The complete works of Alfred, lord Tennyson ...

Front matter

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I

Where Claiibel low-lieth The brerees 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.

At eve 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 Wn.L DIE.

When will the stream be aweary of flowing

Under my eye ?

When will the wind be aweary of blowing

Over the sky ?

When will the clouds be awean,' of

fleeting ?

When will the heart be aweary of beating.'

And nature die ?

Never, oh ! never, nothing will die; The stream flows.

The wind blows.

The cloud fleets.

The heart beats, Nothing will die.

Nothing will die;

All things will change

Thro' eternity.

'Tis the world's winter ;

Autumn and summer

Are gone Ion

Earth is dry i

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 fiU'd with life anew

The world was never made ; It will change, but it will not .So let the wind range ; For even and morn

Ever will be

Thro' eternity.

Nothing was born; Nothing will die; All things will change.

•The solemn oak-tree sigheth'— ^^-^ ;

■til Things Will Die— Leonine Elegiacs.

ALL THIN 7.S WILL DIE.

Clearly the b' itV liver chimes in its flowing

Uncer iv.- eye; Warmly and br'O. ily the south winds are blowM:;

Over th..' sky.

One after another \ "^e white clouds are

fleeting; , Every heart this T''ay morning in joyance is beating

Full me-rrily ;

Yet all ihiirs i.iiist die.

The stream •. i 1 cease to flow ;

The wind w-i' .rase to blow;

The cloud<! v.ii ' .ease to fleet ;

The hea-t w.il ,; I'se to beat;

For all thiig. r.ust die.

All things ..1,1st die.

Spring will come never more.

Oh! vaniij !

Death wa'.ts at ' \\ door. See 1 our li icnd i are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are cail'd — vve must go. Laid low, vetv lew, In the dark «•■. must lie. The merry gltc art still ; The voice 01 l! c bird Shall no more '•. 'ii ard, Nor the wini'. . •. ;' - 'lill.

Oh ! ir,i-. , .

Hark I death i» ^a'ling While I speak to ve, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling.

The strong limbs friling ; Ice with the warm blood mixing ; The eyeballs fi.xing.

Nine times goes the |y:issing bell : Ye merry souls, farew-i!. The old earth Had a birth.

As all men know.

Long ago.

And the old earth mus; die. So let the warm winds ra-jge, And the blue wave beat the shore ; For even and morn Ye will never see Thro-

All things were born

Ye will come ne

For all things must die.

LEONINE ELEGIACS.

Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only

the far river shines.

Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and

bowers of rose-blowtng bushes, Down bv the poplar tall rivulets

babble and fall.

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly ;

the grasshopper carol leth clearly ; Deeplv the wood-dove coos ; shrilly

the owlet halloos ; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her

first sleep earth breathes' stilly : Over the pools in the burn water-gnats

murmur and mourn.

Sadly the far kine loweth : the glimmering water outfloweth : Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope

to the dark hyaline.

Low-throned Hesper is stayed between

the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him

beneath in her breast.

The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind : bring

me my love, Rosalind.

Thou comest morning or even ; she

Cometh not morning or even. Talse-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is

my sweet Rosalind ?

SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND.

God! my God I have

1 faint, I fa'll. Men say that Thou Didst die for me. for such as me. Patient of ill. and death, and .And that mv sin was as a thorn

Confessions of A Sensitive Mind.

Among the thorns that girt Thy brow,

Wounding Thy soul. — That even now,

In this exlremest misery

Of ignorance, I should require

A sign I and if a holt of fire

Would rive the slumbrous summer

While I do pray to Thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow ! Is not my human pride brought low ? The boastings of my spirit still ? The joy I had in my freewill All cold, and dead, and corpse-like

grown ?

And what is left to me, but Thou, And faith in Thee ? Men pass me by j Christians with happy countenances — And children all seem full of Thee! And women smile with saint-like

glances Like Thine own mother's when she

bow'd Above Thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud. And Thou and peace to earth were

born.

Goodwill to me as well as all — I one of them : n-.y brothers they : brothers in Christ — a world of peace And confidence, day after day; And trust and hope till things should

cease, And then one Heaven receive us all.

How sweet to have a common "faith ! To hold a common scorn of death ! And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and

Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not

fear.

With hopeful grief, were passing

sweet I

Thrice happj; state again to be The trustful infant on the knee! Who lets his rosy fingers play

mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day ;

He hath no care of 1 in .r ,i , th ; Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of liappine^s And perfect rest so i luvai d is ; And loveth so his in nocent heart. Her temple and her place of iiirth, Where she would e ver wish to dwell. Life of the fountain, ihrre, litiieath Its salient springs, , and far apart. Hating to wander out on eai th, Or breathe into (he .'hollow ,iir. Whose chillness wtiuld make visible Her subtil, warm, atid golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood. Fulfils him with beatitude.

