UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGfl STACKS The person charging this material is re- sponsible for its return to the library from which it was withdrawn on or before the Latest Date stamped below. Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books are reasons for disciplinary action and may result in dismissal from the University. To renew call Telephone Center, 333-8400 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/poemsofalfredlor00tenn_0 THE FGEM3 >F W • Til ' BY r: : fJEK « * ! \J>. OKi NE'W VOX- K HKiMA'S ROW--U COMP AT ;• i i ’> t ; u i?OL“ vscftYWAaT asioi , (btf£'ni:;9 xd. On one of the stones in this ravine he inscribed the words, Byron is EAD, ere he was fifteen. Alfred was the fourth son of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., ctor of Somersby (1807-1831), also rector of Benniworth and Bag Enderby, id vicar of Grimsby (1815). Dr. Tennyson was the eldest son of George ennyson (17 5 ° — 1 ^ 35 ) » who belonged to the Lincolnshire gentry as the owner Bayons Manor and Usselby Hall. He was graduated at St. John’s College, imbridge, in 1801, and received the degree of M.A. in 1805. The poet’s ther (1778-1831) was a man of superior abilities and varied attainments, who ied his hand with fair success at architecture, painting, music, and poetry. Mrs. Tennyson (1781-1865) was a pious woman of many admirable qualities, id characterized by an especially sensitive nature. From his sweet, gentle other the poet inherited his refined, shrinking nature. She was the daughter Stephen Fytche (1734-1799), vicar of Louth (1764) and rector of Withcall 780), a small village between Horncastle and Louth. Dr. Tennyson married (Aug. 6, 1806) Elizabeth Fytche; and their first child, sorge, died in infancy. He moved to Somersby in 1808, and the rectory in is quiet village was their home for many years. According to the parish regis- rs, the Tennyson family consisted of eleven children: Frederick (1807), larles (1808-1879), Alfred (1809-1892), Mary (1810-1884), Emilia (1811- •89) Edward (1813-1890), Arthur (1814), Septimus (1815-1866), Matilda 016), Cecilia (1817), Horatio (1819). They formed a joyous, lively house- »ld, amusements being agreeably mingled with their daily tasks. They were handsome and gifted, with marked personal traits and imaginative temper- lents. They were very fond of reading and story-telling. At least four of e boys Frederick, Charles, Alfred, and Edward — were addicted to verse- itmg. .Jhe scholarly rector carefully attended to the education and training of his udren. He turned his talents and accomplishments to good account in stimu- ing their mental growth. Alfred was a pupil of Louth Grammar School four ifi INTRODUCTION. vears ("1816-1820). During this time he presumably learned something, althou^,, Y o flattering reports of his progress have come down to us. "then private teach- es were employed by Dr. Tennyson to instruct his boys ; but he took upon himself for 'theT most part the burden of fitting them for college. One incident con- nected with the poet’s intellectual life at home is worth repeating. It has been said that his father required him to memorize the odes of Horace, and to recite them morning by morning until the four books were gone through. Terhaps this praX aided him in cultivating a delicate sense for metrical music, in which he “'SrK™ ol study M, imposed b, hi, f«hy, IjUn, out of-doors much of the time, rambling through the pastures and wolds about out ot doors m The brothers, Charles and Alfred, were greatly ^ch^to each ^o g ther ^-frequently were together in their walks They were v th lorcT p and strong for their age. Charles was a popular boy in Somersby on «>*• ™* c *r.ta &££*%£ Alfred who was solitary, not caring to mingle with other lads in tneir sports. He was shy and reserved, moody and absent-minded, exhibiting when a boy the same habits and peculiarities which characterized him as a man. woods were no! wasted. The quiet, meditative boy lived tu realm ol the tma£l His literary career began in his youth, his boyish rhymes and those of his ;e de m,.' 8 5 i'ey 2 o'. P S“h b L -e-e busy Uy ooiy scribbled a «« veme ‘Jd’ihey » PF < EfiZSZZ ■« me -S-C 0 t“: 7 u'“mTo, 3 The Te„n,»n child, «n .ere o« for were favored in another respect. • J « husbanded, enabled tb country clergyman. His means which he s J Qn the eastern coa family to spend the summers at Mablethorpe and g , . Hf of Enoland. Thus Alfred’s passion for the sea was develop early m i is said°that in his boyhood he occasionally tramped the whole distance (a miles or more) from Somersby to the coast. dwelling in I-outh pa For some years it was the rector s custom to occupy f c nme rsbv li- Of the schooi y year. In this way the seclusion and mono ‘°ZfolnsZe Th were broken. The young Tennysons saw considerable of Lincoln » ^ occasionally visited the old manor-house of Bayons and were o A „ r , the home of their aunt, Miss Fytche, in Westgate ^elTurZ, of Caistc, were at times the guests of their great-uncle, the R • Charles The tv who, dying about 1834, left his property and GrasbyHi g t C • ]acks o xyx ns XTOff 't£s£X!SSS. i~* for which the county is so justly famous.” IN 7 'R 0 DUC 1 'ION. „„„ t S h f h ., Wej ? ‘ he ^roundings and experiences of Tennyson’s childhood and £ “*. h ’ tHey 1 " flu .®! ,ced hls Y hole llfe ’ and lnev hably entered into his poetry of mlkes y him. ^ lllUStrateS the truth that a P oet is lar gely «hat his environment In October, 1828, he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, leaving in 1821 rf U nenhis deg H e %‘ - In n 1S bo y hood Alfred manifested unmistakable indications ot genius; and during his university career he was generally looked upon as a cofleniTns 10 n ’ w^'?! thingS were ex P ected b y his teachers and fellow - collegians. Dr. Whewell, his tutor, treated him with unusual respect. It was loM ght !? it n ° * h g ht . honor for a young man of twenty to win the chancellor’s f ° 8 r the PT P° em “Timbuctoo,” and the volume of his poems ^cef d l83 ° hlm a ° f Celebrit y be y ond his set of college acquain- •n^il 6 31 Ca ™ brid g e ’ Tennyson formed friendships which lasted till death Sad^hlT 2?/ °t ne ' , Il K 4S indeed a company of choice spirits with whom r had the good fortune to be associated. Among them were Milnes, Kemble rc ‘' lcb ’ fo f rd .’ B . rook , fie ' d ’ Spedding, and others. Besides these, he numbered imong be friends of his early manhood, Fitzgerald, Kinglake, Thackeray amon Ce ’ , G , adstone ’ Carlyle, Rogers, Forster, the Lushingtons, and othe? dm?d scholars and men of letters. In their companionship he found the raided ls h . nece . ssa 7 for th e development of his poetical faculty. They all re- .arded him with feelings of warmest admiration. The young singer had 7 at least 1 few appreciative readers during the ten or twelve years of obscurity when the mblic cared little for his writings. By their words of commendation he was faaster r h| e ?nstinct! SUe CaIling ’ t0 which he was led b 7 an over- Much as Tennyson owed to these men, he owed most to one whose name is ever associated with his own, Arthur Henry Hallam, a son of the historian. romise ^iKTh" 2 t0 C f mbnd S e he met Hallam, a young man of extraordinary v ’ h . became the dearest of his friends — more to him than a brother hey were inseparable in their walks and studies. They shared each other’s " irougHh? Fre n nch S p SmS ’ 'ri? * Umm . er ° f 1830 the two comra des travelled rthur’s ovi J ylea T- lhelr int ' mate fellowsh ip was strengthened bv ™ S , L ° r the L P° et s Finger sister, Emilia. It was apparently his . ,, , , . r 013 LCI, Esinnia. H was “ • g< f , eartbly attachment; and the beautiful record of their “ faiVcompanion- P t ,k f ° und * n ‘he lyncs of “ In Memoriam,” written to perpe ' P v of i^of tt 1, V ‘T iUU1 ‘ uliam ) wriuen to perpetuate the mem- y T h- th Iost Ha Bam, whose life went suddenly out in Vienna, Sept. ic i8zz This remarkable elegy remains, and is likely to remain through all • timea ■ dmlnn is U th ent ^ C ° UM be wrou g ht of bronze or marlle. Equally idunng is he melodious wail, “Break, break, break,” one of the sweetest S' ln a11 literature, written shortly after Hallam’s death. d • A not . ed aCt w S T S ’ Fan , ny Kemble ’ knew Tennyson in the prime of manhood I d ,n her )° urnaI (J une 16, 1832) tells what manner of man he was: - ’ r o^«Twhe°n n no n o\ d ^ ^ a, 7t yS a Iittle disa PP°mted with the exte- , , P .,® n ^ °ok at him in spite of his eyes, which are verv fine* hnt Me ld and ^ce, striking and dignified as t&v JAA AAVA hm 7 but hls id and face cfHkino- a- • £ J u P ms eyes > whlch are ver Y fine i but his beantv ?n k 8 d dl S mf ¥ as they are > are almost too ponderous and massive .^nn Y u !°u yOUng a . ma , n ; and every now and then there is a slightly sarcastic ex^ ritual silence ”*l m ° U ‘ h that alm0st frighte " s in spite of his'sh? manner and Records of a Girlhood, 71 pp. 519—520. intr od uc ti on. 11 T»mraenn resided chiefly with his widowed mother at After leavrng college .Tennysor $ mbMge Wells and Boxley Somersby; then at High B V 37 g He was 0 f ten in London and (1840-1844)1 and Cheltenham (tS^-lSSO^. ^ Tennyson a t elsewhere visiting friends. F 8 P . g Here Alfred would spend the Cumberland home of ^.Irthiu,” Md other unpublished poems, hour after hour reading 18^8 he was a welcome member of the uty - — *. the landscapes of England and Wa , P Conti „ ent . ‘‘From 1842,” says also made occasional trips to Ire ‘ English poets;” and he was thenceforth Howitt, “ he became pre-eminent amo 1 ? g Jite P peop i e . The Carlyles were often to be found in the socie y o p j n jg., Mrs. Carlyle calls him “a much attached to him. In 1 ti ■ with Something of the gypsy in his very handsome man, and a nob • >> j n he was granted a appearance, which for me 1S P er 6 * Anointed poet-laureate to succeed Words pension of ^00 and in 185c >he 1 was ^ ^ worth; in 1855 he receive e Shiplake, Oxfordshire, Emily Saral • Tennyson married (June 13, ^f.^^Vfor many years. Carlyle, not Ion; Sellwood whom he had .^"ate “ with his new wife/’ of whom he pleasantl; afterward, came across the la “ reat ® ■ • ht flittering blue eyes when you speak < writes: “ Mrs. Tennyson lights up glitter. ^ ^ ^ delicate ,, her; has wit; has sense, Tennyson’s adventure.” She was th health, I should augur really p e asmore in Berkshire, afterward a soli d*s, daughter ST... . *» - », John Mt citor of Horncastle, Line rhorles Tennyson Turner. and her youngest sister the wlfe ‘ ious manner , s hc was in every way fitte A lady of high intelligence an 8 who lovingly bore testimony to he to be the companion of her P°^ u *? id( L al o{ W oman as a wife and mothe loyalty and worth. Exalted as w auirements almost perfectly, dnough she seems to have met his exacting fl talent she never sought public re. woman of more than ordinary educal "oe t f s songs she set to music! Conte, ognition. A considerable "^ "[‘J / she lived for husband and childre with the round of duties in a domestic sphere^she ^ ^ uni w Their wedded life was except 7 A n I gr 2 , and Lionel, born Man blessed with two so ms, - Hal am boi ho a sehoW a “delightful fam, 16, 1854. Bayard Taylor thought th are rea i cherubs of children with; and his two little boys, Hal' . , t adv Tennyson a well-deserv these many years with large 1 and fai Mul sy P. wic y kenham . In 1853 the laure, o... <», — biography of his father. INTRO D UCTION. vii m the Isle of Wight. In the lines, “To the Rev. F. D. Maurice,” dated Tan- nary, 1854, the poet describes his pleasant life in this delightful retreat. In 1867 he purchased the Greenhill estate, in the northern part of Sussex. Here he built a Gothic mansion, which is an ideal residence for a poet. This house, named Aldworth, was finished and first occupied in 1869. Situated far up on Black- down Ileath, it overlooks a lovely valley, and commands a view of one of the finest landscapes in England. Aldworth was his summer home for more than twenty years. Here he found the peace and seclusion that he coveted, — at least ■part of the tune, —spending his days removed from the bustle and rush and unrest of the outside world. It should not be supposed from this that Tennyson’s life at Farrin'gford was passed in monastic isolation. _ However sequestered Aldworth was from the abodes of men, the poet’s mansion near Freshwater was not a hermitage Thither in the golden years of his long career, in the fifties and sixties and'seventies “T r men 111 ali ‘he walks of life, - preachers, statesmen, artists, and authors. His brothers and sisters, especially Horatio and Matilda, were with him a great deal of the time. Occasional visits from his young nephews and nieces, and afterward the presence of grandchildren, gladdened the days of the aged singer. For many years Mrs. Julia Margaret Cameron (who achieved fame by her marvellously successful photographs) and her husband were near neigh- s of Tennyson s, their cottage, Dimbola, being not far from Farringford The Camerons and the Tennysons lived in closest intimacy, visiting elch other’s homes almost daily Other dear friends on the Isle of Wight were the Prinseps, Mr. W. G. Ward, Sir John Simeon, and Mrs. Hughes, mother of Tom Hughes he world S0I Hi lTd ° f l redUSe long at a time ’ He saw ma ch of ' ' His solitude was broken by occasional trips abroad, and by frequent ..ours through the counties of England and Wales. During his entire career after leaving Cambridge in 1831, it may be said that he inevitably gravitated to ^ondon to stay a few weeks or months, and refresh himself with boon companions. The 1 t G t mpt rM de h f r £- t0 trac ,j a11 the wanderin gs of this much-travelled man The letters of Edward Fitzgerald afford some clews to Tennyson’s whereabouts lurmg his early manhood, when his movements were not so closely watched and 1 Tu°n de -: d tR n ir Sp v , a -P erS ; “ 1 have ‘ ust come from Leamington,” he writes I 7 .’ l840) . ; 7 hlle , ' there 1 Alfred by chance ; we made two or three , leasant excursions together ; to Stratford-upon-Avon and Kenilworth, etc.” 'in ° ber ’ l8 ,Vu ^ WnteS: “ As , t0 AUred ’ 1 have heard nothing of him « ~ g.i« E « . w W .i, ^ I, ire'flTlMC.fS M ?' * I " J memories of Heir t,„. fi ls are recalled in The Daisy,” written in Edinburgh two years later- this 'hi e cked a on U thf S 4 e i ^ the fi i nd 'i ng °J , a daisy “ a b °° k ’ the fl ™ er having’ been , lucked on the Splugen, and placed by Mrs. Tennyson between the leavfs of a tie volume as a memento of their Italian journey. Scotland and the neighbor- g isles seem to have exercised a strange power over the laureate • for he was ten attracted to the Highlands, Valentia, and Ireland. He travelled in Portu- rl in 1859 with his friend Palgrave. He revisited the Pyrenees in iSfir J.rnewuh Arthur Hugh Clough, and again in 1876. In 1865 he was at Weimar d Dresden; m l869_through France and Switzerland with Frederick Locker e went to Norway in 1872, where he had journeyed before, led thither bv amb n a g rdyTn ard 88^ yl0r S “ NMthero He wL in Italy’in tS^and £ INTRODUCTION. In 1881 Tennyson voyaged with Mr. Gladstone to Copenhagen, meeting at King Christian’s court the" Princess of Wales and the sovereigns of Greece and Russia. He visited the Channel Islands in 1887, and in the spring of 1891 he was cruising in the Mediterranean.” Only a few months before his death he was in lersfy, Guernsey, and London ; and the venerable minstrel was preparing to* return to Farringford for the winter when the final summons came in October, * 892. So the spirit of roving clung to him even to the end of h.s earthly pilgrimage declined a baronetcy offered by the queen as a reward for his loyal devotion to the crown, and again in 1868, when tendered by Disraeli. In the latter part of 1883 he accepted a peerage at Gladstone s earnest solicita- tion He was created a peer of the realm Jan. 24, 1884, with the new title Baron of Aldworth, Sussex, and of Freshwater, Isle of Wight. He took his seat in the House of Lords March II, 1884* , , , , Baron Tennyson had a splendid lineage, three lines of noble and royal fam- ilies behig mingled in his descent. The poet himself writes: “ lhrough my great-grandmother [Elizabeth Clayton], and through Jane Pitt, a still remoter grandmother, I am doubly descended from Plantagenets (Lionel, Duke of Clar ence, and John of Lancaster), and this through branches of the Barons d Eyn COU The pedigree of his grandfather, George Tennyson, is traced back to “the middle-cfass fine of the Tennysons,” and through Elizabeth Clayton fxn^ThJ lions back to Edmund, Duke of Somerset, and farther back to Edward III. Th< laureate’s grandfather was a well-known lawyer and wealthy lanc ° w " er ° I incolnshire who “ sat more than once in Parliament, representing Bletch inglv - ” his second son, Charles Tennyson-d’Eyncourt, who succeeded him a thf possessor of the family estate of Bayons Manor, was a noted public man having represented Lambeth and other boroughs in Parliament from 1818 ,852 At the death of George Tennyson (July 4, 1835). *e val “ a ^^ la ^ property near Great Grimsby was left to the rector’s family, and it is still (1896 in the hands of Frederick Tennyson, the poet s elder brother. d'elatives' 5 ' He ^suffered ^ sevMeTbkiw^in^the'd^^l^^h^secOTi^son^ Lionel wh 1 le e on the homeward voyage from India. He J'^^nUsoif h Glanyas “ To the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava. The Hon. Lionel y * several’years connected with the India office, was attacked by jungle fever whi on a visit to India, and died on board the Chusan, near Aden, April 20, l88< 31 ‘Horrs^ere ICeied plentifully on Lord Tennyson in his last years, but 1 asst sis u Hving. He read Shakespeare during his final illness, and contimte o C °™P° even on his death-bed, dictating “The Silent Voices sung at hls ^ uie ^ al * the tranquil evening of a well-spent life he peacefully passed away Oct. 6, 189 receivtag burial cofl. 1 2) in th e P Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey. INTR OD UCTION. u THE POETRY OF TENNYSON. Tennyson is pre-eminently a lyric poet. His lyrical efforts embrace an extensive range of subjects and a wide variety of metres. Not having naturally the rhythmical facility of Byron or Shelley, he conquered the technical difficul- ties of the minstrel’s art by painstaking study and labor. In this field he became a master. But, not realizing his limitations, or not content with the renown of being a great lyrist, he ambitiously essayed to enter fields where supremacy was for him impossible. In the epic and the drama he achieved only partial success. It is, therefore, as a lyric poet that Tennyson is chiefly known and will be remembered. Such incomparable lyrics as “Break, break break ” “ I'he splendor falls,” and “Crossing the Bar,” prove him to be a singer by right divine — one whose fame is immortal. In some of his blank-verse idylls he was scarcely less happy. Noteworthy among these are his studies and imitations of the antique, — “ CEnone,” “The Lotus-Eaters,” “ Ulysses,” “ Tithonus,” “Lucretius,” “ Tiresias,” “Demeter ” and “ The Death of CEnone,” — which, it is safe to say, are not generally popu- lar, however much they may be admired by persons of scholarly and critical tastes.^ “In Memoriam ” and “Maud” are merely collections of lyrics. Ten- nyson’s dramas are often lyrical in spirit if not in form; they are distinctly undramatic. Except a few magnificent passages of blank verse, the lyrics are the best things in them. The songs in “The Princess,” and the little melodies scattered through the “Idylls of the King,” will be prized in future ages when the mam portions of these works may have lost their interest for the average reader r h ese l yri cs have been set to music, and sung in many a household where his longer poems are unread. The scenes and characters described in tnem have been depicted by painters. Thus the sister arts have conspired to popularize them, and impress them on the memory. Tennyson’s lyrical successes are numerous, the list including most of his shorter poems. An array of versatile, superior productions! They make up a considerable body of poetry, much greater in bulk than the quantity of endur- mg verse produced by Herrick, Gray, Collins, Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Col- Whk tier ° rdsw ° rth ’ Scott > Keats, Campbell, Browning, Bryant, Poe, Lowell, or J. Tennyson’s first .book — “ Poems, Chiefly Lyrical ” (1830) -was made up ’ Th?v ^h° f met 1 n . Ca 1 dl ^ ersions > yet it contained a few pieces that are imperishable P p a ' n V hat ^ hen a y° un g ma » be was as much addicted to word- music and word-color as he was in later years. The author of “ Mariana ” and e lrge was a poetic artist of more than ordinary equipment. ' b °°h^ f u “ p °ems,” published late in 1832, included some of his 'pala t f 3 A 1C . S ’~iT'T he r Lady ° f Shalott >” “ The Miller’s Daughter,” “The ' palace of Art, The Lotus-Eaters,” “A Dream of Fair Women,” etc., — laving the richness of melody and the indescribable witchery of style whick .onstitute lennyson s charm. hin!" Volum f. S °[ “ Poems ’’ appearing in 1842 were gathered the finest ln th .® , two earll f books, but chan r d and polished until well-nigh perfect, gether with a number of new works - “ Morte d’Arthur,” “The Talking t - », V ysses l “ Locksle 7 Hall,” “ Lady Clara Vere de Vere,” “ The Two oices, St. Agnes,” “Sir Galahad,” “Godiva,” “Break, break, break,” tc. .hat are justly regarded among the choicest treasures of British lyrical and introduction. ■ i „i, nrtptrv These poems, new and old, exhibited not only a complete mas- idyllic poetry, these poe , ^hedc susceptibility, but a rich vein oi sense°and Spirituality. Here were exquisite iS observer of nature as we,, as a diligent student of books. “landscape-lover,” who with pictorial fidelity ... «i ing, liberalizing. p ; » (l s 47 ) in some respects, it falls somewhat accurately^desoribed^ a “ £*1 failure ” The plot is the work^ . hterary artist, rather than the heaven-born lnspiratm g • enough with its the realm of the romantic and the fantastic, the st y pi | inipro bable to viry fancies and delightful revene^ but it * Lcomes at last be impressive. It does not bear the tes t of re reao g conce its and be impressive. It does not Dear .■ ' litter j ng . conceits and cloyed with its gorgeous s^yle^ ovedoad d ' hl f .bid, deed with the lZ.”“e”,”n P »d ielicitously, contpeh.,,. lot »»e ehottoonttop, t JSS*H the beautiful .leg, known a, '• In ferred immortality upon his lost fnen , g j jgr 0 had been in process of mental work, which appeared anony y ( j eat j 1 0 | Arthur Henry Hallam in growth during the seventeen years aft , dearest of his companions occu- 1833. This tribute of love to the ” 0 st original of Tennyson’s pies a unique place nr literature It is ^ and favorite work . Into it he sustained writings — it is his best * e " eC • f It „ re w out of the author’s man- poured the consecrated fragrance of hi g • S k H e owed nothing Hold experiences, not only as a ^ e sonnets of Shakespeare. The material to Petrarch, as has been c mm , Tennysonian. “ In Memoriam ” work is English and modern. It is emp ‘ ^ of t he nineteenth century. It is may be classed with the few really great P . f English tongue. Per- a masterpiece, worthy of a place among • uent j a l. Perhaps no other literary haps no other poem of our age has eei g U( Jh high praise from eminent ~ h >-""«• “” dy ning in the stanzas, O, that ^ twere po ^ to Mrs. Ritchie, we owe the 1837. This was the germ of Maud. g. ° 0 f t | le laureate’s most expanded poem to the suggestion of Mr. John Sin , ;d that intimate friends and neighbors in the Me of Wight. ^ { q{ lhis p?em . seemed to him as if something were. d ded j 1855, it was greeted with a INTR OD UC TION. xi purpose was misconceived on account of the Jingo sentiments and hysterical xsl- vings put into the mouth of the hero (who was not Tennyson in disguise, but a fictitious character). This poem, always a favorite with the author, won its way at last to a generous appreciation of its abundant merits. The threads woven into the fabric of “Maud” are a commercial swindle, suicide, love-making, murder, insanity, and an unrighteous war. Says a critic in the North British Review : “ The poem is a lyric monologue, consisting of en- vious invective, gradually mastered by love, then anger, despair, madness, and patriotic enthusiasm.” Out of these melodramatic elements a great work could hardly be expected to come forth. Something is