 
 II. 
 I would mock thy chaunt anew; 
 
 But I cannot mimick it; 
 Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, 
 Thee to woo to thy tuwhit. 
 Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, 
 With a lengthen'd loud halloo, 
 Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 1 69 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN 
 NIGHTS. 
 
 When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
 
 In the silken sail of infancy, 
 
 The tide of time flow'd back with me, 
 
 The forward-flowing tide of time ; 
 And many a sheeny summer-morn 
 Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
 By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold. 
 High-walled gardens green and old ; 
 True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Anight my shallop, rustling thro' 
 The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
 The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
 The citron-shadows in the blue : 
 By garden porches on the brim. 
 The costly doors flung open wide,
 
 1 70 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 
 
 Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim, 
 And broider'd sofas on each side : 
 In sooth it was a goodly time, 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard 
 The outlet, did I turn away 
 The boat-head down a broad canal 
 From the main river sluiced, where all 
 The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
 Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
 Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
 Adown to where the water slept. 
 A goodly place, a goodly time. 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 A motion from the river won 
 Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
 My shallop thro' the star-strown calm. 
 Until another night in night 
 I enter'd, from the clearer light, 
 Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, i 7 1 
 
 Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
 Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
 
 Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 
 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Still onward ; and the clear canal 
 Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
 From the green rivage many a fall 
 Of diamond rillets musical, 
 Thro' little crystal arches low 
 Down from the central fountain's flow 
 Fallen silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
 The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
 
 A goodly place, a goodly time, 
 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Above thro' many a bowery turn 
 A walk with vary-colour'd shells 
 Wander'd engrain'd. On either side 
 All round about the fragrant marge 
 From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
 In order, eastern flowers large,
 
 I 72 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 
 
 Some dropping low their crimson bells 
 Half-closed, and others studded wide 
 With disks and tiars, fed the time 
 With odour in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Far off, and where the lemon grove 
 In closest coverture upsprung. 
 The living airs of middle night 
 Died round the bulbul as he sung; 
 Not he : but something which possess'd 
 The darkness of the world, delight, 
 Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
 Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd, 
 
 Apart from place, withholding time, 
 
 But flattering the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Black the garden-bowers and grots 
 Slumber'd : the solemn palms were ranged 
 Above, unwoo'd of summer wind : 
 A sudden splendour from behind 
 Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
 And, flowing rapidly between
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF TILE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 173 
 
 Their interspaces, counterchanged 
 The level lake with diamond-plots 
 Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
 For it was in the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid, 
 
 Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
 Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
 Grew darker from that under-flame : 
 So, leaping lightly from the boat. 
 With silver anchor left afloat. 
 In marvel whence that glory came 
 Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
 In cool soft turf upon the bank, 
 
 Entranced with that place and time. 
 So worthy of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Thence thro' the garden I was drawn — 
 A realm of pleasance, many a mound. 
 And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn 
 Full of the city's stilly sound. 
 And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
 
 174 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 
 
 The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
 Thick rosaries of scented thorn. 
 Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
 Graven with emblems of the time, 
 In honour of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 With dazed vision unawares 
 From the long alley's latticed shade 
 Emerged, I came upon the great 
 Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
 Right to the carven cedarn doors. 
 Flung inward over spangled floors, 
 Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
 Ran up with golden balustrade. 
 After the fashion of the time. 
 And humour of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 The fourscore windows all alight 
 As with the quintessence of flame, 
 A million tapers flaring bright 
 From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
 The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
 
 " Ga^ed on the Persian girl alone.'' 
 
 Recollections of the Arabian Nights. 
 
 Etching from Painting by W. St. John Harper.
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, l 75 
 
 Upon the mooned domes aloof 
 In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
 Hundreds of crescents on the roof 
 
 Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
 
 To celebrate the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Then stole I up, and trancedly 
 
 Gazed on the Persian girl alone. 
 
 Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
 
 Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
 
 Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
 
 Tressed with redolent ebony, 
 
 In many a dark delicious curl, 
 
 Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone •, 
 The sweetest lady of the time. 
 Well worthy of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
 Six columns, three on either side. 
 Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
 Throne of the massive ore, from which 
 Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 
 Engarlanded and diaper'd
 
 I 76 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS, 
 
 With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
 
 Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 
 
 With merriment of kingly pride, 
 Sole star of all that place and time, 
 I saw him — in his golden prime, 
 The Good Haroun Alraschid.
 
 ODE TO MEMORY. 177 
 
 ODE TO MEMORY. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO . 
 
 I. 
 
 Thou who stealest fire, 
 From the fountains of the past, 
 To glorify the present, oh ! haste, 
 
 Visit my low desire ! 
 Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
 I faint in this obscurity, 
 Thou dewy dawn of memory. 
 
 II. 
 
 Come not as thou earnest of late, 
 
 Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
 
 On the white day ; but robed in soften'd light 
 
 Of orient state. 
 
 VVhilome thou camest with the morning mist, 
 
 Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
 
 The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd. 
 
 When she, as thou, 
 
 Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
 VOL. I. — 12
 
 178 ODE TO MEMORY. 
 
 Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
 Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
 Which in wintertide shall star 
 The black earth with brilliance rare. 
 
 III. 
 
 Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist, 
 
 And with the evening cloud, 
 
 Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open 
 
 breast 
 (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind 
 Never grow sere, 
 
 When rooted in the garden of the mind. 
 Because they are the earliest of the year). 
 Nor was the night thy shroud. 
 In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
 Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 
 The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
 The light of thy great presence ; and the cope 
 Of the half-attain'd futurity, 
 Tho' deep not fathomless, 
 
 Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
 O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 
 Small thought was there of life's distress;
 
 " Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope." 
 
 Ode to Memory. 
 
 Photo-Etching from Painting by Maud Humphrey.
 
 ODE TO MEMORY. 1 79 
 
 For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull 
 Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: 
 Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, 
 Listening the lordly music flowing from 
 The illimitable years. 
 
 strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
 
 1 faint in this obscurity, 
 Thou dewy dawn of memory. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 
 
 Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 
 
 Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 
 
 Unto mine inner eye, 
 
 Divinest Memory ! 
 
 Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
 
 Which ever sounds and shines, 
 
 A pillar of white light upon the wall 
 
 Of purple cliffs, aloof descried : 
 
 Come from the woods that belt the gray hillside, 
 
 The seven elms, the poplars four 
 
 That stand beside my father's door. 
 
 And chiefly from the brook that loves 
 
 To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
 
 l8o ODE TO MEMORY. 
 
 Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, 
 
 Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 
 
 In every elbow and turn, 
 
 The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland, 
 
 O hither lead thy feet ! 
 
 Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
 
 Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, 
 
 Upon the ridged wolds, 
 
 When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud 
 
 Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, 
 
 What time the amber morn 
 
 Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 
 
 V. 
 
 Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
 
 To the young spirit present 
 
 When first she is wed ; 
 
 And like a bride of old 
 
 In triumph led. 
 
 With music and sweet showers 
 
 Of festal flowers. 
 
 Unto the dwelling she must sway. 
 
 Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 
 
 In setting round thy first experiment
 
 ODE TO MEMORY. l8l 
 
 With royal frame-work of wrought gold ; 
 
 Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, 
 
 And foremost in thy various gallery 
 
 Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
 
 Upon the storied walls; 
 
 For the discovery 
 
 And newness of thine art so pleased thee, 
 
 That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 
 
 Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
 
 With thee unto the love thou bearest 
 
 The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 
 
 Ever retiring thou dost gaze 
 
 On the prime labour of thine early days: 
 
 No matter what the sketch might be ; 
 
 Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, 
 
 Or even a sand-built ridge 
 
 Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 
 
 Overblown with murmurs harsh, 
 
 Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
 
 Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous 
 
 marsh, 
 Where from the frequent bridge. 
 Like emblems of infinity, 
 The trenched waters run from sky to sky;
 
 1 82 ODE TO MEMORY. 
 
 Or a garden bower'd close 
 
 With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, 
 
 Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, 
 
 Or opening upon level plots 
 
 Of crowned lilies, standing near 
 
 Purple-spiked lavender: 
 
 Whither in after life retired 
 
 From brawling storms, 
 
 From weary wind. 
 
 With youthful fancy re-inspired, 
 
 We may hold converse with all forms 
 
 Of the many-sided mind. 
 
 And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
 
 Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 
 
 My friend, with you to live alone, 
 Were how much better than to own 
 A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 
 
 strengthen me, enlighten me ! 
 
 1 faint in this obscurity, 
 Thou dewy dawn of memory.
 
 SOA'G. 183 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I. 
 
 A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours, 
 Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 
 
 To himself he talks ; 
 For at eventide, listening earnestly. 
 At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 
 
 In the walks ; 
 
 Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
 Of the mouldering flowers : 
 
 Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
 
 Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
 Heavily hangs the hollyhock. 
 
 Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 
 
 II. 
 The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 
 As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 
 
 An hour before death ; 
 My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
 At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
 
 l84 SONG. 
 
 And the breath 
 
 Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
 And the year's last rose. 
 
 Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
 
 Over its grave i' the earth so chilly ; 
 Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 
 
 Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
 
 "And like a bride of old 
 In triumph led^ 
 
 Ode to Memory. 
 
 Photogravure from painting by Louis Meynelle.
 
 A CHARACTER. 185 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 With a half-glance upon the sky 
 At night he said, ' The wanderings 
 Of this most intricate Universe 
 Teach me the nothingness of things,' — 
 Yet could not all creation pierce 
 Beyond the bottom of his eye. 
 
 He spake of beauty : that the dull 
 
 Saw no divinity in grass, 
 
 Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; 
 
 Then looking as 't were in a glass, 
 
 He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair. 
 
 And said the earth was beautiful. 
 
 He spake of virtue : not the gods 
 More purely, when they wish to charm 
 Pallas and Juno sitting by: 
 And with a sweeping of the arm, 
 And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, 
 Devolved his rounded periods.
 
 1 86 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Most delicately hour by hour 
 He canvass'd human mysteries, 
 And trod on silk, as if the winds 
 Blew his own praises in his eyes, 
 And stood aloof from other minds 
 In impotence of fancied power. 
 
 With lips depress'd as he were meek, 
 Himself unto himself he sold : 
 Upon himself himself did feed : 
 Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
 And other than his form of creed. 
 With chisell'd features clear and sleek.
 
 THE POET. 187 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poet in a golden clime was born, 
 
 With golden stars above ; 
 Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
 scorn, 
 The love of love. 
 
 He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill. 
 
 He saw thro' his own soul. 
 The marvel of the everlasting will. 
 An open scroll, 
 
 Before him lay : with echoing feet he threaded 
 
 The secretest walks of fame : 
 The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed 
 And wing'd with flame, 
 
 Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, 
 
 And of so fierce a flight. 
 From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, 
 Filling with light
 
 1 88 THE POET. 
 
 And vagrant melodies the winds which bore 
 
 Them earthward till they lit ; 
 Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, 
 The fruitful wit 
 
 Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew 
 
 Where'er they fell, behold, 
 Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew 
 A flower all gold, 
 
 And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling 
 
 The winged shafts of truth. 
 To throng with stately blooms the breathing 
 spring 
 Of Hope and Youth. 
 
 So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, 
 
 Tho' one did fling the fire. 
 Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams 
 Of high desire. 
 
 Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world 
 
 Like one great garden show'd, 
 And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, 
 Rare sunrise flow'd.
 
 THE POET. 189 
 
 And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise 
 
 Her beautiful bold brow, 
 When rites and forms before his burning eyes 
 Melted like snow. 
 
 There was no blood upon her maiden robes 
 
 Sunn'd by those orient skies; 
 But round about the circles of the globes 
 Of her keen eyes 
 
 And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame 
 
 Wisdom, a name to shake 
 All evil dreams of power, — a sacred name. 
 And when she spake, 
 
 Her words did gather thunder as they ran, 
 
 And as the lightning to the thunder 
 Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, 
 Making earth wonder, 
 
 So was their meaning to her words. No sword 
 
 Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, 
 But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word 
 She shook the world.
 
 19^ THE POET'S MIND. 
 
 THE POET'S MIND. 
 
 I. 
 
 Vex not thou the poet's mind 
 
 With thy shallow wit: 
 Vex not thou the poet's mind ; 
 
 For thou canst not fathom it. 
 Clear and bright it should be ever, 
 Flowing like a crystal river; 
 Bright as light, and clear as wind. 
 
 II. 
 
 Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; 
 
 All the place is holy ground ; 
 
 Hollow smile and frozen sneer 
 
 Come not here. 
 
 Holy water will I pour 
 
 Into every spicy flower 
 
 Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. 
 
 The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer.
 
 THE POET'S MIND. IQI 
 
 In your eye there is death, 
 
 There is frost in your breath 
 
 Which would blight the plants. 
 
 Where you stand you cannot hear 
 
 From the groves within 
 
 The wild-bird's din. 
 
 In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants. 
 
 It would fall to the ground if you came in. 
 
 In the middle leaps a fountain 
 
 Like sheet lightning, 
 
 Ever brightening 
 
 With a low melodious thunder; 
 
 All day and all night it is ever drawn 
 
 From the brain of the purple mountain 
 
 Which stands in the distance yonder : 
 
 It springs on a level of bowery lawn, 
 
 And the mountain draws it from Heaven above. 
 
 And it sings a song of undying love ; 
 
 And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, 
 
 You never would hear it, your ears are so dull ; 
 
 So keep where you are : you are foul with sin ; 
 
 It would shrink to the earth if you came in.
 
 192 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 
 
 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 
 
 Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, 
 Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
 Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
 To little harps of gold ; and while they mused, 
 Whispering to each other half in fear, 
 Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea. 
 
 Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly 
 
 no more. 
 Whither away from the high green field, and the 
 
 happy blossoming shore? 
 Day and night to the billow the fountain calls : 
 Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
 From wandering over the lea : 
 Out of the live-green heart of the dells 
 They freshen the silvery-crimson shells. 
 And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
 Higfh over the full-toned sea:
 
 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 193 
 
 O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 
 
 Come hither to me and to me : 
 
 Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 
 
 Here it is only the mew that wails ; 
 
 We will sing to you all the day : 
 
 Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 
 
 For here are the blissful downs and dales, 
 
 And merrily, merrily carol the gales, 
 
 And the spangle dances in bight and bay. 
 
 And the rainbow forms and flies on the land 
 
 Over the islands free ; 
 
 And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand ; 
 
 Hither, come hither and see ; 
 
 And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 
 
 And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, 
 
 And sweet shall your welcome be : 
 
 O hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
 
 For merry brides are we : 
 
 We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet 
 
 words : 
 O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
 With pleasure and love and jubilee : 
 O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
 VOL. I. — 13
 
 194 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 
 
 When the sharp clear twang of the golden 
 chords 
 
 Runs up the ridged sea. 
 
 Who can light on as happy a shore 
 
 All the world o'er, all the world o'er? 
 
 Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mari- 
 ner, fly no more.
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 195 
 
 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 I. 
 Life and Thought have gone away 
 
 Side by side, 
 
 Leaving door and windows wide : 
 Careless tenants 'they ! 
 
 II. 
 
 All within is dark as night: 
 In the windows is no light ; 
 And no murmur at the door, 
 So frequent on its hinge before. 
 
 III. 
 
 Close the door, the shutters close, 
 
 Or thro' the windows we shall see 
 The nakedness and vacancy 
 
 Of the dark deserted house.
 
 196 THE DESERTED HOUSE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Come away : no more of mirth 
 
 Is here or merry-making sound. 
 
 The house was builded of the earth, 
 And shall fall again to ground. 
 
 V. 
 Come away : for Life and Thought 
 
 Here no longer dwell, 
 But in a city glorious — 
 A great and distant city — have bought 
 
 A mansion incorruptible. 
 Would they could have stayed with us !
 
 THE DYING SWAN. 1 97 
 
 THE DYING SWAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 The plain was grassy, wild, and bare. 
 Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
 Which had built up everywhere 
 An under-roof of doleful gray. 
 With an inner voice the river ran, 
 Adown it floated a dying swan, 
 And loudly did lament. 
 It was the middle of the day. 
 Ever the weary wind went on. 
 And took the reed-tops as it went. 
 
 II. 
 Some blue peaks in the distance rose. 
 And white against the cold-white sky, 
 Shone out their crowning snows. 
 One willow over the river wept, 
 And shook the wave as the wind did sigh ;
 
 198 THE DYING SWAN. 
 
 Above in the wind was the swallow, 
 
 Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
 
 And far thro' the marish green and still 
 
 The tangled water-courses slept, 
 
 Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 
 
 III. 
 
 The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul 
 
 Of that waste place with joy 
 
 Hidden in sorrow : at first to the ear 
 
 The warble was low, and full and clear ; 
 
 And floating about the under-sky, 
 
 Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
 
 Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 
 
 But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
 
 With a music strange and manifold, 
 
 Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold ; 
 
 As when a mighty people rejoice 
 
 With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of 
 
 gold, 
 And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd 
 Thro' the open gates of the city afar, 
 To the shepherd who watcheth the evening 
 
 star.
 
 THE DYING SWAN. 199 
 
 And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, 
 And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 
 And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, 
 And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank. 
 And the silvery marish-flowers that throng 
 The desolate creeks and pools among, 
 Were flooded over with eddying song.
 
 200 A DIRGE. 
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Now is done thy long day's work ; 
 Fold thy palms across thy breast, 
 Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Shadows of the silver birk 
 Sweep the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thee nor carketh care nor slander ; 
 Nothing but the small cold worm 
 Fretteth thine enshrouded form. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Light and shadow ever wander 
 O'er the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave.
 
 A DIRGE. 20I 
 
 III. 
 
 Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed ; 
 Chaunteth not the brooding bee 
 Sweeter tones than calumny? 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Thou wilt never raise thine head 
 From the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Crocodiles wept tears for thee ; 
 
 The woodbine and eglatere 
 
 Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Rain makes music in the tree 
 O'er the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 V. 
 Round thee blow, self-pleached deep, 
 Bramble roses, faint and pale, 
 And long purples of the dale. 
 Let them rave.
 
 202 A DIRGE. 
 
 These in every shower creep 
 Thro' the green that folds thy grave. 
 Let them rave. 
 
 VI. 
 The gold-eyed kingcups fine, 
 The frail bluebell peereth over 
 Rare broidry of the purple clover. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 Kings have no such couch as thine, 
 As the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave. 
 
 VII. 
 Wild words wander here and there : 
 God's great gift of speech abused 
 Makes thy memory confused : 
 
 But let them rave. 
 The balm-cricket carols clear 
 In the green that folds thy grave. 
 
 Let them rave.
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 203 
 
 LOVE AND DEATH. 
 
 What time the mighty moon was gathering 
 
 light 
 Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, 
 And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes ; 
 When, turning round a cassia, full in view, 
 Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, 
 And talking to himself, first met his sight : 
 * You must begone,' said Death, ' these walks 
 
 are mine.' 
 Love wept and spread his sheeny vans for 
 
 flight, 
 Yet ere he parted said, ' This hour is thine : 
 Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree 
 Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, 
 So in the light of great eternity 
 Life eminent creates the shade of death ; 
 The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall. 
 But I shall reign for ever over all.'
 
 204 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
 
 My heart is wasted with my woe, 
 
 Oriana. 
 There is no rest for me below, 
 
 Oriana. 
 When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, 
 And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow^ 
 
 Oriana, 
 Alone I wander to and fro, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 Ere the light on dark was growing, 
 
 Oriana, 
 At midnight the cock was crowing, 
 
 Oriana : 
 Winds were blowing, waters flowing. 
 We heard the steeds to battle going, 
 
 Oriana; 
 Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 
 
 Oriana.
 