Oh ! sure ;

, spe cial

Of God, to f irtify fiom .loubt. To arm in proof, a ul . i.i' ; about With triple-inaiU'd t-;i~;. , id clear Delight, the inia«t .s (i;n\:rng year.

Would that m'' gloomed fancy were As thine, my mofter, when with brows Propt on thv knees, mv hands upheld In thine, I li.stvn'd to \\v. vows. For me outpour'fl in l.ihest prayer — For me unworlliy ! — .Tr..: beheld Thy mild dct|i cy.^ u; r.used, that knew The beauty and i c|iu<i .f faith. And thecleai spirii sii;ning thro". Oh! whcrcfi>r<. do w. zxovi awrv From rool> whicii .siril.» so deep? why

Paths in the desert* i^ould not I Bowmyselfdown, where thou hastknelt. To the eartli — until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt .' What Uevil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear'd — to brush

the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, mv mother, in the clay.' Myself .> I,sitthus.> Mvself.> Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why

pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not ? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleade^l still, and seest me drive Thr.V utter dark :i full-sail'd skiff. UnjuloteJ i' ;hc echoing dance

Cotifessions of a Sensitive Mind.

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk ! I know At matins and at evensong. That thou, it thou wert yet alive. In deep and daily prayers would'st

strive To reconcile me with thy (lod. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — ' Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, Mv 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 AVould drop from his o'er-brimming

love, \s 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 Haih moor'd and rested? Ask the

sea At midnight, when the crisp slope

waves .'\fter 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 j

The other .' I am too forlorn. Too shaken : my own weakness fools My judgment, and nvy spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and j fresh]

' Yet,' said I, in i The unsunn'd

strength.

When I went forth in quest of tnith, ' 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 fiows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiccth in the year. And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from

whence He knows not, on his light tliere falls A shadow ; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb. Floats from his sick and filmed eyes. And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on .' Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that

seem.

And things that be, and analyse Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one. If one there be ? ' Ay me ! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must cla.sp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Ke unremember'd, and Thy love Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet .Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath.

The Krakeit — Song — Lilian — Isabel.

O weary life ! O weary death ! O spirit and heart made desolate I O damned vacillating state !

THE KKAKEN.

Below the thunders of the upper

deep ; Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded

sleep The Kraken sleepelh : faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides : above him

swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and

heisjht ; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot'and secret

cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his

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 free.'

Airy, fairy Lilian,

Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me. Claps her tiny hands above me,

Laughing all she can ; She'll not tell me if she love me.

Cruel little Lilian.

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.

Prythee weep, May Lilian ! Gaiety without eclipse

Wearieth me. May Lilian : Thro' my very heart it thrilleth

When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth ;

Prythee weep. May Lilian.

IV.

Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee.

Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,

Fairy Lilian

ISABEL.

I.

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright,

but fed

With the clear-pointed flame of

chastity.

Clear, without heat, undying, tended by

Isabel — Mariana.

Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane Of her still spirit ; locks not wide-disspread, 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 mooci, 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 distress, Right to the heart and ' brain, tho' undescried.

Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious

pride ; A courage to endure and to obev ; A hale of gossip parlance, and of

sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.

The mellow'd reflex ol a winter moon ; A clear stream flowing with a nuiddy

Till in its onward With swiftei purer light

The vexed ediii.s of its wayward brother : A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite With cluster'd flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunchas leaning on

each other — Shadow forth thte :— 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 in the moated granRe."

Measure /or 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 1 '

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 glanced athwart the gl

She only said, ' The night is dreary, He Cometh not.' she said ;

.She said, ' t am aweary, aweary, I would that I '

Mariana — To ■

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow ; The cock sung out an hour ere light :

From the dark fen the oxen's low

Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gr4y-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-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway. All silver-green with gnarled bark : For leagues no other tree did mark

The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, ' My life is dreary,

He Cometh not,' she said ;

She

And ever \*hen 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 Hy sung in the pane j the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice i)eer'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 awearv, aweary,

I would that I were dead ! '

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense; but most she loathed the

hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lav

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 I '

CLE.A.R-HEADED friend, whose joyful

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts

The knots that tangle human creeds, The wounding cords that bind and

The heart ■■.ntil it bleeds, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

Roof not a glance so keen as

thine : If aught of prophecy be mine. Thou wilt not live in vain.

Low-cowering shall the .Sophist sit ; Falsehood shall bare her plaited

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not

With shrilling shafts of subtle Nor martvr tl:,mes. nn swords

Madeline— Song : The Oivl.

Can do away that ancient lie; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot thro' and thr'o with cunning words.