wanting in the leading figure, whose morbid solilo- quizing betrays a weak character. Notwithstanding the terribly serious and tragic circumstances of his history, the hero does not always keep from making a laugh- ing-stock of himself. While not an unqualified success, a work 'containing one of the sweetest love-lyrics in any language, “Come into the garden,” certainly is not to be pronounced a failure. This exquisite song “at once struck the fancy of musicians, and seemed spontaneously to clothe itself in melody.” There are other strains in “Maud” which rank among the lyrical triumphs with which Alfred Tennyson enriched English literature. Of all his extended efforts, “Enoch Arden” (1864) has been read most widely. Its popularity is partly accounted for by the peculiar incident of a long- absent husband returning home to find his wife married to another man. The story of Enoch Arden passes current where the name of Arthur Hallam is unheard. It has been twice dramatized. Judging from the large number of translations and illustrated editions of this poem, it is by far the best known of the laureate’s writings in foreign lands, having been translated into Danish, German, Dutch, French, Bohemian, Italian, Hungarian, and Spanish. School editions, with notes, have been extensively circulated in France and Germany. As a literary production, “Enoch Arden” is a poem after the manner of Tennyson’s English idylls, only the narrative is more elaborate. In this field he achieved eminent success, because he was at home in pastoral subjects, and made the most of his material. The tale is said to be literally true, at least in its principal details, having been related to the poet by Thomas Woolner, the sculptor ; a similar narrative forms the groundwork of a short poem by Miss Procter, published in her “Legends and Lyrics” about i860. The style is not so severe and bare as Wordsworth’s, yet it exhibits a noble simplicity, varied with flashes bf imaginative splendor. While the picture of the fisher village is idealized, it is wonderfully sympathetic and faithful. The poet invests the lives of humble folk with dignity and “with glory not their own.” In dwelling on affecting scenes with a tender pathos that but few story-tellers have equalled, he shows his skill as an artist in relieving the sombre sadness of the tale with glimpses of domestic felicity. As a whole, “ Enoch Arden ” is not an intellec- tual performance of a high order. Nevertheless, it is a poem that the world could ill afford to lose. instalment of “ Idylls of the King ” was given to the world in 1859, although six copies of the first two in cruder form were privately printed in 1857 with the title “ Enid and Nimue.” Four more Arthurian romaunts were added in 1869, two in 1872, and one in 1885. In early life Tennyson had been attracted by the Arthur legends, and had worked several isolated episodes or pic- tures into the lyrk — “The Lady of Shalott ” ( 1832), “Sir Galahad” (1842), oir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere ” (1842), — and the blank-verse fragment introduction. 2r mjwwns a»s- - »■* - * - «- (perhaps altered somewhat) of an Arthuriad. _ » ances an d the pains bestowed upon them and their el ^“ ate h be.Twing to their intended them to be a monumental work. Such i they 'canno be o | W =r^c me w h :n d a» rise ar an C d C f U an $ There JToS b “i , „ fc . ”d' King,” Tennyson Wtowedj romance, yet he added something o ^s o g - n th f m of historic fact than the feudal world are no -true to life. Th J ities . Muc h in them of imaginative enchantment. lhey addressed to the reader seems unreal and antiquated, *"? [ce ‘ of strength and weakness, of to-day. These mixed elemen historical fidelity of the pictures of The main interest of the idylls lies no m aristocracy of the nineteenth legendary Britain, for they portray S ■ the verse> i n the artistic beauty teaching which permeates and trans- fig wltho e uT-the lessons drawn from the storied pages of phrase o^ 'the Arthur legend would not have n X w S«dly wirti, whfhf " a past with which our own age is not m sy p thy cal drama, becoming Late in life Tennyson entered the difficult hew c mi ^ vnn D , ;e calls a rival of Shakespeare himself. ^he hl stonc trdogy ^ y crhaps “Harold” (1876), “Becket” (1884), genius than do the affords a better example of the rig <- m P f three momentous periods of Arthurian romaunts. The,, ; are valuable : s ud et > o ^ three mom ^ , Ae English history. Mr. Arthur Waugh calls Harold a g ^ ^ theme being “ full of tragic pathos a great deal of heavy fessed, however, that Harold is M are both noble poems. They are poetry. “ Becket’ and Queen Ma y ^ ^ not P far below the pro- destined to become classics. Q , J t - K “Becket” is Tennyson s ductions of the best of the Elizabethan dramatists. Becket INTRODUCTION. Xlll diamatic ma.sterpiece. It surpasses all his other extended works in strength and passion. This splendid tragedy deserves a wider recognition, not only from lovers of Tennyson, but from all admirers of virile and sonorous blank verse. The three shorter plays or dramatic sketches, “The Cup ” (1884), “The Falcon (1884), and “ 1 he Promise of May ” (1886), are comparative failures; the playwright s instinct is absent, although here and there are gleams of poetid fire. The charming idyllic comedy of “ The Foresters ” (1892) derives its inter* est from the historic and romantic features of the story rather than from tha poet’s handling of the materials. It was a worthy endeavor on the part of the venerable singer to retell the old tale or tradition of Robin Hood and Maid Marian. As was to be expected, he improved the occasion to introduce several dainty lyrics, wherein was displayed the master’s old-time power of exquisite versifying. But there is a poverty of stirring incidents, of moral and intellectual conflicts, which make up the warp and woof of great dramas. Tennyson’s dramas are not adapted to the stage of to-day, being deficient in the theatrical effects which tell with an audience. He lacked a knowledge of stage requirements and scenic accessories. Experience as an actor or manager, Dr even as a theatre-goer, would have been of advantage to him here. Notwith’ standing Mr. Frederick Archer’s favorable opinion of “ Harold,” no player has fet tried the role of the last Saxon king. Brilliant costumes and spectacular >plendors might make this play endurable on the stage, but its presentation vould be a doubtful experiment. Queen Mary ’ is a drama to be read, not acted. Its action drags, and its tumerous speeches are not such as rouse listeners to the pitch of enthusiasm. Vlr. Irving and Miss Bateman essayed its production at the Lyceum Theatre in 1876 with indifferent success. Without its enchanting stage-pictures, “The i'oresters ” would sorely try the patience of an average audience. The author’s ittempts to relieve the tediousness with humor do not wholly fail; nevertheless lot one of the characters bubbles over with mirthful sallies. The interchange <1 conversation is not enlivened, as it is in Shakespeare, by sparkling wit and epartee. To the superb mounting of this drama by Mr. Augustin Daly and' the ascinating personality of Miss Ada Rehan, was due in large measure whatever |f success was achieved by “The Foresters.” “ Becket ” alone redeems ; ennyson s reputation as a dramatist. As presented by Henry Irving and Ellen erry in 1893, it proved to be an exceptionally strong performance. Allowing the credit justly belonging to this honored actor for adapting it to the stao-e : still remains true that the laureate is entitled to the chief glory for this impor- ant addition to England’s dramatic literature. His other plays failed on the oards; they lack spirited dialogue and exciting action. What of the minor poems, — the lyrics, idylls, and ballads written during the 1st four decades of Tennyson’s literary career ? To some it seemed that these oems compare unfavorably with the songs of his early manhood. So thought -dward Fitzgerald, recalling the rapturous sensations which those poems when rst written produced on himself and other enthusiastic admirers of England’s sing poet. But readers of a later generation, who have never enjoyed the privi- ige of personal intercourse with the bard, are able to appreciate the work of is later, as well as that of his earlier, years. I Passing by the two memorable patriotic lyrics, “Ode on the Death of the >uke of Wellington,” and “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” also the per- mal poems (which include some of his sincerest, manliest utterances), we find nong the things printed between 1850 and 1870 such jewels as “ The Brook,” XIV INTRODUCTION. “ Avlmer’s Field,” “ The Voyage,” “ The Grandmother,” “ Northern Farmer,” “The Victim ” “Wages,” “The Higher Pantheism,” and “Flower in the crannied wall.” As if to prove that his fertility in the province of the lyric was not exhausted, the laureate, though past sixty, made fresh incursions into fields of poetry long familiar to him. The last two decades of his life were excep- tionally productive of short poems, which are stamped with dignity of thought, felicitous expression, and musical versification. The list of his notable successes would comprehend nearly all the contents of “ Ballads, and Other Poems, pub- lished in 1880, —a book which Theodore Watts characterized as the most richly various volume of English verse that has appeared in his own century But the volumes “ Tiresias, and Other Poems (1885), and Demeter, and Other Poems” (1889), were scarcely less rich in lays comparable with the finest efforts of his earlier days. Such poems 'as “ The Ancient Sa g e > )} “ Loclcsley Hall Sixty Years After,” “ To Virgil,” “Freedom, fastness, “Happy,” “The Progress of Spring,” “ Merlin and 1 he Gleam, bar-far away,” “ Crossing the Bar,” “The Silent Voices,” and many more in the books of his last years, would be sufficient of themselves to give their author a firm footing on Parnassus. . , , • ,i ,1 Tennyson is not a world-poet. He is, assuredly not to be clawed with he few chosen spirits who reared majestic edifices of thought like the I had the “ Divina Commedia,” “ Paradise Lost,” and “ Faust. His appeal is more or less insular. Much of his verse has but little bearing on humanity at • large ^ It is national rather than universal. Tennyson’s poetry is distinctively English, the Bard of Abbotsford is Scottish. The local element is prominent in most of his writings. The lovely setting and coloring of In Memonara canno- be appreciated by those who have never gazed upon the scenery of England. I Pn P ncess ” “ Maud,” and the dramas are manifestly not for mankind ; and this is true of the “ Idylls of the King.” Their author’s audience must always be £3fS-ta» of Burn, h, h„ a tog. fob ,„Jng K “rd.nt wS™. Robert is the poet of He found his inspiration, not in books, but in nature and Oie Leart There is the same vein of human interest in Homer, whose f rowin f f ^ e ^ms are he for bv the vitality of the Greek factor in our civilization. In his poems are tne seeds^of Hellenic culture. The heart of Greece is so accurately and completely mirrored in Homer, that he has become an inseparable and undying pait of her 1 ' E ” 2 th°t,, ,h Ld 0, L.no,lot have not acqoir.d snob n»m~l cnrt.nc, » suffer in comparison with the mailed warriors of Scott s r °™"^s. Horace reflects not only fleeting phases of Roman b "‘ >" ^‘ace, degree universal experience. Tennyson is 111 S01 ? e res V ec } . He has not sc and his fame is as imperishable as is that of the Augus an y . closely identified himself with the nations life as did Voubtec does not loom up so large as a historical personage, and it . Y “J anc whether he will ever become so intimately associated with Eng £ INTR OD UCTION. character. Granting that Tennyson is the best exponent of the Victorian era, is he a great representative poet, like Lucretius, Dante, or Chaucer? Does he not interpret some of the temporary phases of his generation, rather than the life and spirit of the nineteenth century ? And may not the representative element in his verse be of secondary moment and ephemeral? The poems which are peren- nially fresh, like “ The Miller’s Daughter,” and “ Rizpah,” are so because they appeal to the