 THE BALLAD OF OR/ANA. 205 
 
 In the yew-wood black as night, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Ere I rode into the fight, 
 
 Oriana, 
 While blissful tears blinded my sight 
 By star-shine and by moonlight, 
 
 Oriana, 
 I to thee my troth did plight, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 She stood upon the castle wall, 
 
 Oriana : 
 She watch'd my crest among them all, 
 
 Oriana: 
 She saw me fight, she heard me call, 
 When forth there stept a foeman tall, 
 
 Oriana, 
 Atween me and the castle wall, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 The bitter arrow went aside, 
 
 Oriana: 
 The false, false arrow went aside, 
 
 Oriana:
 
 206 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
 
 The damned arrow glanced aside, 
 
 And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 
 Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Oh ! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 
 The battle deepen'd in its place, 
 
 Oriana; 
 But I was down upon my face, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 How could I rise and come away, 
 
 Oriana? 
 How could I look upon the day? 
 They should have stabb'd me where I lay, 
 
 Oriana — 
 They should have trod me into clay, 
 
 Oriana.
 
 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 207 
 
 O breaking heart that will not break, 
 Oriana ! 
 
 pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 
 
 Oriana ! 
 Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, 
 And then the tears run down my cheek, 
 
 Oriana : 
 What wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, 
 
 Oriana? 
 
 1 cry aloud : none hear my cries, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Thou comest atween me and the skies, 
 
 Oriana. 
 I feel the tears of blood arise 
 Up from my heart unto my eyes, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Within thy heart my arrow lies, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 O cursed hand ! O cursed blow ! 
 
 Oriana ! 
 O happy thou that liest low, 
 
 Oriana !
 
 2o8 THE BALLAD OF ORIANA. 
 
 All night the silence seems to flow 
 Beside me in my utter woe, 
 
 Oriana. 
 A weary, weary way I go, 
 
 Oriana. 
 
 When Norland winds pipe down the sea, 
 
 Oriana, 
 I walk, I dare not think of thee, 
 
 Oriana. 
 Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 
 I dare not die and come to thee, 
 
 Oriana. 
 I hear the roaring of the sea, 
 
 Oriana.
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 209 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 Two children in two neighbour villages 
 Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas ; 
 Two strangers meeting at a festival ; 
 Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall ; 
 Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease ; 
 Two graves grass-green beside a gray church- 
 tower, 
 Wash'd with still rains and daisy blossomed ; 
 Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; 
 So runs the round of life from hour to hour. 
 
 VOL. I. — 14
 
 210 THE MERMAN. 
 
 THE MERMAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Who would be 
 A merman bold, 
 Sitting alone, 
 Singing alone 
 Under the sea, 
 With a crown of gold. 
 On a throne? 
 
 II. 
 I would be a merman bold ; 
 I would sit and sing the whole of the day; 
 I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power ; 
 But at night I would roam abroad and play 
 With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, 
 Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower ; 
 And holding them back by their flowing locks 
 I would kiss them often under the sea, 
 And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
 
 THE MERMAN. 211 
 
 Laughingly, laughingly; 
 And then we would wander away, away 
 To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, 
 
 Chasing each other merrily. 
 
 III. 
 There would be neither moon nor star; 
 But the wave would make music above us 
 
 afar — 
 Low thunder and light in the magic night — 
 
 Neither moon nor star. 
 We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, 
 Call to each other and whoop and cry 
 
 All night, merrily, merrily; 
 They would pelt me with starry spangles and 
 
 shells, 
 Laughing and clapping their hands between, 
 
 All night, merrily, merrily : 
 But I would throw to them back in mine 
 Turkis and agate and almondine: 
 Then leaping out upon them unseen 
 I would kiss them often under the sea, 
 And kiss them again till they kiss'd me
 
 212 THE MERMAN 
 
 Laughingly, laughingly. 
 Oh ! what a happy life were mine 
 Under the hollow-hung ocean green ! 
 Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; 
 We would live merrily, merrily.
 
 " l4^ho would be 
 A Mermaid fair, 
 Singing alone. 
 Combing her bair?" 
 
 The Mermaid. 
 
 Photo-Etching- from Painting by F. S. Ciiurch.
 
 THE MERMAID. 213 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 I. 
 Who would be 
 A mermaid fair, 
 Singing alone, 
 Combing her hair 
 Under the sea, 
 In a golden curl 
 With a comb of pearl, 
 On a throne? 
 
 II. 
 
 I would be a mermaid fair; 
 I would sing to myself the whole of the day ; 
 With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; 
 And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 
 ' Who is it loves me? who loves not me? ' 
 I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall 
 
 Low adown, low adown. 
 From under my starry sea-bud crown
 
 214 THE MERMAID. 
 
 Low adown and around, 
 And I should look like a fountain of gold 
 Springing alone 
 
 With a shrill inner sound, 
 Over the throne 
 
 In the midst of the hall; 
 Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
 From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
 Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
 Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the 
 
 gate 
 With his large calm eyes for the love of me ; 
 And all the mermen under the sea 
 Would feel their immortality 
 Die in their hearts for the love of me. 
 
 III. 
 
 But at night I would wander away, away, 
 
 I would fling on each side my low flowing 
 
 locks, 
 And lightly vault from the throne and play 
 With the mermen in and out of the rocks ; 
 We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 
 On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
 
 THE MERMAID. 215 
 
 Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. 
 But if any came near I would call, and shriek, 
 And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
 From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; 
 For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, 
 Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; 
 They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, 
 In the purple twilights under the sea; 
 But the king of them all would carry me, 
 Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 
 In the branching jaspers under the sea; 
 Then all the dry pied things that be 
 In the hueless mosses under the sea 
 Would curl round my silver feet silently, 
 All looking up for the love of me. 
 And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
 All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 
 Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the 
 
 sea. 
 All looking down for the love of me.
 
 2i6 ADELINE. 
 
 ADELINE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Mystery of mysteries, 
 Faintly smiling Adeline, 
 Scarce of earth nor all divine, 
 Nor unhappy, nor at rest, 
 But beyond expression fair 
 With thy floating flaxen hair; 
 Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes 
 Take the heart from out my breast. 
 Wherefore those dim looks of thine, 
 Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? 
 
 II. 
 
 Whence that aery bloom of thine. 
 Like a lily which the sun 
 
 Looks thro' in his sad decline, 
 And a rose-bush leans upon, 
 
 Thou that faintly smilest still, 
 
 As a Naiad in a well.
 
 ADELINE. 2 1 7 
 
 Looking at the set of day, 
 Or a phantom two hours old 
 
 Of a maiden past away, 
 Ere the placid lips be cold? 
 Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, 
 Spiritual Adeline? 
 
 III. 
 
 What hope or fear or joy is thine? 
 Who talketh with thee, Adeline? 
 
 For sure thou art not all alone. 
 Do beating hearts of salient springs 
 
 Keep measure with thine own? 
 
 Hast thou heard the butterflies 
 What they say betwixt their wings? 
 Or in stillest evenings 
 With what voice the violet woos 
 To his heart the silver dews? 
 
 Or when little airs arise, 
 How the merry bluebell rings 
 To the mosses underneath? 
 Hast thou look'd upon the breath 
 
 Of the lilies at sunrise?
 
 2 1 8 ADELINE. 
 
 Wherefore that faint smile of thine, 
 Shadowy, dreaming Adeline ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, 
 Some spirit of a crimson rose 
 In love with thee forgets to close 
 His curtains, wasting odorous sighs 
 All night long on darkness blind. 
 What aileth thee? whom waitest thou 
 With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, 
 And those dew-lit eyes of thine, 
 Thou faint smiler, Adeline ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Lovest thou the doleful wind 
 When thou gazest at the skies ? 
 
 Doth the low-tongued Orient 
 
 Wander from the side of the morn. 
 Dripping with Sabaean spice 
 
 On thy pillow, lowly bent 
 With melodious airs lovelorn, 
 
 Breathing Light against thy face.
 
 ADELINE. 219 
 
 While his locks a-drooping twined 
 Round thy neck in subtle ring 
 Make a carcanet of rays, 
 
 And ye talk together still, 
 In the language wherewith Spring 
 
 Letters cowslips on the hill ? 
 Hence that look and smile of thine. 
 Spiritual Adeline.
 
 220 MARGARET. 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 I. 
 
 O SWEET pale Margaret, 
 
 O rare pale Margaret, 
 What lit your eyes with tearful power. 
 Like moonlight on a falling shower? 
 Who lent you, love, your mortal dower 
 Of pensive thought and aspect pale. 
 Your melancholy sweet and frail 
 As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? 
 From the westward-winding flood. 
 From the evening-lighted wood, 
 From all things outward you have won 
 A tearful grace, as tho' you stood 
 Between the rainbow and the sun. 
 The very smile before you speak, 
 That dimples your transparent cheek. 
 Encircles all the heart, and feedeth 
 The senses with a still delight
 
 MARGARET. 221 
 
 Of dainty sorrow without sound, 
 Like the tender amber round 
 Which the moon about her spreadeth, 
 Moving thro' a fleecy night. 
 
 II. 
 
 You love, remaining peacefully, 
 To hear the murmur of the strife. 
 But enter not the toil of life. 
 Your spirit is the calmed sea. 
 Laid by the tumult of the fight. 
 You are the evening star, alway 
 Remaining betwixt dark and bright : 
 Lull'd echoes of laborious day 
 Come to you, gleams of mellow light 
 Float by you on the verge of night. 
 
 III. 
 
 What can it matter, Margaret, 
 What songs below the waning stars 
 The lion-heart, Plantagenet, 
 Sang looking thro' his prison bars? 
 Exquisite Margaret, who can tell 
 The last wild thought of Chatelet,
 
 2 22 MARGARET. 
 
 Just ere the falling axe did part 
 
 The burning brain from the true heart, 
 
 Even in her sight he loved so well? 
 
 IV. 
 
 A fairy shield your Genius made 
 And gave you on your natal day. 
 Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade, 
 Keeps real sorrow far away. 
 You move not in such solitudes, 
 You are not less divine, 
 But more human in your moods, 
 Than your twin-sister, Adeline. 
 Your hair is darker, and your eyes 
 Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue. 
 And less aerially blue, 
 But ever trembling thro' the dew 
 Of dainty-woeful sympathies. 
 
 V. 
 
 O sweet pale Margaret, 
 
 O rare pale Margaret, 
 Come down, come down, and hear me speak 
 Tie up the ringlets on your cheek:
 
 MARGARET. 223 
 
 The sun is just about to set, 
 
 The arching limes are tall and shady, 
 
 And faint, rainy lights are seen, 
 
 Moving in the leavy beech. 
 
 Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady. 
 
 Where all day long you sit between 
 
 Joy and woe, and whisper each. 
 
 Or only look across the lawn, 
 
 Look out below your bower-eaves, 
 
 Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn 
 
 Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.
 
 224 ROSALIND. 
 
 ROSALIND. 
 
 I. 
 
 My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 
 My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, 
 
 Whose free delight, from any height of rapid 
 
 flight, 
 Stoops at all game that wing the skies, 
 My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, 
 Careless both of wind and weather. 
 Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, 
 Up or down the streaming wind? 
 
 II. 
 The quick lark's closest-caroll'd strains, 
 The shadow rushing up the sea, 
 The lightning flash atween the rains. 
 The sunlight driving down the lea. 
 The leaping stream, the very wind. 
 That will not stay, upon his way. 
 To stoop the cowslip to the plains.
 
 ROSALIXD. 225 
 
 Is not so clear and bold and free 
 As you, my falcon Rosalind. 
 You care not for another's pains, 
 Because you are the soul of joy, 
 Bright metal all without alloy. 
 Life shoots and glances thro' your veins. 
 And flashes off a thousand ways. 
 Thro' lips and eyes in subtle rays. 
 Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright, 
 Keen with triumph, watching still 
 To pierce me thro' with pointed light ; 
 But oftentimes they flash and glitter 
 Like sunshine on a dancing rill, 
 And your words are seeming-bitter, 
 Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter 
 From excess of swift delight. 
 
 III. 
 
 Come down, come home, my Rosalind, 
 
 My gay young hawk, my Rosalind : 
 
 Too long you keep the upper skies ; 
 
 Too long you roam and wheel at will ; 
 
 But we must hood your random eyes, 
 
 That care not whom they kill, 
 VOL. I. — 15
 
 2 26 ROSALIND. 
 
 And your cheek, whose brilHant hue 
 
 Is so sparkhng-fresh to view, 
 
 Some red heath-flower in the dew, 
 
 Touch'd with sunrise. We must bind 
 
 And keep you fast, my Rosalind, 
 
 Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, 
 
 And clip your wings, and make you love : 
 
 When we have lured you from above. 
 
 And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, 
 
 From North to South, 
 
 We 'II bind you fast in silken cords, 
 
 And kiss away the bitter words 
 
 From off your rosy mouth.
 
 ELEANORE. 227 
 
 ELEANORE. 
 
 I. 
 Thy dark eyes open'd not, 
 Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, 
 For there is nothing here 
 
 Which, from the outward to the inward brought, 
 Moulded thy baby thought. 
 Far off from human neighbourhood. 
 Thou wert born, on a summer morn, 
 A mile beneath the cedar-wood. 
 Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd 
 With breezes from our oaken glades. 
 But thou wert nursed in some delicious land 
 Of lavish lights and floating shades : 
 And flattering thy childish thought 
 The oriental fairy brought, 
 At the moment of thy birth. 
 From old well-heads of haunted rills, 
 And the hearts of purple hills,
 
 !8 ELEANORS. 
 
 And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore. 
 The choicest wealth of all the earth, 
 Jewel or shell, or starry ore, 
 To deck thy cradle, Eleanore. 
 
 II. 
 
 Or the yellow-banded bees, 
 
 Thro' half-open lattices 
 
 Coming in the scented breeze. 
 
 Fed thee, a child, lying alone, 
 
 With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd, - 
 
 A glorious child, dreaming alone. 
 
 In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, 
 
 With the hum of swarming bees 
 
 Into dreamful slumber luU'd. 
 
 III. 
 
 Who may minister to thee? 
 Summer herself should minister 
 To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded 
 On golden salvers, or it may be, 
 Youngest Autumn, in a bower 
 Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded 
 With many a deep-hued bell-like flower
 
 ELEANORE. 229 
 
 Of fragrant trailers, when the air 
 Sleepeth over all the heaven, 
 And the crag that fronts the Even, 
 All along the shadowing shore, 
 Crimsons over an inland mere, 
 Eleanore ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 How may full-sail'd verse express, 
 
 How may measured words adore 
 
 The full-flowing harmony 
 
 Of thy swan-like stateliness, 
 Eleanore? 
 
 The luxuriant symmetry 
 
 Of thy floating gracefulness, 
 
 Eleanore? 
 Every turn and glance of thine, 
 Every lineament divine, 
 
 Eleanore, 
 And the steady sunset glow, 
 That stays upon thee? For in thee 
 Is nothing sudden, nothing single; 
 Like two streams of incense free 
 From one censer in one shrine, 
 Thought and motion mingle,
 
 230 ELEANORE. 
 
 Mingle ever. Motions flow 
 
 To one another, even as tho' 
 
 They were modulated so 
 
 To an unheard melody, 
 
 Which lives about thee, and a sweep 
 
 Of richest pauses, evermore 
 
 Drawn from each other mellow-deep ; 
 
 Who may express thee, Eleanore? 
 
 V. 
 
 I stand before thee, Eleanore; 
 I see thy beauty gradually unfold, 
 Daily and hourly, more and more. 
 I muse, as in a trance, the while 
 Slowly, as from a cloud of gold. 
 Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile^ 
 I muse, as in a trance, whene'er 
 The languors of thy love-deep eyes 
 Float on to me. I would I were 
 So tranced, so rapt in ecstasies. 
 To stand apart, and to adore. 
 Gazing on thee for evermore, 
 Serene, imperial Eleanore !
 
 ELEANORE. 231 
 
 VI. 
 
 Sometimes, with most intensity- 
 Gazing, I seem to see 
 
 Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, 
 Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep 
 In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, 
 I cannot veil, or droop my sight, 
 But am as nothing in its light: 
 As tho' a star, in inmost heaven set, 
 Even while we gaze on it. 
 Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow 
 To a full face, there like a sun remain 
 Fix'd — then as slowly fade again, 
 And draw itself to what it was before ; 
 So full, so deep, so slow, 
 Thought seems to come and go 
 In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore. 
 
 VII. 
 
 As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, 
 Roof 'd the world with doubt and fear, 
 Floating thro' an evening atmosphere. 
 Grow golden all about the sky ;
 
 232 ELEANORE. 
 
 In thee all passion becomes passionless, 
 Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, 
 Losing his fire and active might 
 In a silent meditation, 
 Falling into a still delight, 
 And luxury of contemplation : 
 As waves that up a quiet cove 
 Rolling slide, and lying still 
 Shadow forth the banks at will ; 
 Or sometimes they swell and move. 
 Pressing up against the land, 
 With motions of the outer sea: 
 And the selfsame influence 
 Controlleth all the soul and sense 
 Of Passion gazing upon thee. 
 His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, 
 Leaning his cheek upon his hand. 
 Droops both his wings, regarding thee, 
 And so would languish evermore. 
 Serene, imperial Eleanore. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, 
 While the amorous, odorous wind
 
 ELBA NO RE. 233 
 
 Breathes low between the sunset and the moon ; 
 
 Or, in a shadowy saloon, 
 
 On silken cushions half reclined; 
 
 I watch thy grace ; and in its place 
 
 My heart a charmed slumber keeps, 
 
 While I muse upon thy face ; 
 
 And a languid fire creeps 
 
 Thro' my veins to all my frame, 
 
 Dissolvingly and slowly : soon 
 
 From thy rose-red lips MY name 
 
 Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. 
 
 With dinning sound my ears are rife, 
 
 My tremulous tongue faltereth, 
 
 I lose my colour, I lose my breath, 
 
 I drink the cup of a costly death, 
 
 Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. 
 
 I die with my delight, before 
 
 I hear what I would hear from thee ; 
 
 Yet tell my name again to me, 
 
 I would be dying evermore, 
 
 So dying ever, Eleanore.
 
 234 MV LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS. 
 
 I. 
 
 My life is full of weary days, 
 
 But good things have not kept aloof, 
 
 Nor wander'd into other ways : 
 
 I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, 
 
 Nor golden largess of thy praise. 
 
 And now shake hands across the brink 
 Of that deep grave to which I go : 
 
 Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
 So far — far down, but I shall know 
 Thy voice, and answer from below. 
 
 II. 
 
 When in the darkness over me 
 
 The four-handed mole shall scrape, 
 
 Plant thou no dusky cypress-tree, 
 
 Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, 
 But pledge me in the flowing grape.
 
 MY LIFE IS FULL OF WEARY DAYS. 235 
 
 And when the sappy field and wood 
 Grow green beneath the showery gray, 
 
 And rugged barks begin to bud, 
 
 And thro' damp holts new-flush'd with may 
 Ring sudden scritches of the jay, 
 
 Then let wise Nature work her will, 
 And on my clay her darnel grow; 
 
 Come only when the days are still, 
 And at my headstone whisper low, 
 And tell me if the woodbines blow.
 
 236 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 TO . 
 
 As when with downcast eyes we muse and 
 
 brood, 
 And ebb into a former Hfe, or seem 
 To lapse far back in some confused dream 
 To states of mystical similitude, 
 If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, 
 Ever the wonder waxeth more and more. 
 So that we say, * All this hath been before, 
 All this hath been, I know not when or where ; ' 
 So, friend, when first I look'd upon your face. 
 Our thought gave answer each to each, so 
 
 true — 
 Opposed mirrors each reflecting each — 
 That tho' I knew not in what time or place, 
 Methought that I had often met with you. 
 And either lived in cither's heart and speech.
 
 EARLY SONNETS. 237 
 
 II. 
 
 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, 
 
 Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; 
 
 But spurr'd 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 
 Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne 
 Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark 
 Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.
 
 238 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, 
 Like some broad river rushing down alone, 
 With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was 
 
 thrown 
 From his loud fount upon the echoing lea; 
 Which with increasing might doth forward flee 
 By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle. 
 And in the middle of the green salt sea 
 Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. 
 Mine be the power which ever to its sway 
 Will win the wise at once, and by degrees 
 May into uncongenial spirits flow ; 
 Even as the warm gulf-stream of Florida 
 Floats far away into the Northern seas 
 The lavish growths of southern Mexico.
 
 EARLY SONNE TS. 239 
 
 IV. 
 
 ALEXANDER. 
 
 Warrior of God, whose strong right arm 
 
 debased 
 The throne of Persia, when her Satrap bled 
 At Issus by the Syrian gates, or fled 
 Beyond the Memmian naphtha-pits, disgraced 
 For ever — thee (thy pathway sand-erased) 
 ending with equal crowns two serpents led 
 Joyful to that palm-planted fountain-fed 
 Ammonian Oasis in the waste. 
 There in a silent shade of laurel brown 
 Apart the Chamian Oracle divine 
 Shelter'd his unapproached mysteries : 
 High things were spoken there, unhanded down ; 
 Only they saw thee from the secret shrine 
 Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes.
 
 2 40 EARL V SONNE TS. 
 
 V. 
 
 BUONAPARTE. 
 
 He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, 
 Madman ! — to chain with chains, and bind with 
 
 bands 
 That island queen who sways the floods and 
 
 lands 
 From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, 
 When from her wooden walls, — lit by sure 
 
 hands, — 
 With thunders, and with lightnings, and with 
 
 smoke, 
 Peal after peal, the British battle broke. 
 Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. 
 We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore 
 Heard the war moan along the distant sea, 
 Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden fires 
 Flamed over : at Trafalgar yet once more 
 We taught him : late he learned humility 
 Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with 
 
 briers.
 
 EARLY SONNETS. 24 1 
 
 VI. 
 
 POLAND. 
 
 How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, 
 And trampled under by the last and least 
 Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased 
 To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth drown 
 The fields, and out of every smouldering town 
 Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased. 
 Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East 
 Transgress his ample bound to some new 
 
 crown, — 
 Cries to Thee, ' Lord, how long shall these 
 
 things be? 
 How long this icy-hearted Muscovite 
 Oppress the region? ' Us, O Just and Good, 
 Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three ; 
 Us, who stand now, when we should aid the 
 
 right, — 
 A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! 
 
 VOL. I. — 16
 
 242 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Caress'd or chidden by the slender hand, 
 
 And singing airy trifles this or that, 
 
 Light Hope at Beauty's call avouM perch and 
 
 stand, 
 And run thro' every change of sharp and flat ; 
 And Fancy came and at her pillow sat, 
 When Sleep had bound her in his rosy band, 
 And chased away the still-recurring gnat, 
 And woke her with a lay from fairy-land. 
 But now they live with Beauty less and less, 
 For Hope is other Hope and wanders far. 
 Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds ; 
 And Fancy watches in the wilderness, 
 Poor Fancy sadder than a single star. 
 That sets at twilight in a land of reeds.
 
 EA RL Y SONNE TS. 2 43 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The form, the form alone is eloquent ! 
 A nobler yearning never broke her rest 
 Than but to dance and sing, be gaily drest, 
 And win all eyes with all accomplishment : 
 Yet in the whirling dances as we went, 
 My fancy made me for a moment blest 
 To find my heart so near the beauteous breast 
 That once had power to rob it of content. 
 A moment came the tenderness of tears, 
 The phantom of a wish that once could move, 
 A ghost of passion that no smiles restore — 
 For ah ! the slight coquette, she cannot love. 
 And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years, 
 She still would take the praise, and care no more.
 
 244 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Wan Sculptor, vveepest thou to take the cast 
 Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? 
 
 sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past, 
 In painting some dead friend from memory? 
 Weep on: beyond his object Love can last: 
 His object lives : more cause to weep have I : 
 My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast, 
 No tears of love, but tears that Love can die. 
 
 1 pledge her not in any cheerful cup, 
 
 Nor care to sit beside her where she sits — 
 Ah pity ! — hint it not in human tones, 
 But breathe it into earth and close it up 
 With secret death for ever, in the pits 
 Which some green Christmas crams with weary 
 bones.
 
 EARLY SONNETS. 245 
 
 X. 
 
 If I were loved, as I desire to be, 
 
 What is there in the great sphere of the earth, 
 
 And range of evil between death and birth, 
 
 That I should fear, — if I were loved by thee ? 
 
 All the inner, all the outer world of pain 
 
 Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert 
 
 mine, 
 As I have heard that, somewhere in the main. 
 Fresh-water springs come up through bitter 
 
 brine. 
 'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with 
 
 thee, 
 To wait for death — mute — careless of all ills. 
 Apart upon a mountain, tho' the surge 
 Of some new deluge from a thousand hills 
 Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge 
 Below us, as far on as eye could see.
 
 246 EARLY SONNETS. 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE BRIDESMAID. 
 
 BRIDESMAID, ere the happy knot was tied, 
 Thine eyes so wept that they could hardly see ; 
 Thy sister smiled and said, * No tears for me ! 
 A happy bridesmaid makes a happy bride.' 
 And then, the couple standing side by side, 
 Love lighted down between them full of glee, 
 And over his left shoulder laugh'd at thee, 
 
 * O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride ! ' 
 And all at once a pleasant truth I learn'd, 
 For while the tender service made thee weep, 
 
 1 loved thee for the tear thou couldst not hide. 
 And prest thy hand, and knew the press return'd. 
 And thought, * My life is sick of single sleep : 
 
 O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride ! '
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 PART I. 
 On either side the river lie 
 Long fields of barley and of rye, 
 That clothe the wold and meet the sky ; 
 And thro' the field the road runs by 
 
 To many-tower'd Camelot; 
 And up and down the people go, 
 Gazing where the lilies blow 
 Round an island there below. 
 
 The island of Shalott. 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
 Little breezes dusk and shiver 
 Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
 By the island in the river
 
 248 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 Flowing down to Camelot 
 Four gray walls and four gray towers 
 Overlook a space of flowers, 
 And the silent isle imbowers 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
 Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
 By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
 The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot : 
 But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
 Or at the casement seen her stand? 
 Or is she known in all the land, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott? 
 
 Only reapers, reaping early 
 In among the bearded barley, 
 Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
 From the river winding clearly 
 
 Down to tower'd Camelot : 
 And by the moon the reaper weary. 
 Piling sheaves in uplands airy. 
 Listening, whispers, ' 'T is the fairy 
 
 Lady of Shalott.'
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 249 
 
 PART II. 
 There she weaves by night and day 
 A magic web with colours gay. 
 She has heard a whisper say, 
 A curse is on her if she stay 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not what the curse may be. 
 And so she weaveth steadily, 
 And little other care hath she, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And moving thro' a mirror clear 
 That hangs before her all the year. 
 Shadows of the world appear. 
 There she sees the highway near 
 
 Winding down to Camelot: 
 There the river eddy whirls, 
 And there the surly village-churls. 
 And the red cloaks of market girls, 
 
 Pass onward from Shalott. 
 
 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
 An abbot on an ambling pad,
 
 250 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 
 Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 
 
 Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
 And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 
 The knights come riding two and two : 
 She hath no loyal knight and true, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 But in her web she still delights 
 To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
 For often thro' the silent nights 
 A funeral, with plumes and lights 
 
 And music, went to Camelot: 
 Or when the moon was overhead, 
 Came two young lovers lately wed; 
 * I am half sick of shadows,' said 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 A BOW-SHOT from her bower-eaves. 
 He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
 The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
 And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
 Of bold Sir Lancelot.
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 251 
 
 A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 
 To a lady in his shield, 
 That sparkled on the yellow field, 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 
 Like to some branch of stars we see 
 Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
 The bridle bells rang merrily 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot ; 
 And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
 A mighty silver bugle hung, 
 And as he rode his armour rung, 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 All in the blue unclouded weather 
 Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 
 The helmet and the helmet-feather 
 Burn'd like one burning flame together. 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot; 
 As often thro' the purple night, 
 Below the starry clusters bright, 
 Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
 
 Moves over still Shalott.
 
 
 252 T/fJS LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd ; 
 On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
 From underneath his helmet flow'd 
 His coal-black curls as on he rode, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 From the bank and from the river 
 He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
 * Tirra lirra,' by the river 
 
 Sang Sir Lancelot. 
 
 She left the web, she left the loom, 
 She made three paces thro' the room, 
 She saw the water-lily bloom, 
 She saw the helmet and the plume, 
 
 She look'd down to Camelot. 
 Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
 The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
 ' The curse is come upon me,' cried 
 
 The Lady of Shalott.
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 253 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 In the stormy east-wind straining, 
 The pale yellow woods were waning, 
 The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
 Heavily the low sky raining 
 
 Over tower'd Camelot ; 
 Down she came and found a boat 
 Beneath a willow left afloat. 
 And round about the prow she wrote 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And down the river's dim expanse, 
 Like some bold seer in a trance, 
 Seeing all his own mischance, 
 With a glassy countenance 
 
 Did she look to Camelot. 
 And at the closing of the day 
 She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
 The broad stream bore her far away, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Lying, robed in snowy white 
 
 That loosely flew to left and right —
 
 254 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
 
 The leaves upon her falling light — 
 Thro' the noises of the night 
 
 She floated down to Camelot; 
 And as the boat-head wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among, 
 They heard her singing her last song, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott, — 
 
 Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
 Till her blood was frozen slowly, 
 And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 
 
 Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. 
 For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
 The first house by the water-side. 
 Singing in her song she died. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Under tower and balcony, 
 By garden-wall and gallery, 
 A gleaming shape she floated by, 
 Dead-pale between the houses high, 
 Silent into Camelot.
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 255 
 
 Out upon the wharfs they came, 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
 And round the prow they read her name, 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Who is this? and what is here? 
 And in the Hghted palace near 
 Died the sound of royal cheer ; 
 And they cross'd themselves for fear, 
 
 All the knights at Camelot : 
 But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
 He said, ' She has a lovely face ; 
 God in His mercy lend her grace, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott.'
 
 256 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 With one black shadow at its feet, 
 
 The house thro' all the level shines, 
 Close-latticed to the brooding heat, 
 
 And silent in its dusty vines ; 
 A faint-blue ridge upon the right, 
 An empty river-bed before, 
 And shallows on a distant shore, 
 In glaring sand and inlets bright. 
 
 But ' Ave Mary,' made she moan, 
 
 And ' Ave Mary,' night and morn. 
 And ' Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone, 
 To live forgotten, and love forlorn ! ' 
 
 She, as her carol sadder grew. 
 
 From brow and bosom slowly down 
 
 Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 
 
 Her streaming curls of deepest brown
 
 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 257 
 
 To left and right, and made appear, 
 
 Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 
 
 Her melancholy eyes divine, 
 The home of woe without a tear. 
 
 And ' Ave Mary,' was her moan, 
 
 * Madonna, sad is night and morn,' 
 And * Ah,' she sang, ' to be all alone. 
 
 To live forgotten, and love forlorn ! ' 
 
 Till all the crimson changed, and past 
 
 Into deep orange o'er the sea. 
 Low on her knees herself she cast, 
 
 Before Our Lady murmur'd she. 
 Complaining, ' Mother, give me grace 
 
 To help me of my weary load ; ' 
 
 And on the liquid mirror glow'd 
 The clear perfection of her face. 
 
 * Is this the form,' she made her moan, 
 
 * That won his praises night and morn? * 
 And ' Ah,' she said, * but I wake alone, 
 
 I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn ! ' 
 
 Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
 
 Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 
 VOL. I. — 17
 
 2S8 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 But day increased from heat to heat, 
 
 On stony drought and steaming salt; 
 Till now at noon she slept again, 
 
 And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, 
 And heard her native breezes pass. 
 And runlets babbling down the glen. 
 
 She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 
 
 And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
 She thought, ' My spirit is here alone. 
 Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.' 
 
 Dreaming, she knew it was a dream ; 
 She felt he was and was not there. 
 She woke : the babble of the stream 
 Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
 Shrank one sick willow sere and small. 
 The river-bed was dusty-white ; 
 And all the furnace of the light 
 Struck up against the blinding wall. 
 She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
 
 More inward than at night or morn, 
 ' Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
 Live forgotten and die forlorn.'
 
 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 259 
 
 And, rising, from her bosom drew 
 
 Old letters, breathing of her worth, 
 For * Love,' they said, ' must needs be true, 
 
 To what is loveliest upon earth.' 
 An image seem'd to pass the door. 
 To look at her with slight, and say, 
 * But now thy beauty flows away. 
 So be alone for evermore.' 
 
 ' O cruel heart,' she changed her tone, 
 ' And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
 Is this the end to be left alone, 
 
 To live forgotten, and die forlorn? ' 
 
 But sometimes in the falling day 
 
 An image seem'd to pass the door, 
 To look into her eyes and say, 
 
 ' But thou shalt be alone no more.' 
 And flaming downward over all 
 
 From heat to heat the day decreased. 
 And slowly rounded to the east 
 The one black shadow from the wall. 
 
 'The day to night,' she made her moan, 
 'The day to night, the night to morn, 
 And day and night I am left alone 
 To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'
 
 26o MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 
 
 At eve a dry cicala sung, 
 
 There came a sound as of the sea; 
 Backward the lattice-blind she flung, 
 
 And lean'd upon the balcony. 
 There all in spaces rosy-bright 
 
 Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, 
 And deepening thro' the silent spheres 
 Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 
 
 And weeping then she made her moan, 
 
 * The night comes on that knows not morn, 
 When I shall cease to be all alone. 
 To live forgotten, and love forlorn.'
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 26 1 
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 A STILL small voice spake unto me, 
 * Thou art so full of misery, 
 Were it not better not to be? ' 
 
 Then to the still small voice I said, 
 ' Let me not cast in endless shade 
 What is so wonderfully made.' 
 
 To which the voice did urge reply, 
 
 ' To-day I saw the dragon-fly 
 
 Come from the wells where he did lie. 
 
 ' An inner impulse rent the veil 
 Of his old husk ; from head to tail 
 Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. 
 
 * He dried his wings : like gauze they grew ; 
 Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew 
 A living flash of light he flew.'
 
 262 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 I said, ' When first the world began, 
 Young Nature thro' five cycles ran, 
 And in the sixth she moulded man, 
 
 * She gave him mind, the lordliest 
 Proportion, and, above the rest. 
 Dominion in the head and breast.' 
 
 Thereto the silent voice replied, 
 
 * Self-blinded are you by your pride : 
 Look up thro' night: the world is wide. 
 
 ' This truth within thy mind rehearse. 
 
 That in a boundless universe 
 
 Is boundless better, boundless worse. 
 
 ' Think you this mould of hopes and fears 
 Could find no statelier than his peers 
 In yonder hundred million spheres?' 
 
 It spake, moreover, in my mind, 
 
 * Tho' thou wert scatter'd to the wind, 
 Yet is there plenty of the kind.'
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 263 
 
 Then did my response clearer fall, 
 ' No compound of this earthly ball 
 Is like another, all in all.' 
 
 To which he answer'd scoffingly, 
 
 ' Good soul ! suppose I grant it thee, 
 
 Who '11 weep for thy deficiency? 
 
 ' Or will one beam be less intense, 
 
 When thy peculiar difference 
 
 Is cancell'd in the world of sense?' 
 
 I would have said, ' Thou canst not know,' 
 But my full heart, that work'd below, 
 Rain'd thro' my sight its overflow. 
 
 Again the voice spake unto me, 
 ' Thou art so steep'd in misery, 
 Surely 't were better not to be. 
 
 ' Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, 
 
 Nor any train of reason keep : 
 
 Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.
 
 264 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 I said, ' The years with change advance : 
 If I make dark my countenance, 
 I shut my life from happier chance. 
 
 * Some turn this sickness yet might take, 
 Even yet.' But he : * What drug can make 
 A wither'd palsy cease to shake?' 
 
 I wept, * Tho' I should die, I know 
 That all about the thorn will blow 
 In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; 
 
 ' And men, thro' novel spheres of thought 
 Still moving after truth long sought. 
 Will learn new things when I am not' 
 
 * Yet,' said the secret voice, ' some time, 
 Sooner or later, will gray prime 
 
 Make thy grass hoar with early rime. 
 
 * Not less swift souls that yearn for light, 
 Rapt after heaven's starry flight, 
 Would sweep the tracts of day and night.
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 265 
 
 * Not less the bee would range her cells, 
 The furzy prickle fire the dells, 
 
 The foxglove cluster dappled bells.' 
 
 I said that ' all the years invent ; 
 Each month is various to present 
 The world with some development. 
 
 ' Were this not well, to bide mine hour, 
 Tho' watching from a ruin'd tower 
 How grows the day of human power ? ' 
 
 * The highest-mounted mind,' he said, 
 ' Still sees the sacred morning spread 
 The silent summit overhead. 
 
 * Will thirty seasons render plain 
 Those lonely lights that still remain, 
 Just breaking over land and main? 
 
 * Or make that morn, from his cold crov/n 
 And crystal silence creeping down, 
 Flood with full daylight glebe and town ?
 
 266 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let 
 
 Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set 
 
 In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. 
 
 * Thou hast not gain'd a real height. 
 Nor art thou nearer to the light, 
 Because the scale is infinite. 
 
 ' 'Twere better not to breathe or speak 
 Than cry for strength, remaining weak, 
 And seem to find, but still to seek. 
 
 ' Moreover, but to seem to find 
 
 Asks what thou lackest, thought resigned, 
 
 A healthy frame, a quiet mind.' 
 
 I said, ' When I am gone away, 
 
 " He dared not tarry," men will say. 
 
 Doing dishonour to my clay.' 
 
 ' This is more vile,' he made reply, 
 
 ' To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, 
 
 Than once from dread of pain to die.
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 267 
 
 ' Sick art thou — a divided will 
 Still heaping on the fear of ill 
 The fear of men, a coward still. 
 
 'Do men love thee? Art thou so bound 
 To men, that how thy name may sound 
 Will vex thee lying underground? 
 
 ' The memory of the wither'd leaf 
 In endless time is scarce more brief 
 Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. 
 
 * Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; 
 The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, 
 Hears little of the false or just.' 
 
 ' Hard task, to pluck resolve,' I cried, 
 ' From emptiness and the waste wide 
 Of that abyss, or scornful pride ! 
 
 'Nay — rather yet that I could raise 
 One hope that warm'd me in the days 
 While still I yearn' d for human praise.
 
 268 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, 
 Among the tents I paused and sung, 
 The distant battle flash'd and rung. 
 