heart and intellect of all times. Upon these and such as these, Tennyson’s following and reputation must ultimately rest, not upon such fugitive pieces as “ Hands all Round ” and “ Riflemen form.” Tennyson’s charm is as subtle and potent as is that of the courtly, polished Horace; but his charm consists largely of verbal felicities that are untranslatable. According to Dryden, if Shakespeare’s “ embroideries were burned down, there would be silver at the bottom of the melting-pot.” Tennyson’s songs do not translate so well as Uhland’s. If turned into prose, their charm vanishes. He is great in small things, not in grand ideas. Nature did not endow him with the pure, fresh, joyous imagination of Homer, — the calm, brooding, radiant atmos- phere through which the old bard saw so clearly and buoyantly. His pages fairly bristle with subtleties in thought and expression, with fantastic novelties and meretricious ornaments, which lose half of their effect and beauty when transferred into a foreign language. His “ distilled thoughts in distilled words,” as Matthew Arnold calls them, must be read in English. Much of Tennyson’s verse is open to criticism, being cold and labored, also lacking in sustained force and elevation. A vast deal that he wrote can be described as polished mediocrity. With all their rich music and color, most of his shorter pieces have not the majesty which the highest imagination alone can confer. All of his longer productions show the varying character of his work, by turns superb and weak. His mannerisms are carried to excess. His felicities are often such as only the cultivated reader can appreciate. Ordinary people would enjoy less of refinement and more of vigor. Tennyson is not, then, one of the mighty cosmopolitan forces of literature. Not one of those who suffered for poetry’s sake, whose words are graven into the heart of civilized humanity, he sang so sweetly, and did so much to brighten ^and to dignify the life of mortals, that his name must needs long remain a house- hold word wherever the Saxon tongue is heard. Much of his brilliant metrical foliage will wither “ with the process of the suns.” Nevertheless, his fame is Jsnduring. He is more than a skilful versifier or literary artist, whose mellifluous fines and clear-cut, pithy phrases will continue to be quoted in after ages. Alfred Tennyson’s poetical performances won for him the lasting distinction of being a | genuine bard, one whose seat is far up among the throned sovereigns of British c 3on g* Aug . io, 1896. EUGENE PARSONS. ♦ - j§£i BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FIRST EDITIONS. 827 Poems by Two Brothers. London. Printed for W. Simpkin and R. Marshall, and J. & J. Jackson, Louth. MDCCCXXVII. pp. xii., 228. 829 Timbuctoo : A Poem which obtained the Chancellor’s Medal at the Cambridge Commencement, MDCCCXXIX. By Alfred Tennyson, of Trinity Col- lege. Printed in “ Prolusiones Academicae ; MDCCCXXIX. Cantabrigiae : typis academicis excudit Joannes Smith.” 830 Poems, Chiefly Lyrical. By Alfred Tennyson. London : Effingham Wilson, Royal Exchange, Cornhill, 1830. pp. 154, and leaf of Errata. 832 Poems by Alfred Tennyson. London : Edward Moxon, 64 New Bond Street. MDCCCXXX1II. pp. 163. Post-dated; published late in 1832. 842 Poems by Alfred Tennyson. In Two Volumes. London: Edward Moxon, Dover Street. MDCCCXLII. pp. vii., 233 ; vii., 231. 847 The Princess : A Medley. By Alfred Tennyson. London : Moxon. MDCCCXLVII. pp. 164. Intercalary lyrics added in third edition, 1850. 350 In Memoriam. London: Moxon. MDCCCL. pp. vii., 210. Section L1X. inserted in the fourth edition, 1851; and XXXIX. in 1869. 852 Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. By Alfred Tennyson, Poet- Laureate. London: Moxon. pp. 16. 855 Maud, and Other Poems. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet-Laureate. London: Moxon. pp. 154. 859 Idylls of the King. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet-Laureate. London : Moxon & Co. pp. 261. The two idylls, “Enid” and “Vivien,” privately printed in 1857 with the title “Enid and Nimue.” The “Dedication” first appeared in 1862 ; the epilogue “ To the Queen” in 1873. ^64 Enoch Arden, etc. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet-Laureate. London: Moxon. pp. 178. *65 A Selection from the Works of Alfred Tennyson. London: Moxon. This volume contains seven new poems : “ The Captain,” “ On a Mourner,” three “ Sonnets,” and two “ Songs.” pp. 256. $69 The Holy Grail, and Other Poems. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet- Laureate. Strahan, 56 Ludgate Hill, London, pp. 222. S70 The Window ; or, The Song of the Wrens. London : Strahan. I72 Gareth and Lynette, etc. By Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L., Poet-Laureate. Strahan. pp. 136. >75 Queen Mary: A Drama. By Alfred Tennyson, London, pp. viii., 278. '76 Harold : A Drama. By Alfred Tennyson. London : H. S. King. pp. viii., 161 xvii BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FIRST EDITIONS. 1879 1884 1885 1886 I889 1892 PP. The Lover’s Tale. By Alfred Tennyson. London: C. Kegan Paul vi., 184. The Cup and The Falcon. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet-Laureate. London : Macmillan & Co. pp. 146. Becket. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet-Laureate. London : Macmillan, pp. 213. Tiresias, and Other Poems. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, D.C.L., P.L. London : Macmillan, pp. viii., 204. Locksley Hall Sixty Years After, etc. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L. London: Macmillan, pp. 201. Demeter, and Other Poems. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson, P.L., D.C.L, London: Macmillan, pp. vi., 175. The Foresters: Robin Hood and Maid Marian. By Alfred, Lord Tenny son, Poet-Laureate. London : Macmillan, pp. 155. The Death of CEnone, Akbar’s Dream, and Other Poems. By Alfred Lord Tennyson, Poet-Laureate. London: Macmillan, pp vi., 113. CONTENTS OXKO PAGE Achilles over the Trench 591 Adeline 23 Alexander. (Early Sonnets.) 28 All Things will die... 4 Amphion 118 Ancient Sage, The. 605 Arrival, The. (The Day Dream.) 116 “Ask me no more.” (Princess.) 431 As through the land. (Princess.) 390 Audley Court 87 Aylmer’s Field 140 Balin and Balan 619 Ballad of Oriana, The 20 Ballads and other Poems 552 Battle of Brunanburh 589 Beautiful City 686 Beggar Maid, The 130 Blackbird, The 66 Boadicea 190 Break, break, break 135 Bridesmaid, The. (Early Sonnets.) 30 Brook, The 136 Buonaparte 29 By an Evolutionist 685 Captain, The 126 Caress’d or Chidden. (Early Sonnets.) . . 29 Character, A 16 Charge of the Heavy Brigade 631 Charge of the Light Brigade 170 Choric Song. (The Lotos Eaters.) 59 Circumstance 21 City Child, The 185 ^Claribel 3 Columbus 579 Come down, O maid. (Princess.) 435 Coming of Arthur, The 198 Come into the garden. (Maud.) 454 Come not when I am dead 130 Crossing the Bar 687 Daisy, The 181 Day Dream, The 114 PAGE Dead Prophet, The 634 Death of the Old Year, The 67 Dedication, A 190 Dedicatory Poem to the Princess Alice.. 572 Defence of Lucknow, The 573 Demeter and Persephone 652 De Profundis 587 Deserted House, The 18 Despair 601 Dirge, A 19 Dora 84 Dream of Fair Women, A 61 Dying Swan, The 19 Eagle, The 130 Early Sonnets 28 Early Spring 635 Edward Gray 121 Edwin Morris 91 Eleanore 25 England and America in 1782 71 English Idyls 73 Enoch Arden 463 Epic, The 73 Epilogue 632 Epilogue. (Day Dream.) 118 Epitaph on Caxton 637 Epitaph on General Gordon 637 Epitaph on Lord Stratford de Redcliffe.. 637 Experiments 190 Farewell, A 129 Far — far — away 685 Fatima 42 First Quarrel, The 552 Fleet, The 648 Flight, The 609 Flower, The 184 Forlorn 670 Frater Ave atque Yale 636 Freedom 638 Gardener’s Daughter, The 79 Gareth and Lynette 208 Geraint and Enid 235 xix XX CONTENTS. Godiva Golden Year, The Go not, happy day. (Maud.) Goose, The Grandmother, The Guinevere PAGE . 113 . 103 ,. 450 72 .. 173 .. 356 Hands all Round Happy Helen’s Tower Hendecasyllabics Hexameters and Pentameters Higher Pantheism, The Holy Grail, The Home they brought her warrior. (Prin- cess.) 637 671 637 192 192 188 313 425 I come from haunts. (The Brook.) Idyls of the King If I were loved. (Early Sonnets.) . In Memoriam In Memoriam. (W. G. Ward.) In the Children’s Hospital In the Garden at Swainston In the Yalley of Cauteretz Isabel Islet, The It is the Miller’s Daughter 136 197 30 480 687 570 184 183 7 185 41 Juvenilia Kraken, The Lady Clara Yere de Yere Lady Clare Lady of Shalott, The Lancelot and Elaine Last Tournament, The Late, late, so late. (Guinevere.) L’Envoi. (Day Dream.) Leonine Elegiacs Letters, The Lilian Literary Squabbles Locksley Hall Locksley Hall Sixty Years After Lord of Burleigh, The '• Lotos Eaters, The Love and Death Love and Duty Lover’s Tale, The Love that hath us. (Miller’s Daughter.) Love thou thy Land Lucretius 53 124 31 287 2 359 117 4 130 7 186 107 640 127 58 20 101 525 42 70 160 PAGE Madeline U Margaret 24 Mariana 8 . Mariana in the South 9 Maud' 440 May Queen, The 54 Merlin and the Gleam 679 Merlin and Yivien 203 Mermaid, The 22 Merman, The 2.2 Miller’s Daughter, The : 9 Milton. (Alcaics.) 192 Mine be the strength. (Early Sonnets.) 28 Minnie and Winnie 186 Montenegro 588 Moral. (Day Dream.) 117 Morte d’ Arthur 74 Move eastward, happy earth 130 My life is full of weary days 27 Northern Cobbler, The >57 Northern Farmer. (New Style.) 179 Northern Farmer. (Old Style.) 177 Nothing will die 3 Now sleeps the crimson petal. (Prin- cess.) 435 Oak, The 6S7 Ode on the death of the Duke of Wel- lington 165 Ode sung at Opening of International Exhibition 171 Ode to memory. Addressed to 14 CEnone 41 Of old sat Freedom on the heights OS On a mourner 63 On one who affected an Effeminate Man- ner 686 On the Jubilee of Queen Yictoria 650 Opening of the Indian and Colonial Ex- hibition by the Queen 649 O swallow, swallow, flying. (Princess.) 406 Our enemies have fallen. (Princess.) 425 Owd Roa 655 Palace of Art, The Parnassus Passing of Arthur, The Pelleas and Ettarre Play, The Poet, The Poets and their Bibliographies Poet’s Mind, The Poet’s Song, The. Poland. (Early Sonnets.) Politics 48 684 369 330 686 16 639 17 135 ‘29 686 CONTENTS . PAGE Prefatory Poem to my Brother’s Sonnets 686 Prefatory Sonnet to the “Nineteenth Century ” 588 s / Princess, The 381 Progress of Spring, The 677 Prologue. (Day Dream.) 114 Prologue to General Hamley 630 Recollections of the Arabian Nights 12 Requiescat 184 Revenge, The 559 Revival, The. (Day Dream.) 116 Ring, The 660 Rizpah 554 Romney’s Remorse 681 Rosalind 25 Roses on the Terrace, The 686 Round Table, The 208 Sailor Boy, The 184 Sea Dreams 155 Sea Fairies, The 18 *Sir Galahad 120 Sir John Franklin 592 Sir John Oldcastle 575 Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere 129 Sisters, The 47 Sisters, The 562 Sleeping Beauty, The. (Day Dream.). .. 115 Sleeping Palace, The. (Day Dream.) .... 115 Snowdrop, The 686 Song : A spirit haunts 15 The Owl 11 To the same 12 The winds as at their hour 7 Specimen of Translation Homer’s Iliad.. 192 Spinster’s Sweet-arts, The 615 Spiteful Letter, The 186 St. Agnes’s Eve 120 St. Simeon Stylites 94 Supposed Confessions of a Sensitive Mind 4 Sweet and Low. (Princess.) 398 Talking Oak, The 97 Tears, idle tears. (Princess.) 405 The form, the form alone. (Early Son- nets.) 30 The splendor falls. (Princess.) 404 Third of February, The 169 Throstle, The 687 xxi PAGE Thy voice is heard. (Princess.) 414 Tiresias 593 Tithonus 106 Tomorrow , 613 To , after reading a Life and Letters. 134 To , “As when with downcast eyes ” 28 To , “ Clearheaded friend ” 10 To , with the following Poem 48 To Dante .' 592 To E. Fitzgerald . 593 To E. L., on his Travels in Greece 135 To H.R.H. Princess Beatrice 639 To J. M. K 28 To J. S 67 To Mary Boyle 676 To one who ran down the English 686 To Princess Frederica 592 To Professor Jebb 651 To the Duke of Argyll 637 To the Marquis of Dufferin and Ava 649 To the Queen j To the Queen 379 To the Rev. F. D. Maurice 182 To the Rev. W. H. Brookfield 588 To Ulysses 675 To Victor Hugo 589 To Virgil 633 Two Voices, The 33 Ulysses 104 Vastness 658 Victim, The 186 Village Wife, The 567 Vision of Sin, The 131 Voice and the Peak, The 188 Voyage, The 12s Voyage of Maeldune, The 583 Wages i 88 Walking to the Mail 89 Wan sculptor, weepest thou. (Early Sonnets.)