 * I sung the joyful Paean clear, 
 And, sitting, burnish'd without fear 
 The brand, the buckler, and the spear — 
 
 ' Waiting to strive a happy strife. 
 To war with falsehood to the knife, 
 And not to lose the good of life — 
 
 * Some hidden principle to move. 
 To put together, part and prove. 
 
 And mete the bounds of hate and love — 
 
 ' As far as might be, to carve out 
 Free space for every human doubt. 
 That the whole mind might orb about — 
 
 * To search thro' all I felt or saw, 
 The springs of life, the depths of awe, 
 And reach the law within the law ;
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 269 
 
 ' At least, not rotting like a weed, 
 But, having sown some generous seed, 
 Fruitful of further thought and deed, 
 
 ' To pass, when Life her light withdraws. 
 Not void of righteous self-applause, 
 Nor in a merely selfish cause — 
 
 * In some good cause, not in mine own. 
 To perish, wept for, honour'd, known. 
 And like a warrior overthrown ; 
 
 ' Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears. 
 When, soil'd with noble dust, he hears 
 His country's war-song thrill his ears : 
 
 * Then dying of a mortal stroke. 
 What time the foeman's line is broke, 
 And all the war is roll'd in smoke.* 
 
 * Yea ! ' said the voice, ' thy dream was good. 
 While thou abodest in the bud. 
 
 It was the stirring of the blood.
 
 27© THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' If Nature put not forth her power 
 About the opening of the flower, 
 Who is it that could Hve an hour? 
 
 ' Then comes the check, the change, the fall, 
 Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. 
 There is one remedy for all. 
 
 ' Yet hadst thou, thro' enduring pain, 
 Link'd month to month with such a chain 
 Of knitted purport, all were vain. 
 
 * Thou hadst not between death and birth 
 Dissolved the riddle of the earth. 
 
 So were thy labour little worth. 
 
 ' That men with knowledge merely play'd, 
 I told thee — hardly nigher made, 
 Tho* scaling slow from grade to grade ; 
 
 * Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, 
 Named man, may hope some truth to find 
 That bears relation to the mind.
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 271 
 
 * For every worm beneath the moon 
 Draws different threads, and late and soon 
 Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. 
 
 * Cry, faint not : either Truth is born 
 Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, 
 
 Or in the gateways of the morn. 
 
 ' Cry, faint not, climb : the summits slope 
 Beyond the furthest flights of hope. 
 Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. 
 
 * Sometimes a little corner shines, 
 As over rainy mist inclines 
 
 A gleaming crag with belts of pines. 
 
 * I will go forward, sayest thou, 
 I shall not fail to find her now. 
 Look up, the fold is on her brow. 
 
 * If straight thy track, or if oblique, 
 
 Thou know'st not. Shadows thou dost strike, 
 Embracing cloud, Ixion-like;
 
 2 72 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' And owning but a little more 
 Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, 
 Calling thyself a little lower 
 
 ' Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl ! 
 Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? 
 There is one remedy for all.' 
 
 * O dull, one-sided voice,' said I, 
 
 ' Wilt thou make everything a lie, 
 To flatter me that I may die? 
 
 * I know that age to age succeeds, 
 Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, 
 A dust of systems and of creeds. 
 
 ' I cannot hide that some have striven, 
 Achieving calm, to whom was given 
 The joy that mixes man with Heaven; 
 
 ' Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
 Saw distant gates of Eden gleam. 
 And did not dream it was a dream.
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 273 
 
 * But heard, by secret transport led, 
 Even in the charnels of the dead, 
 The murmur of the fountain-head — 
 
 ' Which did accomplish their desire, 
 Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
 Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 
 
 ' He heeded not reviling tones, 
 Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
 Tho' cursed and scorn'd, and bruised with 
 stones ; 
 
 ' But looking upward, full of grace, 
 He pray 'd, and from a happy place 
 God's glory smote him on the face.' 
 
 The sullen answer slid betwixt : 
 
 ' Not that the grounds of hope were fix'd, 
 
 The elements were kindlier mix'd.' 
 
 I said, ' I toil beneath the curse. 
 
 But, knowing not the universe, 
 
 I fear to slide from bad to worse. 
 VOL. I. — 18
 
 2 74 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' And that, in seeking to undo 
 One riddle, and to find the true, 
 I knit a hundred others new; 
 
 ' Or that this anguish fleeting hence, 
 Unmanacled from bonds of sense, 
 Be fix'd and frozen to permanence: 
 
 ' For I go, weak from suffering here ; 
 Naked I go, and void of cheer : 
 What is it that I may not fear? ' 
 
 ' Consider well,' the voice replied, 
 
 ' His face, that two hours since hath died ; 
 
 Wilt thou find passion, pain, or pride? 
 
 'Will he obey when one commands? 
 Or answer should one press his hands? 
 He answers not, nor understands. 
 
 'His palms are folded on his breast: 
 There is no other thing express'd 
 But long disquiet merged in rest.
 
 THE TIFO VOICES. 275 
 
 * His lips are very mild and meek: 
 Tho' one should smite him on the cheek, 
 And on the mouth, he will not speak. 
 
 ' His little daughter, whose sweet face 
 He kiss'd, taking his last embrace. 
 Becomes dishonour to her race; 
 
 ' His sons grow up that bear his name. 
 Some grow to honour, some to shame : 
 But he is chill to praise or blame. 
 
 ' He will not hear the north-wind rave. 
 Nor, moaning, household shelter crave 
 From winter rains that beat his grave. 
 
 * High up the vapours fold and swim ; 
 About him broods the twilight dim; 
 The place he knew forgetteth him.' 
 
 * If all be dark, vague voice,' I said, 
 
 * These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, 
 Nor canst thou show the dead are dead.
 
 276 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' The sap dries up : the plant declines. 
 A deeper tale my heart divines. 
 Know I not Death? the outward signs? 
 
 ' I found him when my years were few ; 
 A shadow on the graves I knew, 
 And darkness in the village yew. 
 
 * From grave to grave the shadow crept ; 
 In her still place the morning wept; 
 Touch'd by his feet the daisy slept. 
 
 ' The simple senses crown'd his head : 
 *' Omega ! thou art Lord," they said, 
 "We find no motion in the dead." 
 
 * Why, if man rot in dreamless ease. 
 Should that plain fact, as taught by these, 
 Not make him sure that he shall cease? 
 
 * Who forged that other influence, 
 That heat of inward evidence, 
 
 By which he doubts against the sense ?
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 277 
 
 ' He owns the fatal gift of eyes, 
 That read his spirit blindly wise, 
 Not simple as a thing that dies. 
 
 ' Here sits he shaping wings to fly; 
 His heart forebodes a mystery; 
 He names the name Eternity. 
 
 ' That type of Perfect in his mind 
 In Nature can he nowhere find. 
 He sows himself on every wind. 
 
 * He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, 
 And thro' thick veils to apprehend 
 
 A labour working to an end. 
 
 'The end and the beginning vex 
 
 His reason; many things perplex, 
 
 With motions, checks, and counterchecks. 
 
 * He knows a baseness in his blood 
 
 At such strange war with something good, 
 He may not do the thing he would.
 
 278 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, 
 Vast images in glimmering dawn, 
 Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. 
 
 ' Ah ! sure within him and without, 
 Could his dark wisdom find it out, 
 There must be answer to his doubt, 
 
 ' But thou canst answer not again. 
 With thine own weapon art thou slain, 
 Or thou wilt answer but in vain. 
 
 * The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. 
 In the same circle we revolve. 
 Assurance only breeds resolve.* 
 
 As when a billow, blown against. 
 
 Falls back, the voice with which I fenced 
 
 A little ceased, but recommenced : 
 
 ' Where wert thou when thy father play'd 
 In his free field, and pastime made, 
 A merry boy in sun and shade?
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 279 
 
 A merry boy they call'd him then, 
 He sat upon the knees of men 
 In days that never come again ; 
 
 ' Before the little ducts began 
 
 To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 
 
 Their course, till thou wert also man: 
 
 ' Who took a wife, who rear'd his race, 
 Whose wrinkles gather'd on his face, 
 Whose troubles number with his days : 
 
 ' A life of nothings, nothing worth, 
 From that first nothing ere his birth 
 To that last nothing under earth ! ' 
 
 ' These words,' I said, ' are like the rest ; 
 No certain clearness, but at best 
 A vague suspicion of the breast: 
 
 * But if I grant, thou mightst defend 
 The thesis which thy words intend, — 
 That to begin implies to end;
 
 28o THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' Yet how should I for certain hold, 
 Because my memory is so cold, 
 That I first was in human mould? 
 
 ' I cannot make this matter plain, 
 But I would shoot, howe'er in vain, 
 A random arrow from the brain. 
 
 ' It may be that no life is found, 
 Which only to one engine bound 
 Falls off, but cycles always round. 
 
 ' As old mythologies relate, 
 
 Some draught of Lethe might await 
 
 The slipping thro' from state to state ; 
 
 ' As here we find in trances, men 
 Forget the dream that happens then, 
 Until they fall in trance again : 
 
 ' So might we, if our state were such 
 
 As one before, remember much. 
 
 For those two likes might meet and touch.
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 281 
 
 * But, if I lapsed from nobler place, 
 Some legend of a fallen race 
 Alone might hint of my disgrace ; 
 
 * Some vague emotion of delight 
 In gazing up an Alpine height, 
 
 Some yearning toward the lamps of night ; 
 
 ' Or if thro' lower lives I came — 
 Tho' all experience past became 
 Consolidate in mind and frame — 
 
 * I might forget my weaker lot ; 
 For is not our first year forgot? 
 The haunts of memory echo not. 
 
 ' And men, whose reason long was blind, 
 From cells of madness unconfined, 
 Oft 'tose whole years of darker mind. 
 
 ' Much more, if first I floated free, 
 As naked essence, must I be 
 Incompetent of memory;
 
 282 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 ' For memory dealing but with time, 
 And he with matter, could she climb 
 Beyond her own material prime? 
 
 * Moreover, something is or seems, 
 That touches me with mystic gleams, 
 Like glimpses of forgotten dreams — 
 
 * Of something felt, like something here ; 
 Of something done, I know not where ; 
 Such as no language may declare.' 
 
 The still voice laugh'd. ' I talk,' said he, 
 ' Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee 
 Thy pain is a reality.' 
 
 * But thou,' said I, * hast miss'd thy mark, 
 Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, 
 By making all the horizon dark. 
 
 ' Why not set forth, if I should do 
 This rashness, that which might ensue 
 With this old soul in organs new?
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 283 
 
 * Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 
 
 No life that breathes with human breath 
 
 Has ever truly long'd for death. 
 
 ''Tis life whereof our nerves are scant, 
 Oh, life, not death, for which we pant; 
 More life, and fuller, that I want' 
 
 I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. 
 Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, 
 ' Behold, it is the Sabbath morn.' 
 
 And I arose, and I released 
 
 The casement, and the light increased 
 
 With freshness in the dawning east. 
 
 Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, 
 When meres begin to uncongeal, 
 The sweet church bells began to peal. 
 
 On to God's house the people prest: 
 Passing the place where each must rest, 
 Each enter'd like a welcome guest.
 
 284 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 One walk'd between his wife and child, 
 With measured footfall firm and mild, 
 And now and then he gravely smiled. 
 
 The prudent partner of his blood 
 Lean'd on him, faithful, gentle, good. 
 Wearing the rose of womanhood. 
 
 And in their double love secure. 
 The little maiden walk'd demure, 
 Pacing with downward eyelids pure. 
 
 These three made unity so sweet, 
 My frozen heart began to beat, 
 Remembering its ancient heat. 
 
 I blest them, and they wander'd on : 
 I spoke, but answer came there none; 
 The dull and bitter voice was gone. 
 
 A second voice was at mine ear, 
 
 A little whisper silver-clear, 
 
 A murmur, * Be of better cheer.'
 
 THE TWO VOICES. 285 
 
 As from some blissful neighbourhood, 
 
 A notice faintly understood, 
 
 * I see the end, and know the good.' 
 
 A little hint to solace woe, 
 
 A hint, a whisper breathing low, 
 
 ' I may not speak of what I know.' 
 
 Like an /Eolian harp that wakes 
 
 No certain air, but overtakes 
 
 Far thought with music that it makes ; 
 
 Such seem'd the whisper at my side. 
 
 ' What is it thou knowest, sweet voice ? ' I cried. 
 
 'A hidden hope,' the voice replied; 
 
 So heavenly-toned that in that hour 
 From out my sullen heart a power 
 Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, 
 
 To feel, altho' no tongue can prove, 
 That every cloud, that spreads above 
 And veileth love, itself is love.
 
 2 86 THE TWO VOICES. 
 
 And forth into the fields I went, 
 And Nature's Hving motion lent 
 The pulse of hope to discontent. 
 
 I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, 
 The slow result of winter showers : 
 You scarce could see the grass for flowers. 
 
 I wonder'd, while I paced along: 
 
 The woods were fill'd so full with song, 
 
 There seem'd no room for sense of wrong; 
 
 And all so variously wrought, 
 
 I marvell'd how the mind was brought 
 
 To anchor by one gloomy thought; 
 
 And wherefore rather I made choice 
 To commune with that barren voice 
 Than him that said, ' Rejoice ! Rejoice ! '
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 287 
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I SEE the wealthy miller yet, 
 
 His double chin, his portly size; 
 And who that knew him could forget 
 
 The busy wrinkles round his eyes? 
 The slow wise smile that, round about 
 
 His dusty forehead drily curl'd, 
 Seem'd half-within and half-without, 
 
 And full of dealings with the world ? 
 
 In yonder chair I see him sit, 
 
 Three fingers round the old silver cup ; 
 I see his gray eyes twinkle yet 
 
 At his own jest, — gray eyes lit up 
 With summer lightnings of a soul 
 
 So full of summer warmth, so glad, 
 So healthy, sound, and clear and whole. 
 
 His memory scarce can make me sad. 
 
 Yet fill my glass : give me one kiss : 
 My own sweet Alice, we must die.
 
 288 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 There 's somewhat in this world amiss 
 Shall be unriddled by and by. 
 
 There 's somewhat flows to us in life, 
 But more is taken quite away. 
 
 Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife. 
 That we may die the selfsame day. 
 
 Have I not found a happy earth? 
 
 I least should breathe a thought of pain. 
 Would God renew me from my birth 
 
 I 'd almost live my life again. 
 So sweet it seems with thee to walk, 
 
 And once again to woo thee mine — 
 It seems in after-dinner talk 
 
 Across the walnuts and the wine — 
 
 To be the long and listless boy 
 
 Late-left an orphan of the squire, 
 Where this old mansion mounted high 
 
 Looks down upon the village spire; 
 For even here, where I and you 
 
 Have lived and loved alone so long, 
 Each morn my sleep was broken thro' 
 
 By some wild skylark's matin song.
 
 ■■ So sweet it seems -with thee to walk, 
 And once again to woo thee mine." 
 
 The Miller's Daughter. 
 
 Photogravure from drawing by H. Winthrop Peirce.
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER, 289 
 
 And oft I heard the tender dove 
 
 In firry woodlands making moan; 
 But ere I saw your eyes, my love, 
 
 I had no motion of my own. 
 For scarce my life with fancy play'd 
 
 Before I dream'd that pleasant dream — 
 Still hither, thither, idly sway'd 
 
 Like those long mosses in the stream. 
 
 Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear 
 
 The milldam rushing down with noise, 
 And see the minnows everywhere 
 
 In crystal eddies glance and poise. 
 The tall flag-flowers when they sprung 
 
 Below the range of stepping-stones, 
 Or those three chestnuts near, that hung 
 
 In masses thick with milky cones. 
 
 But, Alice, what an hour was that. 
 
 When after roving in the woods 
 ('T was April then), I came and sat 
 
 Below the chestnuts, when their buds 
 
 Were glistening to the breezy blue ; 
 
 And on the slope, an absent fool, 
 VOL. I. — 19
 
 290 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 I cast me down, nor thought of you, 
 But angled in the higher pool. 
 
 A love-song I had somewhere read, 
 
 An echo from a measured strain, 
 Beat time to nothing in my head 
 
 From some odd corner of the brain. 
 It haunted me, the morning long, 
 
 With weary sameness in the rhymes. 
 The phantom of a silent song, 
 
 That went and came a thousand times. 
 
 Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood 
 
 I watch'd the little circles die ; 
 They past into the level flood, 
 
 And there a vision caught my eye ; 
 The reflex of a beauteous form, 
 
 A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, 
 As when a sunbeam wavers warm 
 
 Within the dark and dimpled beck. 
 
 For you remember, you had set, 
 
 That morning, on the casement-edge 
 
 A long green box of mignonette, 
 
 And you were leaning from the ledge ;
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 291 
 
 And when I raised my eyes, above 
 
 They met with two so full and bright — 
 
 Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 
 That these have never lost their light. 
 
 I loved, and love dispell'd the fear 
 
 That I should die an early death ; 
 For love possess'd the atmosphere, 
 
 And fill'd the breast with purer breath. 
 My mother thought. What ails the boy? 
 
 For I was alter'd, and began 
 To move about the house with joy, 
 
 And with the certain step of man. 
 
 I loved the brimming wave that swam 
 
 Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, 
 The sleepy pool above the dam, 
 
 The pool beneath it never still. 
 The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, 
 
 The dark round of the dripping wheel, 
 The very air about the door 
 
 Made misty with the floating meal. 
 
 And oft in ramblings on the wold. 
 When April nights began to blow,
 
 292 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, 
 
 I saw the village lights below ; 
 I knew your taper far away, 
 
 And full at heart of trembling hope, 
 From off the wold I came, and lay 
 
 Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. 
 
 The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill ; 
 
 And ' by that lamp,' I thought, ' she sits ! ' 
 The white chalk-quarry from the hill 
 
 Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. 
 ' O that I were beside her now ! 
 
 O will she answer if I call? 
 O would she give me vow for vow. 
 
 Sweet Alice, if I told her all?' 
 
 Sometimes I saw you sit and spin ; 
 
 And, in the pauses of the wind. 
 Sometimes I heard you sing within ; 
 
 Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. 
 At last you rose and moved the light, 
 
 And the long shadow of the chair 
 Flitted across into the night, 
 
 And all the casement darken'd there.
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 293 
 
 But when at last I dared to speak, 
 
 The lanes, you know, were white with may, 
 Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 
 
 Flush'd like the coming of the day; 
 And so it was — half-sly, half-shy, 
 
 You would, and would not, little one ! 
 Although I pleaded tenderly. 
 
 And you and I were all alone. 
 
 And slowly was my mother brought 
 
 To yield consent to my desire : 
 She wish'd me happy, but she thought 
 
 I might have look'd a little higher; 
 And I was young — too young to wed : 
 
 * Yet must I love her for your sake ; 
 Go fetch your Alice here,' she said : 
 
 Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. 
 
 And down I went to fetch my bride : 
 
 But, Alice, you were ill at ease ; 
 This dress and that by turns you tried, 
 
 Too fearful that you should not please. 
 I loved you better for your fears, 
 
 I knew you could not look but well;
 
 294 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 And dews, that would have fallen in tears, 
 I kiss'd away before they fell. 
 
 I watch'd the little flutterings, 
 
 The doubt my mother would not see; 
 She spoke at large of many things, 
 
 And at the last she spoke of me ; 
 And turning look'd upon your face, 
 
 As near this door you sat apart, 
 And rose, and, with a silent grace 
 
 Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. 
 
 Ah, well — but sing the foolish song 
 
 I gave you, Alice, on the day 
 When, arm in arm, we went along, 
 
 A pensive pair, and you were gay 
 With bridal flowers — that I may seem, 
 
 As in the nights of old, to lie 
 Beside the mill-wheel in the stream. 
 
 While those full chestnuts whisper by. 
 
 It is the miller's daughter, 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles in her ear ; 
 
 For hid in ringlets day and night, 
 
 I 'd touch her neck so warm and white.
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 295 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty waist, 
 And her heart would beat against me, 
 
 In sorrow and in rest ; 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 And I would be the necklace, 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon her balmy bosom, 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs ; 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 
 
 A trifle, sweet! which true love spells — 
 
 True love interprets — right alone. 
 His light upon the letter dwells. 
 
 For all the spirit is his own. 
 So, if I waste words now, in truth 
 
 You must blame Love. His early rage 
 Had force to make me rhyme in youth. 
 
 And makes me talk too much in age. 
 
 And now those vivid hours are gone, 
 Like mine own life to me thou art,
 
 296 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Where Past and Present, wound in one, 
 Do make a garland for the heart: 
 
 So sing that other song I made, 
 Half-anger'd with my happy lot. 
 
 The day, when in the chestnut shade 
 I found the blue forget-me-not. 
 
 Love that hath us in the net, 
 Can he pass, and we forget? 
 Many suns arise and set. 
 Many a chance the years beget. 
 Love the gift is Love the debt. 
 
 Even so. 
 Love is hurt with jar and fret. 
 Love is made a vague regret. 
 Eyes with idle tears are wet. 
 Idle habit links us yet. 
 What is love ? for we forget : 
 
 Ah, no ! no ! 
 
 Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, 
 Round my true heart thine arms entwine ! 
 
 My other dearer life in life. 
 
 Look thro' my very soul with thine !
 
 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 297 
 
 Untouch'd with any shade of years, 
 May those kind eyes for ever dwell ! 
 
 They have not shed a many tears, 
 
 Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. 
 
 Yet tears they shed ; they had their part 
 
 Of sorrow : for when time was ripe, 
 The still affection of the heart 
 
 Became an outward breathing type, 
 That into stillness past again. 
 
 And left a want unknown before. 
 Although the loss had brought us pain, 
 
 That loss but made us love the more. 
 
 With farther lockings on. The kiss. 
 
 The woven arms, seem but to be 
 Weak symbols of the settled bliss. 
 
 The comfort, I have found in thee: 
 But that God bless thee, dear — who wrought 
 
 Two spirits to one equal mind — 
 With blessings beyond hope or thought, 
 
 With blessings which no words can find ! 
 
 Arise, and let us wander forth, 
 To yon old mill across the wolds ;
 
 298 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 For look, the sunset, south and north. 
 Winds all the vale in rosy folds. 
 
 And fires your narrow casement glass, 
 Touching the sullen pool below : 
 
 On the chalk-hill the bearded grass 
 Is dry and dewless. Let us go.
 
 FA TIM A. 299 
 
 FATIMA. 
 
 O Love, Love, Love ! O withering might ! 
 
 sun, that from thy noonday height 
 Shudderest when I strain my sight, 
 Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, 
 
 Lo, falling from my constant mind, 
 
 Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, 
 
 I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 
 
 Last night I wasted hateful hours 
 Below the city's eastern towers ; 
 
 1 thirsted for the brooks, the showers; 
 I roll'd among the tender flowers; 
 
 I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth ; 
 I look'd athwart the burning drouth 
 Of that long desert to the south. 
 
 Last night, when some one spoke his name, 
 From my swift blood that went and came
 
 300 FA TIM A. 
 
 A thousand little shafts of flame 
 Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. 
 O Love, O fire ! once he drew 
 With one long kiss my whole soul thro' 
 My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. 
 
 Before he mounts the hill, I know 
 He Cometh quickly; from below 
 Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow 
 Before him, striking on my brow. 
 In my dry brain my spirit soon, 
 Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, 
 Faints like a dazzled morning moon. 
 
 The wind sounds like a silver wire. 
 And from beyond the noon a fire 
 Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher 
 The skies stoop down in their desire; 
 And, isled in sudden seas of light, 
 My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, 
 Bursts into blossom in his sight. 
 
 My whole soul waiting silently, 
 All naked in a sultry sky,
 
 FAT/MA. 301 
 
 Droops blinded with his shining eye : 
 
 I will possess him or will die. 
 
 I will grow round him in his place, 
 Grow, live, die looking on his face, 
 Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.
 
 302 (ENON'E. 
 
 GENONE. 
 
 There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
 
 Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
 
 The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, 
 
 Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine. 
 
 And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand 
 
 The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down 
 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars 
 
 The long brook falling thro' the cloven ravine 
 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
 
 Behind the valley topmost Gargarus 
 
 Stands up and takes the morning ; but in front 
 
 The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
 
 Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel. 
 
 The crown of Troas. 
 
 Hither came at noon 
 Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
 Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
 Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck 
 Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. 
 She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine,
 
 (EiVONE. ZOl 
 
 Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper 
 cliff. 
 
 ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 For now the noonday quiet holds the hill; 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass ; 
 The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, 
 Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. 
 The purple flower droops ; the golden bee 
 Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
 My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, 
 My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim. 
 And I am all aweary of my life. 
 
 * O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Hear me, O Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves 
 That house the cold crown'd snake ! O mountain 
 
 brooks, 
 I am the daughter of a River-God, 
 Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all 
 My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls
 
 304 CENONE. 
 
 Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
 A cloud that gather'd shape : for it may be 
 That, while I speak of it, a little while 
 My heart may wander from its deeper woe. 
 
 ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die, 
 I waited underneath the dawning hills ; 
 Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, 
 And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine : 
 Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
 Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white- 
 
 hooved. 
 Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 
 
 * O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Far off the torrent call'd me from the cleft ; 
 Far up the solitary morning smote 
 The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt 
 
 eyes 
 I sat alone : white-breasted like a star 
 Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard skin 
 Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair 
 Cluster'd about his temples like a God's ;
 
 CENONE. 305 
 
 And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow 
 
 brightens 
 When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart 
 Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. 
 
 ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm 
 Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
 That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd 
 And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech 
 Came down upon my heart: 
 
 " My own Q^none, 
 Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingraven 
 ' For the most fair,' would seem to award it 
 
 thine. 
 As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt 
 The knolls of Ida, loveHest in all grace 
 Of movement, and the charm of married brows." 
 
 * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 
 He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, 
 
 And added, "This was cast upon the board, 
 
 When all the full-faced presence of the Gods 
 VOL. I. — 20
 
 306 (ENONE. 
 
 Ranged in the halls of Feleus ; whereupon 
 Rose feud, with question unto whom 't were due : 
 But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
 Delivering, that to me, by common voice 
 Elected umpire, Her^ comes to-day, 
 Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each 
 This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave 
 Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
 Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard 
 Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods," 
 
 ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
 Had lost his way between the piney sides 
 Of this long glen. Then to the bovver they 
 
 came, 
 Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, 
 And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, 
 Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, 
 Lotos and lilies ; and a wind arose. 
 And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, 
 This way and that, in many a wild festoon 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.
 
 CENONE. 307 
 
 ' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, 
 And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd 
 Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. 
 Then first I heard the voice of her to whom 
 Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows 
 Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods 
 Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
 Wherewith to embellish state, " from many a 
 
 vale 
 And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with 
 
 corn, 
 Or labour'd mine undrainable of ore. 
 Honour," she said, " and homage, tax and toll. 
 From many an inland town and haven large, 
 Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers." 
 
 ' O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 
 " Which in all action is the end of all ; 
 Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred
 
 3o8 CENONE. 
 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour 
 
 crowns 
 Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
 Fail from the sceptre-staff. Such boon from 
 
 me, 
 From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris, to thee king- 
 born, — 
 A shepherd all thy life, but yet king-born, — 
 Should come most welcome, seeing men, in 
 
 power 
 Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd 
 Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
 Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
 In knowledge of their own supremacy." 
 
 * Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit 
 Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of 
 
 power 
 Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where she stood 
 Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs 
 O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear 
 Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
 The while, above, her full and earnest eye
 
 (ENONE. 309 
 
 Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek 
 Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply: 
 
 ' " Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control. 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign power. 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, 
 Acting the law we live by without fear; 
 And, because right is right, to follow right 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence." 
 
 ' Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Again she said : " I woo thee not with gifts. 
 Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
 To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am. 
 So shalt thou find me fairest. 
 
 Yet, indeed, 
 If gazing on divinity disrobed 
 Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, 
 Unbias'd by self-profit, oh ! rest thee sure 
 That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, 
 So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, 
 Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, 
 To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks,
 
 3IO (ENONE. 
 
 Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow 
 Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will, 
 Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
 Commeasure perfect freedom." 
 
 Here she ceas'd. 
 And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, " O Paris, 
 Give it to Pallas ! " but he heard me not, 
 Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me ! 
 
 ' O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Idalian Aphrodite beautiful. 
 Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells, 
 With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
 From her warm brows and bosom her deep hair 
 Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
 And shoulder : from the violets her light foot 
 Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form 
 Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 
 
 'Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, 
 The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh
 
 CENONE. 311 
 
 Half-whisper'd in his ear, " I promise thee 
 The fairest and most loving wife in Greece." 
 She spoke and laugh'd : I shut my sight for 
 
 fear; 
 But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, 
 And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
 As she withdrew into the golden cloud, 
 And I was left alone within the bower; 
 And from that time to this I am alone, 
 And I shall be alone until I die. 
 
 'Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Fairest — why fairest wife? am I not fair? 
 My love hath told me so a thousand times. 
 Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
 When I past by, a wild and wanton pard. 
 Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail 
 Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is 
 
 she? 
 Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms 
 Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest 
 Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew 
 Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains 
 Flash in the pools of whirling Simois !
 
 312 (EXONE. 
 
 ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 They came, they cut away my tallest pines, 
 My tall dark pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
 High over the blue gorge, and all between 
 The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
 Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
 Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark 
 
 morn 
 The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat 
 Low in the valley. Never, never more 
 Shall lone CEnone see the morning mist 
 Sweep thro' them ; never see them overlaid 
 With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, 
 Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. 
 
 ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds. 
 Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, 
 Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her 
 The Abominable, that uninvited came 
 Into the fair Pele'ian banquet-hall, 
 And cast the golden fruit upon the board, 
 And bred this change ; that I might speak my 
 mind,
 
 CENONE. 313 
 
 And tell her to her face how much I hate 
 Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. 
 
 ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, 
 In this green valley, under this green hill, 
 Even on this hand, and sitting on this stone? 
 Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? 
 O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
 O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? 
 O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? 
 
 death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, 
 There are enough unhappy on this earth, 
 
 Pass by the happy souls, that love to live ; 
 
 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life, 
 And shadow all my soul, that I may die. 
 Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, 
 Weigh heavy on my eyelids ; let me die. 
 
 ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
 Do shape themselves within me, more and more. 
 Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
 Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills.
 
 314 CENONE. 
 
 Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
 My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
 Conjectures of the features of her child 
 Ere it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes 
 Across me: never child be born of me, 
 Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 
 
 ' O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, 
 Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me 
 Walking the cold and starless road of death 
 Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
 With the Greek woman. I will rise and go 
 Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth 
 Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she says 
 A fire dances before her, and a sound 
 Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
 What this may be I know not, but I know 
 That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, 
 All earth and air seem only burning fire.'
 
 THE SISTERS. 3^5 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 We were two daughters of one race; 
 She was the fairest in the face. 
 
 The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
 They were together, and she fell ; 
 Therefore revenge became me well. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 She died : she went to burning flame : 
 She mix'd her ancient blood with shame. 
 
 The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
 Whole weeks and months, and early and late, 
 To win his love I lay in wait. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I made a feast ; I bad him come ; 
 I won his love, I brought him home. 
 
 The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
 And after supper, on a bed. 
 Upon my lap he laid his head. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see !
 
 3l6 THE SISTERS. 
 
 I kiss'd his eyelids into rest; 
 
 His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 
 
 The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
 I hated him with the hate of hell, 
 But I loved his beauty passing well. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I rose up in the silent night: 
 
 I made my dagger sharp and bright. 
 
 The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
 As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
 Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro*. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
 He look'd so grand when he was dead. 
 
 The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
 I wrapt his body in the sheet, 
 And laid him at his mother's feet. 
 
 O the Earl was fair to see !
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 THE LIFE AND WORKS OF LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 Page i. — Born on the 6tk of August, 1809. — The date has 
 been often given as August 5th ; but Lord Tennyson wrote to 
 Dr. Van Dyke that he ' was probably born in the early morn- 
 ing of the 6th, just after midnight,' and that his mother used 
 to keep his birthday on August 6th. A careful examination 
 of the Somersby Baptismal Register shows that the 6 in the 
 date ' has been mistaken for a 5 on account of the fading of 
 the ink on the left side of the loop.' See also the fac-simile of 
 the entry in Napier's ' Homes and Haunts of Tennyson,' p. 29. 
 
 Page 3. — The eldest son, George. — According to the Parish 
 Register of Tealby (a town about twenty miles to the north of 
 Somersby), he was baptised on the 25th of May, 1806. Dr. 
 Tennyson resided at Tealby previous to his settlement at 
 Somersby in 1808. 
 
 Charles, who afterwards took the Jiame of Tur7ter. — The 
 ' relative ' in accordance with whose will this was done was his 
 great-uncle, the Rev. Samuel Turner, vicar and patron of 
 Grasby, to whose estate and living Charles succeeded in 1S35. 
 
 Most, if not all, of the other brothers have written poetry. — 
 Napier (p. 41) adds Septimus and Horatio to the four brothers 
 whom I have mentioned. 
 
 Page 10. — In the spring of 1827. — Dr. Van Dyke (3d ed. 
 p. 324) gives the date as 1826, on the authority of Lord Tenny- 
 son ; but the poet evidently had in mind the time when the 
 manuscript was given to the printer. The preface would not 
 have been dated ' March, 1827,' if the book had he^n published 
 in 1826.
 
 320 NOTES. 
 
 Engaged to pay ten pounds for the copyright, and actually paid 
 twenty. — Church (p. 53) so states it; and there is no doubt 
 that the larger sum was paid, though the biographers have 
 generally made it the smaller one. 
 
 Page 33. — A poem on ' The Battle of Armageddon^ — Napier 
 (p. 124) says: 'He resuscitated an old poem which he had 
 written some years before on the Battle of Armageddon, and 
 having altered it a little, sent it in for the theme of Timbuctoo.' 
 One would infer, from internal evidence, that the alterations 
 must have been somewhat extensive. 
 
 Page 38. — In all quotations of the passage that I have seen, 
 etc. — Since this foot-note was in type, I have observed that 
 Jennings (2d ed. p. 25) emends the passage thus : "he too is a 
 poet, and many years hence may read his juvenile description," 
 etc. The correction that I have suggested seems to me more 
 likely to be the right one. 
 
 Page 47. — The faniily continued to reside at Somersby for 
 several years. — According to Church (p. 41), it was 'in the 
 autumn of 1835' that the family left Somersby. Napier (p. 
 137) says it was ' in the early months of 1837 ; ' and this date 
 is confirmed by a letter of Alfred's to Monckton Milnes, dated 
 Jan. 10, 1837, in which he writes: 'As I and all my people 
 are going to leave this place very shortly never to return, I 
 have much upon my hands.' 
 
 Page 51. — A poi-trait of Tennyson. — From a crayon 
 drawing by Samuel Lawrence, a lithograph of which, printed 
 at Cambridge, was the earliest published portrait of the poet. 
 For further particulars concerning the Tennyson portraits, 
 busts, etc., see Shepherd's ' Tennysoniana ' (2d ed. pp. 157-169) 
 and the illustrated articles by Mr. Theodore Watts in the 
 ' Magazine of Art ' (Cassell's) for January and February, 1893. 
 Page 80. — /« 1861, he revisited the Pyrenees. — The date 
 has been sometimes given as 1862, but Clough's diary makes 
 it 1 861. It will be seen that he refers to Tennyson's former 
 visit as ' thirty-one years ago,' while the poet, in the verses 
 quoted, makes it ' two and thirty.' The former is the correct 
 number, and as Clough doubtless got it at the time from the 
 poet, it is probable that the latter changed it in the verses for
 
 NOTES. 321 
 
 the sake of euphony. The line, ' I walk'd with one I loved 
 two and thirty years ago,' would be seriously marred if ' one ' 
 were substituted for ' two.' 
 
 Mr. Waugh (pp. 43, 1S6) gives the dates of the two visits 
 correctly as 1830 and 1861, but (p. 186) refers to the former as 
 ' thirty-two years before ' the latter. 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie (p. 23) has the following paragraph on the 
 1830 tour : 1 — 
 
 Once in their early youth we hear of the two friends, Tennyson and 
 Hallam, travelling in the Pyrenees. This was at the time of the war 
 of Spanish independence, when many generous young men went over 
 with funds and good energies to help the cause of liberty. These two 
 were taking money, and letters written in invisible ink, to certain con- 
 spirators who were then revolting against the intolerable tyranny of 
 Ferdinand, and who were chiefly hiding in the Pyrenees. The young 
 men met, among others, a Senor Ojeda, who confided to Tennyson his 
 intentions, which were to confer la gorge h. tons les cures. Sefior 
 Ojeda could not talk English or fully explain all his aspirations. 
 ' Mais voiis connaissez man ccettr^' said he, effusively ; and a pretty 
 black one it is, thought the poet. I have heard Tennyson described in 
 those days as 'straight and with a broad breast,' and when he had 
 crossed over from the Continent and was coming back, walking through 
 Wales, he went one day into a little wayside inn, where an old man sat 
 by the fire, who looked up, and asked many questions. ' Are you from 
 the army ? Not from the army ? Then where do you come from .-' ' 
 said the old man. ' I am just come from the Pyrenees,' said Alfred. 
 ' Ah, T knew there was a something ! ' said the wise old man. 
 
 Page 82. — Epitaph on the late Duchess of Kent. — It was 
 inscribed on Mr. Theed's statue of the Duchess, at Frogmore, 
 and reads thus : — 
 
 ' Her children rise up and call her blessed." 
 
 Long as the heart beats life within the breast 
 Thy child will bless thee, guardian mother mild, 
 
 And far away thy memory wiU be blest 
 By children of the children of thy child. 
 
 1 Here, as elsewhere, I quote from the book, ' Records of Tennyson, 
 Ruskin, and Browning' (New York, 1892), which gives the original 
 magazine articles in a slightly revised form. 
 
 VOL. I. — 21
 
 32 2 NOTES. 
 
 Page 105. — Becket . . has been brought out by Mr. Irving. 
 — The 'Academy' for Feb. 18, 1893, says of the perform- 
 ance : ' There were few who expected that Lord Tennyson's 
 " Becket " would be, upon the Lyceum or any other stage, the 
 success that it has proved to be. Not only the first-night 
 audience, but the audiences that have followed it, and espe- 
 cially, as we are able to testify, the large and very representa- 
 tive audience of last Saturday night, have shown the keenest 
 satisfaction in the piece and the performance. " Becket " is 
 one of the most distinct of the Lyceum successes.' 
 
 Page i 24. — // could but have been the unequalled Elysian 
 lines of Virgil. — Or the most beautiful of the many tributes 
 in verse called forth by the death of the poet on either side of 
 the Atlantic, — the ' Elysian lines 'prefixed by Rev. Dr. Henry 
 van Dyke to the third edition of ' The Poetry of Tennyson ' : 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 In Lucem Transitus 
 
 October 6, 1892. 
 