....* 39 Welcome to Alexandra 172 Welcome to Marie Alexandrovna 172 What does little birdie say ? 160 Will 183 Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue... 122 Window, The 193 Wreck, The 597 You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease 69 TO THE QUEEN. Revered , beloved — 0 you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms , or power of brains , or birth Could give the warrior Icings of old , Victoria , — smce 3 /owr 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 9 Where all about your palace-walls The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes - — Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; For tho the faults were thick as dust 2 JO THE QUEEN . In vacant chambers , / To^r kindness. May you rule us long, And leave us rulers of your blood As noble till the latest day ! May children of our children say , 44 She wrought her people lasting good; “ Her court was pure; her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed ; A thousand claims to reverence 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 bounds of freedom wider yet “ By shaping some august decree , Which kept her throne unshaken still Broad-based upon her peoples will 9 And compass'd by the inviolate seal 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, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. ii. At eye the beetle boometh Athwart the thicket lone : At noon the wild bee hummeth About the moss’d headstone ; 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. Then will the stieam be aweary of flowing Under my eye ? Vhen 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 1 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. ’Tis the world’s winter; Autumn and summer 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. 4 ALL THINGS WiLL DIE . 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 joy- ance 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. 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 ; 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, A3 all men know, Long ago. And the old earth must die* . 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. 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 bab- ble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ; the grasshopper 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-gnat murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth : the glim mering water out-floweth : Twin peaks shadow’d with pine slop* to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed betweei the two peaks ; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds hin beneath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth, that Hes perus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: brim me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even; sh< cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where ii my sweet Rosalind *? SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND. 0 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, I And that my sin was as a thorn CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND . 5 Dnong the thorns fchat girt Thy brow, bounding Thy soul. — That even now, n this extremest misery )f ignorance, I should require ^ sign ! and if a bolt of fire Vould rive the slumbrous summer noon Vhile I do pray to Thee alone, Tiink my belief would stronger grow : s not my human pride brought low ? ?he boastings of my spirit still? Tie joy I had in my freewill 111 cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown ? \.nd what is left to me, but Thou \md faith in Thee ? Men pass me by ; Christians with happy countenances — ^nd children all seem full of Thee ! Vnd women smile with saint-like glances nke Thine own mother's when she bow’d ibove Thee, on that happy morn AHien angels spake to men aloud, hid Thou and peace to earth were born, Goodwill to me as well as all — one of them : my brothers they : brothers in Christ — a world of peace hid confidence, day after day; hid trust and hope till things should } cease, And then one Heaven receive us all. low sweet to have a common faith ! ?o hold a common scorn of death ! hid at a burial to hear Che creaking cords which wound and P eat nto my human heart, whene’er Darth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, Vith hopeful grief, were passing sweet ! Tirice happy state again to be "he trustful infant on the knee \ Vdio lets his rosy fingers play tbout his mother’s neck, and knows iothing beyond his mother’s eyes, "hey comfort him by night and day ; "hey 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 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 listen’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 ? 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 *t*ong 6 CONFESSIONS OF A SENSITIVE MIND. 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 ! 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 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 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 5 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 analyze 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 everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, riy God. Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy tave Shadow me over, and my sins THE KRAKEN. 7 Be unreme'mber’d, and Thy love Enlightenjme. 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. Below the thunders of the upper •deep ; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sun- lights 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 slumber- ing 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 roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 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 £ ' LILIAN. i. Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me. Clasps her tiny hands above me. Laughing all she can ; She’ll 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. hi. Prithee weep, May Lilian ! Gayety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian : Thro’ my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth: Prithee 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. ISABEL. i. Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended hy Pure vestal thoughts in the trans lucent fane 8 MARIANA. Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-dis- pread, 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. 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 dis- tress, 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. hi. 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*. A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, wliich else had fallen quite With cluster’d flower-bells and am- brosial 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. 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. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glancedathwartthegloomingflats. 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 MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 9 Oar. 10 to her : without hope of change, hi 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, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-tnosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark : Tor 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, I 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 ! " 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 floors, Old voices called 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 sparrows 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-moated 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. Oh, God, that I were dead ! " 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 lovfc for- lorn." She, as her carol sadder grew. From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper Angers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown 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 for- lorn." Till all the crimson changed, and past Into deep orange o'er the sea. 10 TO 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 for- lorn.” Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, 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 Tell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sear 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.” 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 forevermore.” “ 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 for- lorn ? ” 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 for- lorn.” 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 1 shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” TO . i. Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain MADELINE. 11 The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Bay-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. hi. 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. MADELINE. i. rHou are not steep'd in golden lan- guors, 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 forme 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 ? I rowns perfect-sweet along the brow 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. hi. 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, 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. SONG : THE OWL. i. W HEN ca ts run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, 12 RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 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. ii. 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. 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 chant anew ; But I cannot mimic 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. 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, 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 platanp 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, 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 Fall’n silver-chiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS . 13 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 -color’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, Some dropping low their crimson bells Half-closed, and others studded wide With disks and tiars, fed the time With odor 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 splendor from behind Hush’d all the leaves with rich gold- green, Ind, flowing rapidly between 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. )ark-blue the deep sphere overhead, )istinct with vivid stars inlaid, rrew darker from that under-flame . o, leaping lightly from the boat, V ith silver anchor left afloat, a marvel whence that glory came pon me, as in sleep I sank i 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-checker’d lawn Full of the city’s stilly sound, And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick, rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, In honor of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. With dazed visions 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 humor 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 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 Airaschid. Six columns, three on either side, Pure silver, underpropt a rich Throne of the massive ore, from which 14 ODE TO MEMORY . Down-droop’d, in many a floating fold, Engarlanded and diaper’d With inwrought flowers, a cloth ot 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. 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 soft- en’d light Of orient state. Whilom thou earnest with the morn- ing 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 Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots , Of orient green, giving safe pledge oi fruits, Which in wintertide shall star The black earth with brilliance rare. hi. Whilom thou earnest with the morn ing mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sear, 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 in- fancy. Small thought was there of life’s dis- tress ; 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. 0 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 coinest not with showers or flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory ! Thou wert not nursed by the water- fall 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 hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father s door. SONG. 15 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 wood- land, 0 ! hither lead thy feet ! Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wat- tled 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 F orth 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, Withmusicandsweetshowers Of festal flowers. Unto the dwelling she must sway. Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, In setting round thy first experiment With royal frame-workof wrought gold ; Needs must thou dearly love thy first ) essay, Amd foremost in thy various gallery ti Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls Upon the storied walls ; For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, .hat all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs vith thee unto the love thou bearest he first-born of thy genius. Artist- like, ver retiring thou dost gaze n the prime labor of thine early days : No matter what the sketch might be; Whether the high field on the bush- less 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, '1 he trenched waters run from sky to sky; 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 ! 0 strengthen me, enlighten me ! 1 faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. 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 heaw stalks * 16 A CHARACTER. 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 taketn repose An hour before death ; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 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 A CHARACTER. With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, “ The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe w 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 m air ; Then looking as ’twere 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. 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. 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, M He saw thro’ his own soul, The marvel of the everlasting wil 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 sil ver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung Filling with light And vagrant melodies the winds whicl bore Them earthward till they lit ; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the belt flower, The fruitful wit Cleaving, took root, and springin? forth anew Where’er they fell, behold, THE POET'S MIND. 17 Like to the mother plant .in sem- blance, grew A flower all gold, And bravely furnish’d all abroad to fling Thy 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 a j L u ke > one great £ arcJ en show’d, And thro the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d, Rare sunrise flow’d. And Freedom rear’d in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow. When rites and forms before his burn- ing eyes Melted like snow. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn’d by those orient skies : ->ut round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes ^nd in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame Wisdom, a name to shake dl evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, >er words did gather thunder as they ran, J And as the lightning to the thun- der r hich 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 Rut one poor poet’s scroll, and with his word She shook the world. 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, -blowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind. ii. ^ a A n ^ r ° W ^ S0 Phist, 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. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants Where you stand you cannot heai' 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 Bike sheet lightning, Ever brightening a J^ ith a low melodi °us thunder; 11 day and all night it is ever drawn -brom the brain of the purple moun- tain Which stands in the distance yon- der : It springs on a level of bowery lawn And the mountain draws it from Heaven above. 18 THE SEA-FAIRIES. 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 tout with sin ; It would shrink to the earth if you came in. THE SEA-E AIRIES. Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw, , i , « Betwixt the green brink and the run- ning foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms To littleharps of gold ; and while they mused Whispering to each other half in tear, Shrill music reach’d them on the mid- dle sea. Whither away, whither away, whither away 'i fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore ^ Day and night to the billow the foun- tain calls: Down shower the gambolling water- falls Erom 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 High over the full-toned sea : 0 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, Eor here are the blissful downs and 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 color of cove and And sweet shall your welcome be : O hither, come hither, and be our lords, Eor merry brides are we : We will kiss sweet kisses, and speas. sweet words : O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords Huns 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, mariner, fly no more. THE DESERTED HOUSE. 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 lunge before hi. Close the door, the shutters close. Or thro’ the windows we shall s The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house. Come away : no more of mirtK , Is hore or merry-making sounc THE DYING SWAN. 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 staid with usl THE DYING SWAN, r. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, W )iich 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. Sver the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. ii. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, Hid white against the cold-white sky, >hone out their crowning snows. One willow over the river wept, Lid shook the wave as the wind did sigh ; d)ov€; in the wind was the swallow, i Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro* the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, hot ovei with purple, and green, and yellow. > hi. he wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul f that waste place with joy idden in sorrow : at first to the ear tie warble was low, and full and clear ; nd floating about the under-sky, • 'evading in weakness, the coronach ii 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 Ihro the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clamber- ing weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echo- ing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song! 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 graven 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. hi. Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chanteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny ? Let them rave. 20 LOVE AND DEATH 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-p leac h ed deep, Bramble roses, faint and pale, And long purples of the dale. Let them rave. 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. What time the mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of 1 ara- dise, . And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes ; . . . When, turning round a cassia, lull 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 forever over all. 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 nbb a 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. In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sigh By star-shine and by moonlight, • Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. 21 She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana : She watch’d my crest among them all Oriana : She saw me light, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. The hitter arrow went aside, Oriana : The false, false arrow went aside, 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. ) breaking heart that will not break, Oriana ! > pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana ! hou smilest, but thou dost not speak, nd then the tears run down my cheek' Oriana : Hiat wantest thou ? whom dost thou seek, Oriana ? I cry aloud : none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skiei* 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 ! 0 cursed blow ! Oriana ! O happy thou that liest low, 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, X dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. CIRCUMSTANCE. Two children in two neighbor villages Jrlaying 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 blos- somed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred ; So runs the round of life from houx to hour. the merman . 22 the merman. I. Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold. On a throne 1 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 Laughingly, laughingly. Oh l 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. 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 With the mermaids in and out of the Dressing their hair with the white sea- flower; _ . A ♦ And holding them back by their flow ing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss d me Laughingly, laughingly ; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily. hi. | 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 span- gles and shells, , Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily: But 1 would throw to them hack in mine THE MERMAID. 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 % I would he a mermaid fair ; I would sing to myself the whole o) With a comtfof pearl I would coml my hair ; _ _ . And still as I comh’d I would sing an- “ Who is^it loves me 1 who loves no. I woulcfcomb my hair till my ringlet would fall I Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-hud crow 1 Low adown and around,. And I should look like a fountain - gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall ; Till that great sea-snake under the s Erom his coiled sleeps in the cent] Would slowly trail himself sevenfq Bound the hall where I sate, and lo in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the of me. ADELINE. 23 And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me. ADELINE. 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 piay 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 crim- son shells. 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 Erom the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells ; For I would not be kiss’d by all who - would list, Df the bold merry mermen under the i sea ; They would sue me, and woo me, and t flatter me, n the purple twilights under the ) sea ; Sut the king of them all would carrv me, V^oo me, and win me, and marrv me, a the branching jaspers under the sea; hen all the dry pied things that be i the hueless mosses under the sea 'ould curl round my silver feet silently, 11 looking up for the love of me. nd if I should carol aloud, from aloft 11 things that are forked, and horned ! and soft ’ ould lean out from the hollow sphere j of the sea, 1 Poking down for the love of me. Mysteuy 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 : Ihy 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, 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 ? hi. 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 ? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreamy Adeline ? 24 MARGARET \ 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 1 whom waitest thou With thy soften’d, shadow’d brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thme, Thou faint smiler, Adeline *? v. Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies f 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, 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 J Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline. Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spread- eth, 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 Eloat by you on the verge ot night. hi. What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Rlantagenet, Sang looking thro’ his prison bars 1 Exquisite Margs* et, who can MARGARET. i. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower f Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect You? melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower • 1 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, The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved bo well 'i IV. fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Dur sorrow, only sorrow’s shade, Keeps real sorrow far away, cm move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, ut more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline, our hair is darker, and your eyes Touch’d with a somewhat darker hue, And less aerially blue, ROSALIND. 25 But over-trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies. v. 0 sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Tie up the ringlets on your cheek : 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. 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, Fhe shadow rushing up the sea, The lightning flash atween the rains, I che sunlight driving down the lea, fhe leaping stream, the very wind, Chat will not stay, upon his way, o stoop the cowslip to the plains, s not so clear and bold and free fs you, my falcon Rosalind, ou care not for another's pains, Because you are the soul of joy, Bright metal all without alloy. Life shoots and glances thro' youi 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. hi. Come down, come home, my Rosalind, m 7 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, And your cheek, whose brilliant hue Is so sparkling-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 yo?t love : When we have lured you from above And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, From North to South, We'll bind you fast in silken cords And kiss away the bitter words From off your rosy mouth. ELEANORE. i. Thy dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Winch, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighborhood, Thou wert born, on a rammet morn. ELEANORE . 26 A mile beneath Hie cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fanned 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, 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 gar- dens cull’d — A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull’d. in. 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-liued bell-like flower 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 1 IV. How many full-sail’d verse express, How many measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleanore ? The luxuriant symmetry Of + hy 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 mingie, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as the’ 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 forevermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore ! 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, ELEANORE. 27 I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light : As tho’ a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while ve 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 ; In thee all passion becomes passion- less, 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 self-same 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. 3ut when I see thee roam, with tresses g unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind j Breathes low between the sunset , and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, >n silken cushions half reclined ; I watch thy grace ; and in its place My heart a charm'd 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 color, 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. 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. And when the sappy field and wood Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud. 28 EARL Y SONNE TS . A — 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. EARLY SONNETS. i. TO . As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, And ebb into a former life, 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 either’s heart and speech. 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 Sato's, Distill’d from some worm-canker’fl 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. hi. Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, Like some broad river rushing down alone, With the self-same impulse wherewith he was thrown From his loud fount upon the echoing lea : — Which with increasing might doth for- ward flee By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, And in the njiddle 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 ; Ev’n as the warm gulf-stream of Florida Floats far away into the Northern seas The lavish growths of southern Mex- ico. 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 EARLY SONNETS. 29 Forever — thee (thy pathway sand- erased) Gliding with equal crowns two ser- pents 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, un- 1 handed down ; Only they saw thee from the secret shrine Returning with hot cheek and kindled eyes. 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. ' POLAND. Jow 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 smoulder- ing town Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be in* creased, 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! VII. Caress’d or chidden by the slender hand, And singing airy trifles this or that, Light Hope at Beauty’s call would 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. 30 EARLY SONNETS. VIII. The form, the form alone is eloquent ! A nobler yearning never broke her rest Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest, And win all eyes with all accomplish- ment : 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 con- tent. A moment came the tenderness ot The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles re- store — For ah ! the slight coquette, she can- not love, And if you kiss’d her feet a thousand years, . , She still would take the praise, and care no more. IX. Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie ? O sorro west thou, pale Painter, for the past, In painting some dead fnend 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. f 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 forever, in the pits Which some green Christmas crams with weary bones. 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. XI. THE BRIDESMAID. O 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, “ 0 happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride.” And all -at once a pleasant truth 1 learn’d, THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 31 For while the tender service made thee weep, I 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 sin- gle sleep : O happy bridesmaid, make a happy bride ! ” THE LADY OF SHALOTT. PART I. On either side of 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 forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle embowers 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? )r at the casement seen her stand ? )r is she known in all the land, [; The Lady of Shalott? Only reapers, reaping early n among the bearded barley, lear a song that echoes cheerly 'rom the river winding clearly, Down to tower’d Camelot : ind by the moon the reaper weary, Riling sheaves in uplands airy, 1 listening, whispers “ ’Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.” PART II. There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors 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, 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. 32 THE LADY OF SHALOTT. A red-cross knight forever 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 armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick- je well’d shone the saddle- leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn’d like one burningflame 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. 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 ; Tbe mirror crack’d from side to side ; “ The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott. PART IV. In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks com- plaining, 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 — 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. Out upou the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read liei name, The Lady of Shalott. Who is this ? and what is here ? And in the lighted palace near THE 7 WO VOICES. 33 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 liis mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.” 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.” 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 wcrse. “ 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.” 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’ll weep for thy deficiency i “ 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 ’twere 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.” I said, “ The years with change ad- vance : If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance. “Some turn this sickness yet might take, Ev’n 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.” 34 THE TWO VOICES. “ 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. « 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 crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town 'i “ Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream’d not y et. ‘ 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 re- sign’d, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.” I said, “ When I am gone away, ‘ He dared not tarry,’ men will say, Doing dishonor 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. “ 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. “ 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 I love — THE TWO VOICES. 35 “ As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about — “To search through all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, And reach the law within the law : “ 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 with- draws, Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause — “ In some good cause, not in mine own To perish, wept for, honor'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 rolled in smoke." “ Yea ! " said the voice, “ thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood. “ If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live 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* fenduring 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 labor 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. “ 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 ; “ 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 every thing a lie^ To flatter me that 1 may die ? 36 THE TWO VOICES. “ 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 ; “ But heard, by secret transport led, Ev’n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head — “ Which did accomplish their desire, Bore and forebore, 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 : n 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. “ And that, in seeking to undo, ( )ne riddle, and to find the true, 1 knit a hundred others new : “ Or that this anguish fleeting hence, (Jnmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix’d and froz’n 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. “ 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 dishonor to her race — “ His sons grow up that bear his name. Some grow to honor, 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 vapors 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* “ 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 TWO VOICES. u The simple senses crown’d his head: 1 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 ? “ He owns the fatal gift of eyes, That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies. “ Here sits lie 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 labor working to an end. “ The end and the beginning vex His reason : many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counter- checks. * He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would. “ Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn, Vast images in glimmering dawn. Half shown, are broken and with- drawn. ^Ah ! sure within him and without, vould his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt. But thou canst answer not again. Vith thine own weapon art thou slain, )r thou wilt answer but in vain. 3f “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 ? “ 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 : “ Hut if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend — > That to begin implies to end ; “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. 