 From the silent shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the 
 
 moon, 
 To the singing tides of heaven and the light more clear than noon, 
 Passed a soul that grew to music, till it was with God in tune. 
 
 Brother of the greatest poets, — true to nature, true to art, — 
 
 Lover of Immortal Love, — uplifter of the human heart, 
 
 Who shall help us with high music, who shall sing if thou depart ? 
 
 Silence here, for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail ; 
 Silence here, for grief is voiceless when the mighty poets fail ; 
 Silence here, — but far above us, many voices crying, Hail 1
 
 NOTES. 323 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 To THE Queen. 
 These verses first appeared in the seventh edition of the 
 ' Poems ' in 1851. For a stanza afterwards omitted, see p. 63 
 above. 
 
 Page 132. — And statesmen at her coimcil met. — This stanza 
 was once quoted by Mr. Gladstone in the House of Commons 
 with remarkable effect. Lord John Manners, in an argument 
 against political change, had quoted the poet's description of 
 England as 
 
 A land of old and wide renown 
 Where Freedom broadens slowly down. 
 
 The retort was none the less effective because the passage 
 was taken from a different poem. 
 
 Claribel. 
 
 First published in 1830. 
 
 Page 133. — At noo7i the wild bee himuneth. — The original 
 reading was ' At noon the bee low hummeth.' 
 
 Some critic has suggested that the reference to ' eve ' is 
 placed before that to ' noon ' in order that the imperfect rhyme 
 in ' boometh ' may not come between ' hummeth ' and ' cometh.' 
 
 Page 134. — The callow throstle lispeth. — The earlier reading 
 was ' The fledgling throstle lispeth.' 
 
 The babbling runnel crispeth. — Compare the ' Song,' p. 152 : 
 • Down-carolling to the crisped sea ; ' and Milton's ' crisped 
 brooks ' (' Paradise Lost,' iv. 237). 
 
 Nothing will die. 
 This poem and the next, first published in 1S30, were 
 omitted in 1842, but subsequently restored. No change has 
 been made in either. 
 
 Leonine Elegiacs. 
 Published in 1830 with the title ' Elegiacs,' omitted in 1S42, 
 but afterwards restored without change.
 
 324 NOTES. 
 
 Page 141. — The ancient poetess. — Compare * Locksley 
 Hall Sixty Years After ' : ' Hesper, whom the poet call'd the 
 Bringer home of all good things.' The allusion is to the 
 fragment of Sappho : — 
 
 "EcTTrepe, travTO. (p^pus • 
 ^4piis olvov, <pfpfis aJya, 
 4>epeij ixoLTipi iroiSa. 
 
 Byron's paraphrase in ' Don Juan' (iii. 107) is familiar: — 
 
 O Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 
 The welcome stall to the o'er-labour'd steer ; 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings, 
 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 Supposed Confessions of a Second-rate Sensitive 
 Mind. 
 
 This poem, published in 1830, was suppressed for more 
 than fifty years. In 1879 the ' Christian Signal,' an English 
 journal, announced that its issue for September 6th would 
 contain ' an early unpublished poem of over two hundred lines 
 by Alfred Tennyson (P. L.), entitled "Confessions of a Sensi- 
 tive Mind ; "' but the publication was prevented by a legal in- 
 junction. In 1884 the poem was included in the complete 
 edition of the Laureate's works. 
 
 The original title was ' Supposed Confessions of a Second- 
 rate Sensitive Mind not in Unity with Itself.' In the poem as 
 restored the following lines, after ' With hopeful grief, were 
 passing sweet ' (p. 143), were omitted : — 
 
 A grief not uninformed, and dull, 
 Hearted with hope, of hope as full 
 As is the blood with life, or night 
 And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. 
 To stand beside a grave, and see 
 The red small atoms wherewith we
 
 NOTES. 325 
 
 Are built, and smile in calm, and say — 
 ' These little motes and grains shall be 
 Clothed on with immortality 
 More glorious than the noon of day. 
 All that is pass'd into the flowers, 
 And into beasts and other men, 
 And all the Norland whirlwind showers 
 From open vaults, and all the sea 
 O'erwashes with sharp salts, again 
 Shall fleet together all, and be 
 Indued with immortality.' 
 
 The only other change is ' rosy fingers ' for ' waxen fingers ' in 
 the third line on p. 144. 
 
 The ' Westminster Review' (see p. 37 above) recognised in 
 this poem ' an extraordinary combination of deep reflection, 
 metaphysical analysis, picturesque description, dramatic tran- 
 sition, and strong emotion.' Arthur Hallam, in the ' English- 
 man's Magazine ' (p. 39 above), said of it : ' The " Confessions 
 of a Second-rate Sensitive Mind " are full of deep insight into 
 human nature, and into those particular trials which are sure 
 to beset men who think and feel for themselves at this epoch 
 of social development. The title is perhaps ill chosen ; not 
 only has it an appearance of quaintness, which has no sufiicient 
 reason, but it seems to us incorrect. The mood pourtrayed in 
 this poem, unless the admirable skill of delineation has de- 
 ceived us, is rather the clouded season of a strong mind than 
 the habitual condition of one feeble and second-rate.' 
 
 Page 150. — The busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm. — 
 Compare ' A Dirge ' (p. 200) : — 
 
 Nothing but the small cold worm 
 Fretteth thine enshrouded form ; 
 
 and ' The Palace of Art ' (vol. ii. p. 15) : — 
 
 And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
 On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, 
 That stood against the wall.
 
 326 NOTES. 
 
 The Kraken. 
 
 Published in 1830, omitted in 1842, but afterwards restored 
 without change. 
 
 Page 151. — Then once by man and angels to be seen. — This 
 is the reading of all the English editions ; but in Barry Corn- 
 wall's copy of the 1830 volume (now in the possession of Dr, 
 Henry van Dyke) 'man' is altered to 'men' in the margin. 
 
 Song. 
 
 In 1S30 the title was ' We are Free,' and the two stanzas 
 were printed as one. The poem was omitted in 1S42, but 
 subsequently restored with no further change. 
 
 Page i 52. — The crisped sea. — See note on ' The babbling 
 runnel crispeth,' p. 323 above. 
 
 Lilian. 
 First published in 1830, and reprinted in 1842 with no 
 change except ' gather'd wimple ' for ' purfled wimple.' For the 
 original reading, compare Milton, ' Comus,' 992 : ' Than her 
 purfled scarf can shew.' 
 
 Isabel. 
 
 First published in 1830. The only change in 1842 was 
 ' blanched ' for ' blenched,' which was probably a misprint. 
 
 Mrs. Annie Fields, in an interesting article on ' Tennyson ' 
 in ' Harper's Magazine ' for January, 1893 (?• 31°)' remarks 
 that this poem ' possesses a peculiar interest, because it is un- 
 derstood to be the poet's tribute to his wife, and indeed even 
 his imaginative eye could hardly elsewhere have found another 
 to whom this description would so properly fit ; ' and she goes 
 on to quote the second stanza. Whether the poet in this 
 ideal portrait of a ' perfect wife ' had in mind the lady who, 
 twenty years later, became his wife may be doubted ; but how 
 completely she fulfilled that ideal the tributes he subsequently 
 paid her in his verse amply testify. ' The Daisy,' published in 
 1855, but written some three years earlier (as the reference 
 to the baby Hallam, born in August, 1852, indicates), was
 
 NOTES. 
 
 327 
 
 addressed to her. In 'A Dedication' in the 'Enoch Arden' 
 volume in 1864, he apostrophised her thus : — 
 
 Dear, near, and true — no truer Time himself 
 Can prove you, tho' lie make you evermore 
 Dearer and nearer. 
 
 And his last volume, the posthumous ' Death of Qinone,' was 
 inscribed to her at * seventy-seven,' — 
 
 With a faith as clear as the heights of the June-blue heaven, 
 
 And a fancy as summer-new 
 
 As the green of the bracken amid the bloom of the heather. 
 
 Page 156. — An accent very low. — Compare 'King Lear,' 
 
 V. 3. 272 : — 
 
 Her voice was ever soft, 
 Gentle, and low — an excellent thing in woman. 
 
 Mariana. 
 
 First printed in 1830, and very slightly altered in 1S42 
 and subsequently. It was commended in the ' Westminster 
 Review' for July, 1835, as illustrating the poet's power in 
 ' scene-painting, in the highest sense of the term, . . . the 
 power of creating scenery in keeping with some state of 
 human feeling ; or so fitted to it as to be the embodied sym- 
 bol of it, and to summon up the state of feeling itself, with a 
 force not to be surpassed by anything but reality.' Bayard 
 Taylor (' International Review,' vol. iv. p. 404) calls it 'a pic- 
 ture in the absolute Pre-Raphaelite manner, written more than 
 a dozen years before Pi-e-Raphaelitism was heard of in art.' 
 
 Page i 58. — That held the pear to the gable-wall. — The 
 first reading was ' The peach to the garden-wall.' Bayard 
 Taylor, writing in 1877 (in the review of Tennyson cited 
 above), quotes the poet as saying: ' There is my " Mariana," 
 for example. A line in it is wrong, and I cannot possibly 
 change it, because it has been so long published ; yet it always 
 annoys me. I wrote " That held the peach to the garden- 
 wall." Now this is not a characteristic of the scenery I had 
 in mind. The line should be " That held the pear to the 
 gable-wall." ' Whether this conversation occurred during
 
 328 NOTES. 
 
 Taylor's visit to Tennyson in 1857 (see p. 74 above), I cannot 
 say ; but the line was changed in the printed poem at least as 
 early as 1875, or two years before the review was written. 
 
 Page 159. — She heard the night-frnvl crow. — There has 
 been some discussion in the English ' Notes and Queries' and 
 elsewhere as to the birds meant by 'night-fowl.' It can hardly 
 be the cock mentioned in the next line, though 'crow' (prob- 
 ably used for the sake of the rhyme) would suggest that bird. 
 It appears to be used in a general way for the various birds 
 that are more or less heard at night in Lincolnshire, where 
 the scene is laid. 
 
 Page 160. — The duster'' d marish-mosses. — For the old 
 form 'marish' (now used only in poetry), compare 'The 
 Dying Swan ' : ' And far thro' the marish green and still ; ' 
 and ' the silvery marish-flowers ; ' and ' On a Mourner ' : ' With 
 moss and braided marish-pipe.' 
 
 IVo other tree did mark. — Originally ' did dark ; ' retained 
 in 1842, but changed as early as 1856. 
 
 The shrill winds were up and away. — The 1830 reading 
 was 'up an' away;' changed in 1842. In the next stanza 
 the original ' sung 1' the pane' was retained in 1842 and in 
 all the editions I have seen down to 1875. 
 
 Page 161. — Was slopi7ig toward his western bower. — Origi- 
 nally ' Downsloped ^ was westering in his bower ; ' changed 
 in 1842. 
 
 To . 
 
 First printed in 1830, and retained in 1842 with no change 
 except in the third and fourth lines, which originally read : 
 
 The knotted lies of human creeds, 
 The wounding cords which bind and strain. 
 
 Page 162. — With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. — Compare 
 'The Talking Oak': 'And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.' 
 
 1 In the volumes of 1S30 and 1833, compound words are, with 
 rare exceptions, printed without the hyphen ; as ' silverchiming,' 
 'gardenbowers,' ' mountainstreams, ' etc.
 
 NOTES. 329 
 
 Page 163. — Like that strange angel. — Compare Genesis, 
 xxxii. 22-32. 
 
 Madeline. 
 First printed in 1830, without the division into stanzas, 
 which was made in 1842. The only other change (except the 
 spelling 'airy' for 'aery') is 'amorously' for 'three times 
 three ' in the last stanza. 
 
 Song — The Owl. 
 This, with the ' Second Song to the Same,' was reprinted 
 in 1842 from the 1830 volume without alteration. 
 
 Recollections of the Arabian Nights. 
 
 This poem, one of the best in the volume of 1830, was 
 reprinted in 1842 with a few trivial changes. As Tainsh says, 
 it was ' interesting as foreshadowing the power of detailed 
 description, vivid and very pictorial, which shows itself fully 
 in " The Palace of Art." ' Peter Bayne remarks that it ' deci- 
 sively announced the rise of a great poet.' 
 
 Page 170. — Of braided blooms. — The 1830 volume has 
 * Of breaded blosms.' 
 
 Page 172. — Died round the bulbul as he sung. — For the 
 Persian name of the nightingale, compare ' The Princess,' 
 
 iv. 103 : — 
 
 ' Not for thee,' she said, 
 ' O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
 Shall burst her veil.' 
 
 Black the garden-bowers and grots. — The 1830 reading was 
 ' Blackgreen ' for ' Black.' 
 
 Page 173. — Their interspaces, coiinterchanged The level lake 
 with diamond-plots. — Compare ' In Memoriam,' Ixxxix. : — 
 Witch-elms that counterchange the floor 
 Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright. 
 
 Distinct with vivid stars inlaid. — The 1830 volume has 
 ' unrayed ' for ' inlaid ; ' and below ' I was borne ' for ' I was 
 drawn.'
 
 330 NOTES 
 
 Page 174. — Thick rosaries of scented thorn. — The obso- 
 lete rosaries (Latin rosaria), for rose-gardens or rose-beds, is 
 rare in poetry. I liave met with no other modern example of 
 it ; and * silvers ' for silver candlesticks below is perhaps also 
 unique. 
 
 Page 175. — DiaJ'er'd. — Entirely covered, as in diaper-work, 
 technically so called. Compare Spenser, ' Epithalamion,' 51 : 
 Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along, 
 And diapred lyke the discolored mead. 
 
 Ode to Memory. 
 
 The 1830 volume, instead of 'Addressed to ,' has 
 
 ' Written very Early in Life.' The changes in 1842 were few 
 and slight. 
 
 Page 179. — Sure she was nigher to heave/t's spheres, etc. — 
 Compare the prize poem of ' Timbuctoo,' 1829 : — 
 I have raised thee nigher to the spheres of heaven, 
 Man's first, last home ; and thou with ravish'd sense 
 Listenest the lordly music flowing from 
 Th' illimitable years. 
 
 Co7ne from the woods that belt, etc. — See p. 6 above. 
 
 Page iSi. — The high field on the bushless Pike. — One 
 meaning of 'pike,' according to Halliwell's 'Archaic and Pro- 
 vincial Dictionary,' is 'the top of a hill,' — not necessarily a 
 steep, pointed hill, like the Pikes of the English Lake Dis- 
 trict, though the dictionaries generally recognise only this 
 latter meaning of the word as applied to a hill. Of course 
 there are no such pikes, or peaks, in Lincolnshire, and there 
 could not be a 'field' on the top of them anywhere. 
 
 Like emblems of infinity. — Originally ' Emblems or glimpses 
 of infinity.' 
 
 Page 182. — With plaited alleys of the trailing rose. — Origi- 
 nally 'pleached alleys,' which means the same. Compare 
 ' Much Ado About Nothing,' i. 2. 10 : ' a thick-pleached alley in 
 mine orchard ; ' and the same play, iii. 1.7: — 
 the pleached bower, 
 Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun, 
 Forbid the sun to enter.
 
 NOTES. 331 
 
 And those whom passion hath not blinded. — The 1S30 
 volume has 'The few whom,' etc.; and just below: — 
 
 My friend, with thee to live alone, 
 Methinlcs were better than to own 
 A crown, a sceptre, and a throne ! 
 
 Song. 
 
 In the 1830 volume, and reprinted without change. 
 
 A Character. 
 Also from the 1830 volume without change. 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 For this poem, see pages 37 and 38 above. The only 
 change made in it since 1S30 (except 'secretest ' for ' secret'st ' 
 in the third stanza) is in the twelfth stanza, which originally 
 read thus : — 
 
 And in the bordure of her robe was writ 
 
 Wisdom, a name to shake 
 
 Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit, 
 
 And when she spake, etc. 
 
 Page 187. — Dozoer'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of 
 scorn, etc. — That is, with hatred of hate, etc. Rev. F. W. 
 Robertson explains it thus : ' That is, the Prophet of Truth 
 receives for his dower the scorn of men in whom scorn dwells, 
 hatred from men who hate, while his reward is the gratitude 
 and affection of men who seek the truth which they love, 
 more eagerly than the faults which their acuteness can blame.' 
 A very intelligent lady once told me that she had always un- 
 derstood ' hate of hate ' to mean the utmost intensity of hate, 
 etc., the poet's passions and sensibilities being to those of 
 ordinary men 'as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto 
 wine.' 
 
 From Calpe icnto Caucasus. — Calpe, one of the Pillars of 
 Hercules, was a western limit of the ancient world, as Cauca- 
 sus was an eastern.
 
 332 * NOTES. 
 
 The Poet's Mind. 
 Reprinted from the volume of 1830, with the omission of 
 the following passage after the seventh line : — 
 
 Clear as summer mountainstreams, 
 
 Bright as the inwoven beams, 
 
 Which beneath their crisping sapphire 
 
 In the midday, floating o'er 
 
 The golden sands, make evermore 
 
 To a blossomstarred shore. 
 
 Hence away, unhallowed laugher I 
 
 The second line of the second stanza was originally ' The 
 poet's mind is holy ground.' 
 
 The Sea-Fairies. 
 
 This poem, first printed in 1830, was suppressed until 1853, 
 when it appeared, with many changes, in the eighth edition 
 of the ' Poems.' 
 
 Page 192. — Betwixt the green battk. — The first reading 
 was ' Between the green bank.' 
 
 Whither away, whither away, whither away ? fly no more. — 
 In the 1830 volume the remainder of the poem is as follows : 
 
 Whither away wi' the singing sail ? whither away wi' the oar ? 
 Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ? 
 Weary mariners, hither away, 
 
 One and all, one and all, 
 Weary mariners, come and play ; 
 We will sing to you all the day; 
 
 Furl the sail and the foam will fall 
 
 From the prow ! One and all 
 
 Furl the sail ! drop the oar ! 
 Leap ashore ! 
 Know danger and trouble and toil no moret 
 Whither away wi' the sail and the oar ? 
 
 Drop the oar, 
 Leap ashore, 
 Fly no more I 
 Whither away wi' the sail f whither away wi' the oar ?
 
 NOTES. 333 
 
 Day and night to the billow the fountain calls : 
 Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
 
 From wandering over the lea ; 
 They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 
 And thick with white bells the cloverhill swells 
 
 High over the fulltoned sea. 
 Merrily carol the revelling gales 
 
 Over the islands free : 
 From the green seabanks the rose down trails 
 
 To the happy brimmed sea. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, and be our lords, 
 
 For merry brides are we . 
 We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words. 
 Oh listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
 
 With pleasure and love and revelry ; 
 Oh listen, listen, 3'our eyes shall glisten. 
 When the clear sharp twang of the golden chords 
 Runs up the ridged sea. 
 Ye will not find so happy a shore, 
 Weary mariners I all the world o'er ; 
 Oh ! fly no more ! 
 Harken ye, barken ye, sorrow shall darken ye, 
 Danger and trouble and toil no more ; 
 Whither away? 
 
 Drop the oar; 
 Hither away, 
 Leap ashore ; 
 Oh fly no more — no more. 
 Whither away, whither away, whither away with the sail and the oar ? 
 
 The Deserted House. 
 First printed in 1830, omitted in 1842, but subsequently 
 restored without alteration. 
 
 The Dying Swan. 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the volume of 1S30 with two slight 
 verbal changes : ' And loudly did lament ' for ' Which loudly,' 
 etc. ; and ' Above in the wind was the swallow ' for ' sung the 
 swallow.'
 
 334 NOTES. 
 
 A Dirge. 
 
 Reprinted in 1S42 from the volume of 1S30 wittiout altera- 
 tion. 
 
 Page 200. — The silver birk. — Birk is a Northern English 
 and Scotch form for birch. 
 
 Fretteth thine enshrouded for7n. — See note on The biisy fret, 
 etc., p. 325 above. 
 
 Page 201. — The woodbine and eglatere. — The 'Century 
 Dictionary ' calls eglatere ' a spurious modern archaism,' the 
 correct form being eglentere or eglentier. 
 
 And long purples of the dale. — The ' early purple orchis ' 
 {Orchis mascula). — In the 1830 volume 'long purples' is 
 printed as a quotation. The poet doubtless decided after- 
 wards that the allusion to poor Ophelia's flowers (' Hamlet,' 
 iv. 7. 171) was too familiar to call for acknowledgment. 
 
 Love and Death. 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the 1830 volume without alteration. 
 Page 203. — Life eminent. — That is, standing above other 
 things; the etymological sense of the word. 
 
 The Ballad of Oriana. 
 Reprinted in 1842 with no change from the original version 
 of 1830. 
 
 Circumstance. 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the volume of 1830, with no change 
 except in the last line, which originally began, ' Fill up the 
 round,' etc. 
 
 The Merman. 
 This poem and the next one reprinted in 1842 with no 
 change from the 1830 text. 
 
 Page 210. — The white sea-flower. — Perhaps the sea- 
 anemone, which, though an animal, gets its name from the 
 resemblance of its outspread tentacles to the petals of a flower. 
 Page 211. — Tnrkis and agate and alniondine. — Turkis 
 represents the pronunciation properly belonging to the word
 
 NOTES. 335 
 
 now commonly spelled turquoise. Alviondine or almandine is a 
 precious stone first brought from Alabanda, a city in Asia 
 Minor. The name is a corruption of the Latin adjective 
 Alabandina [gemtiia being understood). 
 
 Adeline. 
 Reprinted in 1S42 from the 1S30 volume, with two slight 
 changes in the fifth stanza : ' the side of the morn ' for 
 ' the side o' the morn,' and ' locks a-drooping ' for ' locks 
 a-dropping.' 
 
 Margaret. 
 
 First printed in the volume of 1833, and slightly changed 
 in 1842. 
 
 Page 221. — The lion-heart, Plantagenet. — Originally ' The 
 lion-souled Plantagenet.' The allusion to the story of 
 Richard I. and Blondel needs no explanation. Chatelet, 
 mentioned just below, was proscribed in the Reign of Terror 
 and executed in December, 1793. 
 
 Page 222. — Attd less aerially blue. — The original reading 
 was ' And more aerially blue,' with ' And ' instead of ' But ' in 
 the next line. 
 
 Rosalind. 
 Printed in 1833, but suppressed until 1884, when it was 
 restored without any change in the poem itself. In 1833 the 
 following was appended to it : — 
 
 NOTE TO ROSALIND. 
 
 Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem ; 
 originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly 
 improper. 
 
 My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 
 Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, 
 
 Is one of those who know no strife 
 
 Of inward woe or outward fear , 
 
 To whom the slope and stream of Life, 
 
 The life before, the life behind, 
 
 In the ear, from far and near.
 
 336 NOTES. 
 
 Chimeth musically clear. 
 My falconhearted Rosalind, 
 FuUsailed before a vigorous wind, 
 Is one of those who cannot weep 
 For others' woes, but overleap 
 All the petty shocks and fears 
 That trouble life in early years, 
 With a flash of frolic scorn 
 And keen delight, that never falls 
 Away from freshness, self-upborne 
 With such gladness as, whenever 
 The freshflushing springtime calls 
 To the flooding waters cool, 
 Young fishes, on an April morn, 
 Up and down a rapid river. 
 Leap the little waterfalls 
 That sing into the pebbled pool. 
 My happy falcon, Rosalind, 
 Hath daring fancies of her own. 
 Fresh as the davm before the day. 
 Fresh as the early seasmell blown 
 Through vineyards from an inland bay. 
 My Rosalind, my Rosalind, 
 Because no shadow on you falls. 
 Think you hearts are tennisballs. 
 To play vrith, wanton Rosalind ? 
 
 Eleanore. 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the 1833 volume, with some 
 changes in the seventh and eighth stanzas. 
 
 Page 229. — How may full-saiPd verse express. — Evidently 
 a reminiscence of Shakespeare, Sonnet 86 : ' Was it the 
 proud full sail of his great verse,' etc. 
 
 Page 231. — Roofd the world with doubt and fear. — Origi- 
 nally ' Did roof noonday,' etc. 
 
 Page 232. — As waves that up a quiet cave, etc. The 
 original reading was : — 
 
 As waves that from the outer deep 
 
 Roll into a quiet cove, 
 
 There fall away, and lying still.
 
 NOTES. 337 
 
 Having glorious dreams in sleep, 
 
 Shadow forth the banks at will : 
 
 Or sometimes they swell and move, etc. 
 
 While the amorous, odorous wind. — Originally ' When the 
 amorous,' etc. 
 
 Page 233. — / watch thy grace, etc. — For this line the 
 edition of 1833 had the following : — 
 
 I gaze on thee the cloudless noon 
 Of mortal beauty : in its place, etc. 
 
 Floweth ; and then, as in a swoon. — Originally ' Floweth ; 
 then I faint, I swoon.* 
 
 My Life is full of Weary Days. 
 
 First printed in 1833, with the heading ' To .* The 
 
 first two stanzas were not reprinted until 1865, when they 
 appeared in the volume of 'Selections' in their present form. 
 The original reading was as follows : — 
 
 I. 
 
 All good things have not kept aloof, 
 
 Nor wander'd into other ways : 
 I have not lacked thy mild reproof. 
 
 Nor golden largess of thy praise, 
 
 But life is full of weary days. 
 
 II. 
 Shake hands, my friend, across the brink 
 
 Of that deep grave to which I go. 
 Shake hands once more : I cannot sink 
 
 So far — far down, but I shall know 
 
 Thy voice, and answer from below. 
 
 The next three stanzas were added later, with no change 
 except 'scritches of the jay' for 'laughters of the jay,' and 
 ' darnel ' for ' darnels.' 
 
 The following stanzas, with which the poem originally 
 ended (connected closely with the preceding, there being 
 only a comma after ' the woodbines blow '), have not been 
 restored : — 
 
 VOL. I. — 22
 
 $$$ NOTES. 
 
 VI. 
 
 If thou art blest, my mother's smile 
 Undimmed, if bees are on the wing : 
 
 Then cease, my friend, a little while, 
 That I may hear the throstle sing 
 His bridal song, the boast of spring. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Sweet as the noise in parched plains 
 Of bubbling wells that fret the stones 
 
 (If any sense in me remains), 
 Thy words will be ; thy cheerful tones 
 As welcome to my crumbling bones. 
 
 The ' Quarterly Review ' for July, 1833, had its fling at the 
 line, ' If any sense in me remains.' ' This doubt,' it says, 
 is ' inconsistent with the opening stanza of the piece, and, in 
 fact, too modest ; we take upon ourselves to reassure Mr. 
 Tennyson that, even after he shall be dead and buried, as 
 much " sejtse " will still remain as he has now the good 
 fortune to possess.' 
 
 Page 235. — New-flush'' d with may. — That is, with the 
 blossoms of the hawthorn. Compare ' The Miller's Daughter : ' 
 ' The lanes, you know, were white with may.' Here, as there, 
 some of the American reprints put ' May ' for ' may.' 
 
 Early Sonnets. 
 
 I. To . — In the 1833 volume, but suppressed in 1842. 
 
 The original version has ' a confused dream ' in the third 
 line ; ' Altho' I knew not ' in the twelfth ; and the last line 
 reads, ' And each had lived in the other's mind and speech.' 
 In the eighth line ' hath ' is italicised. 
 
 II. To J. M. K. — Reprinted in 1842 from the 1830 vol- 
 ume. It is addressed to John Mitchell Kemble (1807-1857), 
 who was a fellow-student of the poet at Cambridge. He gave 
 up his purpose of entering the Church (to which this sonnet 
 refers), and devoted himself to Anglo-Saxon studies. 
 
 III. — In the 1833 volume, but suppressed in 1842. In the 
 first line ' full ' was originally ' fierce ; ' and in the twelfth 
 ' warm ' was ' great.'
 
 A'OTES. 339 
 
 IV. Alexander. — First published in the 'Library 
 Edition ' of the ' Poems,' 1S72-73. 
 
 The story of the visit of Alexander to the oracle of Jupiter 
 Ammon in the Libyan Desert is well-known. 
 
 V. Buonaparte. — In the 1S33 volume, but suppressed in 
 1842. The only variation from the original version is in the 
 third line, which had ' that ' for ' who.' For the Scriptural 
 allusion in the last line, see Judges, viii. 7, 16. 
 
 VL Poland. — In the 1833 volume, where it is entitled 
 ' On the Result of the late Russian Invasion of Poland ; ' 
 suppressed in 1842. The original version had ' How long 
 shall the icy-hearted Muscovite ' in the tenth line. 
 
 VII. — This sonnet and the two that follow were first 
 printed in the ' Selections ' of 1865, with the heading, ' Three 
 Sonnets to a Coquette.' The only alterations are in the first 
 line of VII., which originally had ' dainty ' for ' slender,' 
 and the fifth line of VIII., which had ' waltzing-circle ' for 
 ' whirling dances.' 
 
 At the end of IX. there is an allusion to the old proverb, 
 ' A green Christmas makes a fat churchyard.' 
 
 X. — Printed in 1833, but suppressed in 1842. The origi- 
 nal reading of the first line was ' But were I loved,' etc. 
 
 XI. The Brides.maid. — Like IV., first printed in 1872. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 First printed in 1833, and much altered in 1842. 
 The last four lines of the first stanza were originally as 
 follows : — 
 
 The yellowleaved waterlily, 
 The greensheathed daffodilly, 
 Tremble in the water chilly. 
 
 Round about Shalott. 
 
 The next stanza began thus : — 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens shiver. 
 
 The sunbeam-showers break and quiver 
 
 In the stream that runneth ever, eic.
 
 340 NOTES. 
 
 The first reading of the third and fourth stanzas was : — 
 
 Underneath the bearded barley, 
 The reaper, reaping late and early, 
 Hears her ever chanting cheerly, 
 Like an angel, singing clearly, 
 
 O'er the stream of Camelot. 
 Piling the sheaves in furrows airy. 
 Beneath the moon, the reaper weary 
 Listening whispers, "t is the fairy 
 
 Lady of Shalott.' 
 
 The little isle is all inrailed 
 With a rose-fence, and overtraded 
 With roses : by the marge unhailed 
 The shallop flitteth silkensailed. 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot. 
 A pearlgarland winds her head : 
 She leaneth on a velvet bed, 
 Full royally apparellfed, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Part n. goes on thus : — 
 
 No time hath she to sport and play : 
 A charmfed web she weaves alway. 
 A curse is on her, if she stay 
 Her weaving, either night or day. 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not what the curse may be ; 
 Therefore she weaveth steadily. 
 Therefore no other care hath she, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 She lives with little joy or fear. 
 Over the water, running near, 
 The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. 
 Before her hangs a mirror clear, 
 
 Reflecting towered Camelot, 
 And as the mazy web she whirls. 
 She sees the surly village-churls, etc. 
 
 The next stanza (' Sometimes a troop,' etc.) is unchanged ; 
 and the only alteration in the next is ' went to Camelot ' for 
 • came from Camelot.'
 
 NOTES. 341 
 
 In Part III. the fifth line of the second and third stanzas 
 had ' down from Camelot ; ' the last line of the third had 
 ' over green Shalott ; ' the eighth line of the fourth was 
 ' Tirra lirra, tirra lirra ; ' and the third line of the fifth had 
 ' water-flower.' 
 
 In Part IV. the latter part of the first stanza was as 
 follows : — 
 
 Outside the isle a shallow boat 
 Beneath a willow lay afloat, 
 Below the carven stem she wrote, 
 The Lady of Shalott, 
 
 Then followed this stanza : — 
 
 A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight. 
 All raimented in snowy white 
 That loosely flew (her zone in sight, 
 Clasped with one blinding diamond bright) 
 
 Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, 
 Though the squally eastwind keenly 
 Blew, with folded arms serenely 
 By the water stood the queenly 
 
 Lady of Shalott. 
 
 The next stanza opened thus : — 
 
 With a steady stony glance — 
 Like some bold seer in a trance. 
 Beholding all his own mischance, 
 Mute, with a glassy countenance — 
 
 She looked down, to Camelot. 
 It was the closing, etc. 
 
 The remaining stanzas were as follows : — 
 As when to sailors while they roam, 
 By creeks and outfalls far from home. 
 Rising and dropping with the foam, 
 From dying swans wild warblings come. 
 
 Blown shoreward ; so to Camelot 
 Still as the boathead wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among. 
 They heard her chanting her deathsong, 
 The Lady of Shalott.
 
 342 NOTES. 
 
 A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, 
 She chanted loudly, chanted lowly. 
 Till her eyes were darkened wholly, 
 And her smooth face sharpened slowly, 
 Turned to towered Camelot : 
 For ere she reached, etc. 
 
 Under tower and balcony, 
 
 By gardenwall and gallery, 
 
 A pale, pale corpse she floated by, 
 
 Deadcold, between the houses high, 
 
 Dead into towered Camelot. 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame. 
 To the planked wharfage came : 
 Below the stern they read her name, 
 
 ' The Lady of Shalott.' 
 
 They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, 
 Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. 
 There lay a parchment on her breast, 
 That puzzled more than all the rest, 
 
 The wellfed wits at Camelot. 
 ' The web was woven curiously, 
 The charm is broken utterly, 
 Draw near and fear not — this is I, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott.^ 
 
 The ending of the poem is much improved by the revision. 
 The 'wellfed wits' (the epithet seems out of keeping here) 
 might well be ' puzzled ' by the parchment, which is as 
 pointless as it is enigmatical; but the new ending, with its 
 introduction of Lancelot, is most pathetic and suggestive. 
 
 According to Palgrave ('Lyrical Poems by Tennyson'), 
 the poem was suggested by ' an Italian romance upon the 
 Domta di Scalotta, in which Camelot, unlike the Celtic tradi- 
 tion, was placed near the sea.' It is in a very different form 
 that the legend reappears in the ' Idylls of the King.' 
 
 Page 254. — Dead-pale between the houses high. — The 
 reading of 1842 (and down to 1S73) ^^^^ ' A corse between,' etc.
 
 NOTES. 343 
 
 Mariana in the South. 
 
 First printed in 1833, but changed so much in 1842 that I 
 give the original form in full : — 
 
 Behind the barren hill upsprung 
 
 With pointed rocks against the light, 
 The crag sharpshadowed overhung 
 
 Each glaring creek and inlet bright. 
 Far, far, one lightblue ridge was seen, 
 Looming like baseless fairyland ; 
 Eastward a slip of burning sand, 
 Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green. 
 Down in the dry salt-marshes stood 
 That house darklatticed. Not a breath 
 Swayed the sick vineyard underneath, 
 Or moved the dusty southernwood. 
 ' Madonna,' with melodious moan 
 Sang Mariana, night and morn, 
 ' Madonna ! lo ! I am all alone, 
 Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.' 
 
 She, as her carol sadder grew, 
 
 From her warm brow and bosom down 
 Through rosy taper fingers drew 
 
 Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
 On either side, and made appear, 
 Still-lighted in a secret shrine. 
 Her melancholy eyes divine, 
 The home of woe without a tear. 
 
 Madonna,' with melodious moan 
 Sang Mariana, night and mom, 
 ' Madonna ! lo ! I am all alone, 
 Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.' 
 
 When the dawncrimson changed, and past 
 
 Into deep orange o'er the sea, 
 Low on her knees herself she cast, 
 
 Unto our lady prayed she. 
 She moved her lips, she prayed alone, 
 
 She praying disarrayed and warm
 
 344 NOTES. 
 
 From slumber, deep her wavy form 
 In the darkhistrous mirror shone. 
 ' Madonna,' in a low clear tone 
 Said Mariana, night and morn, 
 Low she mourned, ' I am all alone, 
 Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.' 
 
 At noon she slumbered. All along 
 
 The silvery field, the large leaves talked 
 With one another, as among 
 
 The spiked maize in dreams she walked. 
 The lizard leapt : the sunlight played : 
 She heard the callow nestling lisp. 
 And brimful meadow-runnels crisp. 
 In the full-leaved platan-shade. 
 
 In sleep she breathed in a lower tone, 
 Murmuring as at night and morn, 
 ' Madonna ! lo ! I am all alone. 
 Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.' 
 
 Dreaming, she knew it was a dream 
 
 Most false : he was and was not there. 
 She woke : the babble of the stream 
 Fell, and without the steady glare 
 Shrank the sick olive sere and small. 
 The riverbed was dusty-white; 
 From the bald rock the blinding light 
 Beat ever on the sunwhite wall. 
 
 She whispered, with a stifled moan 
 More inward than at night or mom, 
 ' Madonna, leave me not all alone, 
 To die forgotten and live forlorn.' 
 
 One dry cicala's summer song 
 At night filled all the gallery, 
 
 Backward the latticeblind she flung. 
 And leaned upon the balcony. 
 
 Ever the low wave seemed to roll 
 Up to the coast : far on, alone 
 In the East, large Hesper overshone 
 
 The mourning gulf, and on her soul
 
 NOTES. 345 
 
 Poured divine solace, or the rise 
 Of moonlight from the margin gleamed, 
 Volcano-like, afar, and streamed 
 
 On her white arm, and heavenward eyes. 
 Not all alone she made her moan, 
 Yet ever sang she, night and morn, 
 ' Madonna ! lo ! I am all alone. 
 Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.' 
 
 The only change since 1S42 is in the fifth line of the fifth 
 stanza, which in that edition retains the original ' Shrank the 
 sick olive,' etc. 
 
 Page 260. — At eve a dry cicala sung. — Cicala is the 
 Italian for cicada. Compare Browning, ' Pippa Passes,' 
 prol. : 'Nor yet cicala dared carouse.' 
 
 The Two Voices. 
 
 First published in 1842 (when it was dated iS33),and unal- 
 tered except in the last stanza but one, the first line of which 
 was originally 'So variously seem'd all things wrought.' 
 
 The poem, according to Palgrave (who unquestionably 
 writes ' with authority '), describes ' the conflict in a soul 
 between Scepticism and Faith.' 
 
 Page 261. — To-day I saw the dragon-fly, etc. — This utter- 
 ance of the Voice has been variously interpreted. Peter 
 Bayne (who is followed by Professor Corson) understands it 
 to mean ' that the shuffling off of this mortal coil may open 
 to him new spheres of energy and happiness ; ' and that ' the 
 reply of the poet is that man is nature's highest product, 
 — the obvious suggestion being that there is no splendid 
 dragon-fly into which the human grub, released by death, is 
 likely to develop.' But (as I remarked in my ' Select Poems 
 of Tennyson,' in 1884) this 'suggestion,' so far from being 
 ' obvious,' seems to me merely a desperate attempt to 
 make the reference to the higher nature of man a ' reply ' to 
 what the critic assumes that the Voice means to say. For 
 myself, I had no hesitation in adopting Tainsh's interpreta- 
 tion of the passage: 'A dragon-fly is more wonderful than
 
 346 NOTES. 
 
 you ; ' and Lord Tennyson afterwards explained it to me in 
 almost the same words : ' The dragon-fly is as wonderful as 
 you.' 
 
 Page 264. — The thorn will blow. — That is, the hawthorn. 
 
 Page 265. — The furzy prickle. — The prickly furze, or 
 gorse. 
 
 Page 268. — When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, etc. — 
 No doubt Professor Corson is right in seeing in this and the 
 following stanzas an allusion to the poet's university life. 
 Compare p. 27 above. 
 
 Page 270. — The riddle of the earth. — Compare 'The 
 Palace of Art ' : — 
 
 Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 
 Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone. 
 
 Page 271. — Sometimes a little corner shines, etc. — See 
 p. 17 above. 
 
 Page 273. — Like Stephen, an iinqnenched fire. — See p. 21 
 above. 
 
 The elements were kitidlier mix^d. — An allusion to the old 
 notion that man was composed of the four elements, earth, 
 air, fire, and water, and that the well-balanced mixture of 
 these produced the perfection of humanity. Compare 
 Shakespeare, ' Julius Caesar,' v. 5. 73 : — 
 
 His life was gentle, and the elements 
 
 So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up 
 
 And say to all the world, ' This was a man ! ' 
 
 Page 280. — Some draught of Lethe, etc. — Compare Virgil, 
 '.(^neid,' vi. 748 fol. 
 
 Page 286. — You scarce could see the grass for flowers. — 
 Compare George Peele, ' Araynment of Paris ' : — 
 
 And rounde about the valley as ye passe, 
 
 Ye may ne see, for peeping floures, the grasse.
 
 NOTES. 347 
 
 The Miller's Daughter. 
 
 First printed in 1833, but much changed in 1842. It origi- 
 nally began with this stanza : — 
 
 I met in all the close green ways, 
 
 While walking with my line and rod, 
 The wealthy miller's mealy face, 
 
 Like the moon in an ivy-tod. 
 He look'd so jolly and so good, 
 
 While fishing in the mill-dam water, 
 I laugh'd to see him as he stood, 
 
 And dreamt not of the miller's daughter. 
 
 The second stanza, now the first, remains unaltered, and 
 the only change in the next is ' can make ' for ' makes ' in the 
 last line. In the next (third) stanza, the original reading in 
 the second line was ' My darling Alice,' and ' my own sweet 
 wife ' in the sixth line. 
 
 The fourth stanza ('Have I not found,' etc.) was added 
 in 1842. 
 
 The fifth stanza originally stood thus : — 
 
 My father's mansion, mounted high. 
 Looked down upon the village spire. 
 
 I was a long and listless boy, 
 And son and heir unto the squire. 
 
 In these dear walls, where I and you 
 Have lived and loved alone so long, 
 
 Each morn my sleep, etc. 
 
 The sixth stanza began : — 
 
 I often heard the cooing dove 
 
 In firry woodlands mourn alone ; 
 But ere I saw, etc. 
 
 The last line had ' the long ' for ' those long.' 
 The seventh stanza was as follows : — 
 
 Sometimes I whistled in the wind, 
 
 Sometimes I angled, thought and deed 
 
 Torpid, as swallows left behind 
 
 That vdnter 'neath the floating weed :
 
 348 NOTES. 
 
 At will to wander everyway 
 
 From brook to brook my sole delight, 
 As lithe eels over meadows gray 
 
 Oft shift their glimmering pool by night. 
 
 The eighth stanza was the one now made the thirteenth, 
 and the first quatrain read thus : — 
 
 How dear to me in youth, my love, 
 
 Was everything about the mill — 
 The black and silent pool above. 
 
 The pool beneath that ne'er stood still, etc. 
 
 The ninth and tenth were as follows : — 
 
 I loved from off the bridge to hear 
 
 The rushing sound the water made, 
 And see the fish that everywhere 
 
 In the backcurrent glanced and played : 
 Low down the tall fiagfiower that sprung 
 
 Beside the noisy steppingstones. 
 And the massed chestnutboughs that hung 
 
 Thickstudded over with white cones. 
 
 Remember you that pleasant day 
 
 When, after roving in the woods, 
 ('T was April then) I came and lay 
 
 Beneath those gummy chestnutbuds 
 That glistened in the April blue 
 
 Upon the slope so smooth and cool, 
 I lay and never thought of you, 
 
 But angled in the deep millpool. 
 
 The stanza beginning ' A love-song,' etc., was not in the 
 original version, which continued thus: — 
 
 A water-rat from off the bank 
 
 Plunged in the stream. With idle care, 
 Downlooking through the sedges rank, 
 
 I saw your troubled image there. 
 Upon the dark and dimpled beck 
 
 It wandered like a floating light, 
 A full fair form, a warm white neck. 
 
 And two white arms — how rosy white !
 
 NOTES. 349 
 
 If you remember, you had set 
 
 Upon the narrow casement-edge 
 A long green box of mignonette, 
 
 And you were leaning from the ledge. 
 I raised my eyes at once : above 
 
 They met two eyes so blue and bright, 
 Such eyes ! I swear to you, my love, 
 
 That they have never lost their light. 
 
 The next (thirteenth) stanza, now suppressed, was as 
 follows : — 
 
 That slope beneath the chestnut tall. 
 
 Is wooed with choicest breaths of air ; 
 Methinks that I could tell you all 
 
 The cowslips and the kingcups there ; 
 Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, 
 
 Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, 
 Each quaintly-folded cuckoo-pint, 
 
 And silver-paly cuckoo flower. 
 
 The fourteenth was : — 
 
 In rambling on the eastern wold, 
 
 When thro' the showery April nights 
 Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, 
 
 From all the other village lights 
 I knew your taper far away. 
 
 My heart was full of trembling hope, 
 Down from the wold I came and lay 
 
 Upon the dewy swarded slope. 
 
 The fifteenth was as follows : — 
 
 The white chalkquarry from the hill 
 
 Upon the broken ripple gleamed, 
 I murmured lowly, sitting still. 
 
 While round my feet the eddy streamed : 
 * Oh ! that I were the wreath she wears. 
 
 The mirror where her sight she feeds. 
 The song she sings, the air she breathes. 
 
 The letters of the book she reads.'
 
 35° NOTES. 
 
 The sixteenth was identical with the present sixteenth, 
 * Sometimes I saw you sit and spin,' etc. 
 The seventeenth was : — 
 
 I loved, but when I dared to speak 
 
 My love, the lawns were white with May ; 
 
 Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek 
 Flushed like the coming of the day : 
 
 Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy, 
 You would, etc. 
 
 ' May,' which may have been a misprint, was changed to 
 ' may ' in 1842. 
 
 The eighteenth and nineteenth (afterwards omitted to 
 make room for the three new ones, in which Alice is brought 
 to visit his mother, — the present eighteenth, nineteenth, and 
 twentieth) were as follows : — 
 
 Remember you the clear moonlight 
 
 That whitened all the eastern ridge, v 
 When o'er the water, dancing white, 
 
 I stept upon the old mill-bridge ? 
 I heard you whisper from above 
 
 A lute-toned whisper, ' I am here ; ' 
 I murmured, ' Speak again, my love, 
 
 The stream is loud ; 1 cannot hear.' 
 
 I heard, as I have seemed to hear. 
 
 When all the under air was still. 
 The low voice of the glad new year 
 
 Call to the freshly-flowered hill. 
 I heard, as I have often heard, 
 
 The nightingale in leafy woods 
 Call to its mate, when nothing stirred 
 
 To left or right but falling floods. 
 
 The twentieth stanza was as follows : — 
 
 Come, Alice, sing to me the song 
 
 I made you on our marriageday, 
 When, arm in arm, we went along 
 
 Half-tearfully, and you were gay
 
 NOTES. 351 
 
 With brooch and ring : for I -shall seem, 
 The while you sing that song, to hear 
 
 The millwheel turning in the stream. 
 And the green chestnut whisper near. 
 
 The ' Song ' was originally this : — 
 
 I wish I were her earring 
 
 Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek, 
 (So might my shadow tremble 
 
 Over her downy cheek) 
 Hid in her hair, all day and night, 
 Touching her neck so warm and white. 
 
 I wish I were the girdle 
 
 Buckled about her dainty waist, 
 That her heart might beat against me 
 
 In sorrow and in rest. 
 I should know well if it beat right, 
 I 'd clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 I wish I were her necklace, 
 
 So might I ever fall and rise 
 Upon her balmy bosom 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs. 
 I would lie round so warm and light 
 I would not be unclasped at night. 
 
 The next stanzas (twenty-first and twenty-second) were: 
 
 A trifle, sweet, which true love spells — 
 
 True love interprets right alone ; 
 For o'er each letter broods and dwells 
 
 (Like light from running waters thrown 
 On flowery swaths) the blissful flame 
 
 Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night. 
 With pulses thrilling thro' his frame 
 
 Do inly tremble, starrybright. 
 
 How I waste language — yet in truth 
 You must blame love, whose early rage 
 
 Made me a rhymester in my youth, 
 And over-garrulous in age.
 
 352 NOTES. 
 
 Sing me that other song I made, 
 
 Half-angered with my happy lot, 
 When in the breezy limewood-shade 
 
 1 found the blue forget-me-not. 
 
 This was the second ' Song ' : — 
 
 All yesternight you met me not. 
 My ladylove, forget me not. 
 When I am gone, regret me not, 
 But, here or there, forget me not. 
 With your arched eyebrow threat me not, 
 And tremulous eyes, like April skies, 
 
 That seem to say, ' forget me not.' 
 
 I pray you, love, forget me not. 
 
 In idle sorrow set me not ; 
 Regret me not : forget me not : 
 Oh 1 leave me not ; oh, let me not 
 Wear quite away ; — forget me not. 
 With roguish laughter fret me not 
 From dewy eyes, like April skies. 
 
 That ever look, ' forget me not,' 
 
 Blue as the blue forget-me-not. 
 
 The twenty-third stanza is unaltered from the one begin- 
 ning ' Look thro' mine eyes with thine,' etc. ; and the twenty- 
 fourth and last is the same that now ends the poem, except 
 that the first quatrain reads thus : — 
 
 I 've half a mind to walk, my love. 
 
 To the old mill across the wolds. 
 For look ! the sunset from above 
 
 Winds all the vale in rosy folds, etc. 
 
 The present twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth stanzas (' Yet 
 tears they shed,' etc.) were added in 1842. In the seventh line 
 of the twenty-fifth all the American editions that I have seen 
 (from 1842 down) have ' the loss that brought ' instead of 
 ' had brought.'
 
 NOTES. 353 
 
 Fatima. 
 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the volume of 1833, where, instead of 
 the present title, it has for heading the following quotation : 
 
 4>a(j'6Tof fioi Krjvos fffos 0eo7cnv 
 EfifiiV avT]p. — Sappho. 
 
 The second stanza was added in 1842. The only other 
 change from the original version is the substitution of ' from ' 
 for ' at ' in the second line of the poem. 
 
 CEnone. 
 
 First printed in 1833, but materially altered in 1842 and 
 slightly since. 
 
 The poem originally began thus : — 
 
 There is a dale in Ida, lovelier 
 
 Than any in old Ionia, beautiful 
 
 With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean 
 
 Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn 
 
 A path thro' steepdown granite walls below 
 
 Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front 
 
 The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. 
 
 Far-seen, high over all the Godbuilt wall 
 
 And many a snowycolumned range divine, 
 
 Mounted with awful sculptures — men and Gods, 
 
 The work of Gods — bright on the darkblue sky 
 
 The windy citadel of Ilion 
 
 Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came 
 
 Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
 
 Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, 
 
 Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, 
 
 Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. 
 
 She, leaning on a vine-entwined stone, 
 
 Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow 
 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the upper chff. 
 
 ' O mother Ida. manyfountained Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 VOL. I. — 23
 
 354 NOTES. 
 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass, 
 
 The Hzard with his shadow on the stone 
 
 Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged i 
 
 Cicala in the noonday leapeth not. 
 
 Along the water-rounded granite-rock 
 
 The purple flower droops : the golden bee, etc. 
 
 The text then goes on without change (except the insertion 
 of the line, ' I waited underneath the dawning hills,' which is 
 not in the first version) to the line, ' Came up from reedy 
 Simois all alone.' It then proceeds as follows : — 
 
 ' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 
 I sate alone : the goldensandalled morn 
 
 Rosehued the scornful hills : I sate alone 
 
 With downdropt eyes : whitebreasted like a star 
 
 Fronting the dawn he came : a leopard skin 
 
 From his white shoulder drooped : his sunny hair 
 
 Clustered about his temples like a God's : 
 
 And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens 
 
 When the wind blows the foam ; and I called out, 
 
 " Welcome, Apollo, welcome home, Apollo, 
 
 Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo." 
 
 ' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 
 He, mildly smiling, in his milkwhite palm 
 
 Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright 
 
 With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven 
 
 Ambrosially smelling. From his lip. 
 
 Curved crimson, the fullflowing river of speech 
 
 Came down upon my heart. 
 
 " My own CEnone, 
 Beautifulbrowed CEnone, mine own soul. 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n 
 ' For the most fair ' in aftertime may breed 
 Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sere 
 Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion ; 
 
 1 In the Pyrenees, where part of this poem was written, I saw a 
 very beautiful species of Cicala, which had scarlet wings spotted with 
 black. Probably nothing of the kind exists in Mount Ida.
 
 NOTES. 355 
 
 And all the colour of my afterlife 
 Will be the shadow of today. Today 
 Here and Pallas and the floating grace 
 Of laugh terloving Aphrodite meet 
 In manyfolded Ida to receive 
 This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand 
 Award the palm. Within the green hillside, 
 Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, 
 Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar 
 And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein 
 Thou unbeholden may'st behold, unheard 
 Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods." 
 
 ' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 
 It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud 
 
 Had lost his way between the piney hills. 
 
 They came — all three — the Olympian goddesses : 
 
 Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower, 
 
 Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed 
 
 Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, 
 
 Shadowed with singing pine ; and all the while, 
 
 Above, the overwandering ivy and vine 
 
 This way and that in many a wild festoon 
 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 
 With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'. 
 
 On the treetops a golden glorious cloud 
 
 Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. 
 
 How beautiful they were, too beautiful 
 
 To look upon ! but Paris was to me 
 
 More lovelier than all the world beside. 
 
 ' O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. 
 First spake the imperial Olympian 
 With arched eyebrow smiling sovranly, 
 Fulleyed Here. She to Paris made 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 Unquestioned, overflowing revenue 
 Wherewith to embellish state " from many a vale 
 And riversundered champaign clothed with com, 
 Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine — 
 Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll
 
 356 NOTES. 
 
 From many an inland town and haven large, 
 Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers." 
 
 ' O mother Ida, hearken ere 1 die. 
 
 Still she spake on and still she spake of power 
 
 " Which in all action is the end of all. 
 
 Power fitted to the season, measured by 
 
 The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn 
 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neighbour crowns 
 
 Alliance and allegiance evermore. 
 
 Such boon from me Heaven's Queen to thee kingborn," etc. 
 
 The next six lines follov^r without change, and the speech 
 of Juno ends with these two lines, afterwards suppressed : 
 
 The changeless calm of undisputed right. 
 
 The highest height and topmost strength of power. 
 
 There is no change in the next ten lines, except ' Flattered 
 his spirit ' for ' Flatter'd his heart.' 
 
 The speech of Pallas originally stood thus : 
 
 ' Self reverence, self knowledge, self control 
 
 Are the three hinges of the gates of Life, 
 
 That open into power, everyway 
 
 Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud. 
 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 
 Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law, 
 
 Acting the law we live by without fear, 
 
 And because right is right, to follow right 
 
 Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence. 
 
 (Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.) 
 
 Not as men value gold because it tricks 
 
 And blazons outward Life with ornament. 
 
 But rather as the miser, for itself. 
 
 Good for self good doth half destroy selfgood. 
 
 The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect 
 
 Each other, bound in one with hateful love. 
 
 So both into the fountain and the stream 
 
 A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me. 
 
 And look upon me and consider me. 
 
 So shalt thou find me fairest, so endurance,
 
 NOTES. 357 
 
 Like to an athlete's arm, shall still become 
 Sinew'd with motion, till thine active will 
 (As the dark body of the Sun robed round 
 With his own ever-emanating lights) 
 Be flooded o'er with her own effluences, 
 And thereby grow to freedom.' 
 
 Here she ceased, etc. 
 
 The next five lines are unchanged, and the poem then goes 
 on thus : — 
 
 Idalian Aphrodite oceanbom, 
 Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, 
 With rosy slender fingers upward drew 
 From her wai^m brow and bosom her dark hair 
 Fragrant and thick, and on her head upbound 
 In a purple band : below her lucid neck 
 Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot 
 Gleamed rosywhite, and o'er her rounded form 
 Between the shadows of the vinebunches 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. 
 
 There is no change in the next twenty-four lines except 
 that, instead of the three lines beginning ' She spoke and 
 laugh'd,' the first version has these two : — 
 
 I only saw my Paris raise his arm : 
 
 I only saw great Here's angry eyes, etc. 
 
 In the remainder of the poem the changes are few and 
 slight. In the first line on p. 312 (' O mother, hear me yet,' 
 etc.) the earlier reading is ' Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I 
 die ; ' and so also at the beginning of the last paragraph on 
 p. 314. The third line on p. 313 was ' Oh ! mother Ida, 
 hearken ere I die ; ' and the next paragraph began with ' Yet, 
 mother Ida, hear me ere I die.' On p. 312, for the four lines 
 beginning ' My dark tall pines,' the original reading was : — 
 
 My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge 
 High over the blue gorge, or lower down 
 Filling greengulphed Ida, all between 
 The snowy peak and snowwhite cataract 
 Fostered the callow eaglet — from beneath, etc.
 
 358 NOTES. 
 
 The second paragraph on the same page, ending with the 
 second line on p. 313, was inserted in 1842. For the three 
 lines on p. 314, beginning ' Ere it is born,' the first version has j 
 only the line, ' Ere it is born. I will not die alone.' 
 
 Page 303. — And the winds are dead. — All the editions I 
 have seen down to 1884 have 'and the cicala sleeps;' and in 
 the next line ' The purple flowers droop.' It probably 
 occurred to the poet that the introduction of the cicala, or 
 cicada (the Greek cicada, not our insect so called), was too 
 nearly a repetition of that of the grasshopper. 
 
 As yotider walls Rose slowly to a music, etc. — Compare 
 ' Tithonus ' : — 
 
 Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing 
 While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 
 
 For the myth, see Ovid, ' Heroides,' xv. 179; and for a 
 similar legend concerning the origin of Camelot, see ' Gareth 
 and Lynette.' 
 
 Page 308. — Rest in a happy place and quiet seats. — 
 Compare ' The Lotos-Eaters ' : — 
 
 For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd 
 
 Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd 
 
 Round their golden houses, etc. 
 
 The Sisters. 
 
 Reprinted in 1842 from the 1833 volume, with no change 
 except ' and ' for ' an' ' in ' turret and tree.' 
 
 END OF VOL. L
 
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