38 ]*rff£ TWO VO TOES. “ 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. “ 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 lose whole years of darker mind. “ Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory: “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 missed thy mark, Who sought’st to wreck thy 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 ? “ 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 : Tassing the place where each must rest, Each enter’d like a welcome guest. 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. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 39 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. \ second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, “ Be of better cheer.” As from some blissful neighborhood, 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 Aeolian 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. u 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. And forth into the fields I went, And Nature’s living 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 ; i 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 ! Re- joice ! ” THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. I see the wealthy miller yet, Ilis 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 dryly curl’d, Seem’d half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world ? In yonder chair I see him sic, 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. 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 self-same 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 — * 40 THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 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 : Tor 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. 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 (Twas 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, 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-edg^ A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge : 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 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 ATI LEE HS DAUGHTER. 41 Hie 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 ? 0 would she give me vow for vow Sweet Alice, if I told her all ? "’ 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. 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. 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. Ah, well — but sing the foolish song * gave y° u > Alic e, on the day When, arm in arm, we went along, 4 P ensive pair, and you were gay With bridal flowers — that I may seem. As m the nights of old, to lie Be ® 1( *e the mill-wheel in the stream ' ^ b G ^° Se c hestnuts whisper It is the miller’s daughter And she is grown so dear, so dear, lnat I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear : For hid in ringlets day and night, 1 d touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle a Ab ? ut , her daillt y dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me. In sorrow and in rest : And 1 should know if it beat right, I d clasp it round so close and tight. ^nd slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire: ;he wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher ; ^ was yoimg — too young to wed : 1 Yet must I love her for your sake ; k) fetch your Alice here," she said : ’ Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake. nd down I went to fetch my bride : -But, Alice, you were ill at ease; his dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well ; id dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. 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 iove 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 J 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. Where Past and Present, wound in one, 42 FA TIMA . 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, Hound my true heart thine arms in- twine My other dearer life in life, Look thro’ my very soul with thine . Untouch’d with any shade of years May those kind eyes forever 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 has brought'us pain, That loss but made us love the more, With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort,! 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 ; 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. FATIMA. 0 Love, Love, Love! 0 withering might ! 0 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 tile burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. Last night, when some one spoke his name, From my swift blood that went ana came 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’ 1 , 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 mooa The wind sounds like a silver wire : And from beyond the noon a fire (ENONE. 43 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, 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. * CENONE. There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapor 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 mid- way down Hang ricii in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus btands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Iroas and Ilion’s column’d citadel, The crown of Troas. Hither came at noon Vlournful CEnone, wandering forlorn )f Paris, once her playmate on the hills. *Ier cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck i'loated her hair or seertl’d to float in rest. •he, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, angto the stillness, till the mountain- shade loped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. “O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. | E or now the noonday quiet holds the hill : The grasshopper is silent in the grass : J he lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Bests 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. “0 mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, 0 Earth, hear me, O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown’d snake! 0 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 Bose 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 shape themselves within me, more and more, thereof I catch the issue, as I hear ead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, ike footsteps upon wool. I dimly sea y far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother mjecturcs of the features of her child e it is born : her child ! — a shudder comes iross me : never child be born of me, lblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! ‘ O mother, hear me yet before I die. ar me > O earth. I will not die alone, st their shrill happy laughter come to me the May - IS o' V M.,. mother, I'm to be Queer, o' the M.y, mSK Q«en o' Se M.y mother, I'm to bo Queen o' the M W . gg say me. ^ thC ^ S e 5 Wl 1 Queen. iHE MAY QUEEN . 55 the May. the May For th e shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I m to be Queen o the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o’ The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers An^ t b h y th * meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers- And iike fire in swam P s anj w And I m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May Tnd "^‘-'vinds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass • There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day ’ And I m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ th J 4' d tbe va Uey, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play For I m to be Queen o the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. Tomorrow >n7f e t r d v, Call - me 6arly ’ Cal 4 rae earl X> mother dear lo-morrow ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : For r’,nT V i V 3e 0t a !‘ ! he / ear the maddest merriest day, For I m to be Queen o the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. NEW-YEAR’S EVE. Ip you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and’ think no more of me. To-night 1 saw the sun set : he set and left behind Ind fhe Rp year >’ the dear °‘ d time ’ and a11 “F P^ce of mind ; And the New-year s coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Ren t p5wn We i i ma i e a crowi ? of flowers : we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May • TdffTf d . an f ed about tlle may-pole and in the hazel copse, 7 ’ Iill Charles s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There’s not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane ; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on hieh • 1 long to see a flower so before the day I die. n Uildi 4? r , ook ’ i!1 caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, Rnt T^L S n r l0 7 ’ iH C ° me , back again with su mmer o’er the wavs. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. 56 THE MA V Q UEEN . Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is stih. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now ; You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go , Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place ; Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Tho’ I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say , And be often, often with you when you think I m far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forevermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door , Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take ’em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I’m gone, to tram the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year So, if you’re waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year . To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet s here. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot .rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and ye* His will be done ! THE MAY QUEEN. But still I think it can’t be long before I find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. 0 blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ' 0 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ' A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d me all the sin How, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in • Hor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be ior my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. ’ 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet A t i S i t J leSlde , niy bed > mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call • It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all • the trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear- I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here • ’ With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. ’ \ fought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, “ It’s not for them- it’s mine." And if it come three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. Thfn° n0e vP?" 11 can ? e ’ and close heside the window-bars, len seem d to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now 1 think my time is near. I trust it is. I know And f , 0SSe< m ,f S1 - C that wa - v m y soul will have to go. myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. S But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret • If ThadTived a T ,rthier thah I > would make him happy yet. But aHWiv 1 C T 0t tel1 - 1 might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow • He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know ’ And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine- Wild flowers in the valley for other bauds than mine. 58 THE jlOTOS-EA FEES. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that 1 ^b^sun-" 6 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond thejun Forever and forever with those just souls and true , And what is life, that we should moan 1 why make we such Forever and forever, all in a blessed home — - And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. THE LOTOS-EATERS. *• Courage !” he said, and pointed toward the land, « This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon