Poems, Chiefly Lyrical

Front matter

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

LONDON: EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. CORNHILL.

1830.

Claribel

CLARIBEL.

A MELODY.

Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the roseleaves fall: But the solemn oaktree sigheth, Thickleaved, 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 bee low-hummeth About the mossed headstone: At midnight the moon cometh, And looketh down alone. Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The clearvoiced mavis dwelleth, The fledgling throstle lispeth, The slumbrous wave outwelleth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth.

Lilian

LILIAN.

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 lovesighs She, looking through and through me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks; So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her purfled wimple, Glancing with blackbeaded 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: Through my very heart it thrilleth When from crimsonthreaded lips Silvertreble laughter trilleth: Prythee weep, May Lilian.

Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a roseleaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian.

Isabel

ISABEL.

Eyes not downdropt nor overbright, but fed With the clearpointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane Of her still spirit: locks not wide dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head, Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summercalm of golden charity,

Were fixéd shadows of thy fixed mood, Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude, Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.

The intuitive decision of a bright And thoroughedgéd intellect to part Error from crime—a prudence to withhold— The laws of wifehood charactered in gold Upon the blenched 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 subtlepacéd counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, though undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentleness Through all the outworks of suspicious pride— A courage to endure and to obey— A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crowned Isabel, through all her placid life The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.

The mellowed reflex of a wintermoon— A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexéd eddies of its wayward brother— A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, With clustered flowerbells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruitbunches leaning on each other— Shadow forth thee:—the world hath not another (Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity), Of such a finished chastened purity.

Elegiacs

ELEGIACS.

<>I. Low flowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimmed in the gloaming: Thoro' the blackstemmed pines only the far river shines. Creeping through blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;

Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly: Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth: Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Lowthroned Hesper is stayéd between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The antient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?

The "How" and the "Why"

THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY."

?

I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast: In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past. We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, Who will riddle me the how and the why?

The bulrush nods unto its brother, The wheatears whisper to each other: What is it they say? What do they there? Why two and two make four? Why round is not square? Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly? Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh? Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? Whether we wake, or whether we sleep? Whether we sleep, or whether we die? How you are you? Why I am I? Who will riddle me the how and the why?

The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow; But what is the meaning of then and now? I feel there is something; but how and what? I know there is somewhat; but what and why? I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.

The little bird pipeth—"why? why?" In the summerwoods when the sun falls low

And the great bird sits on the opposite bough, And stares in his face and shouts, "how? how?' And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight, And chaunts, "how? how?" the whole of the night.

Why the life goes when the blood is spilt? What the life is? where the soul may lie? Why a church is with a steeple built; And a house with a chimneypot? Who will riddle me the how and the what? Who will riddle me the what and the why?

Mariana

MARIANA.

"Mariana in the moated grange."—-Measure for Measure.

With blackest moss the flowerplots Were thickly crusted, one and all, The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the gardenwall. The broken sheds looked 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!"

<>II. 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 casementcurtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said: She said "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

<>III. Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the nightfowl 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 seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the grey-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!"

<>IV. About a stonecast from the wall, A sluice with blackened waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The clustered marishmosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silvergreen with gnarled bark, For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding grey. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"

<>V. And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up an' 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!"

<>VI. All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creaked, The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, Or from the crevice peered about. Old faces glimmered through 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!"

<>VII. 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 thickmoted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Downsloped was westering in his 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!"

To ——

TO ——.

Clearheaded friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain The knotted lies of human creeds, The wounding cords which bind and strain The heart until it bleeds, Rayfringéd eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine: If aught of prophecy be mine, Thou wilt not live in vain.

Lowcowering shall the Sophist sit; Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Fairfronted 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 through and through with cunning words.

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 writhèd 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

MADELINE.

Thou art not steeped in golden languors, No trancéd summercalm is thine, Evervarying Madeline. Through light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites, and darling angers, And aery forms of flitting change.

Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in lovelore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles: but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know? Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine Like little clouds sunfringed, are thine, Evervarying 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 lovelore, Evervarying Madeline.

A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fanned, About thee breaks and dances; When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of angered shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curvéd 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 , Again thou blushest angerly, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curvéd frown.

Erratum

The Merman

THE MERMAN.

Who would be A merman bold Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold. On a throne?

I would be a merman bold; I would sit and sing the whole of the day;

I would fill the seahalls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white seaflower, And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kissed me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away To the palegreen seagroves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily.

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:

Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine: Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kissed me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green! Soft are the mossbeds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily.

The Mermaid

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 be a mermaid fair: I would sing to myself the whole of the day;

With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I combed I would sing and say, "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, Low adown, low adown, From under my starry seabud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that great seasnake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me.

But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my lowflowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad seawolds i' the crimson 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, From the diamondledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kist by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently,

All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forkéd, and hornéd, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me.

Supposed Confessions of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with itself

SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS

OF A SECONDRATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN UNITY WITH ITSELF.

Oh God! my God! have mercy now. I faint, I fall. Men say that thou Did'st die for me, for such as me, Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as thorn Among the thorns that girt thy brow,

Wounding thy soul.—That even now, In this extremest misery Of ignorance, I should require A sign! and if a bolt of fire Would rive the slumbrous summernoon 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 corpselike grown? And what is left to me, but thou, And faith in thee? Men pass me by; Christians with happy countenances— And children all seem full of thee! And women smile with saintlike glances Like thine own mother's when she bowed Above thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And thou and peace to earth were born.

Goodwill to me as well as all— —I one of them: my brothers they: Brothers in Christ—a world of peace And confidence, day after day; And trust and hope till things should cease, And then one Heaven receive us all.

How sweet to have a common faith! To hold a common scorn of death! And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! A grief not uninformed, and dull, Hearted with hope, of hope as full As is the blood with life, or night And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. To stand beside a grave, and see The red small atoms wherewith we

Are built, and smile in calm, and say— "These little motes and grains shall be "Clothed on with immortality "More glorious than the noon of day. "All that is pass'd into the flowers, "And into beasts, and other men, "And all the Norland whirlwind showers "From open vaults, and all the sea "O'erwashes with sharp salts, again "Shall fleet together all, and be "Indued with immortality."

Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee! Who lets his waxen fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes;

He hath no care of life or death, Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Fullfills him with beatitude. Oh! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triplemailéd trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year.

Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listened to thy vows, For me outpoured 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 through. Oh! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desart? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To th' earth—until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou had'st reared—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

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So little love for thee? But why Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Through utter dark a fullsailed 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'erbrimming 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 moored and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves

After a tempest, rib and fret The broadimbaséd beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland meer? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexéd 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 unsunned 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 hornéd valleys all about, "And hollows of the fringed hills "In summerheats, 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 flowered furrow. In a time, "Of which he wots not, run short pains "Through 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 men 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 every where Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol? let thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremembered, and thy love Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret

Of that sharpheaded worm begins In the gross blackness underneath.

Oh weary life! oh weary death! Oh spirit and heart made desolate! Oh damnéd vacillating state!

Erratum

The Burial of Love

THE BURIAL OF LOVE.

His eyes in eclipse, Palecold his lips, The light of his hopes unfed, Mute his tongue, His bow unstrung With the tears he hath shed, Backward drooping his graceful head, Love is dead: His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go—carry him to his dark deathbed; Bury him in the cold cold heart— Love is dead.

Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn, And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? Shall hollowhearted apathy, The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles, For ever write, In the withered light Of the tearless eye, An epitaph that all may spy? No! sooner she herself shall die.

For her the showers shall not fall, Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all; Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, Till Love have his full revenge.

To ——

TO ——

Sainted Juliet! dearest name! If to love be life alone, Divinest Juliet, I love thee, and live; and yet Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice Offered to gods upon an altarthrone; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.

Song.—the Owl

SONG.—THE OWL.

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the newmown 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

SECOND SONG.—TO THE SAME.

Thy tuwhits are lulled 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.

I would mock thy chaunt anew; But I cannot mimick it; Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, With a lengthened loud halloo, Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.

Recollections of the Arabian Nights

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS.

<>I. When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flowed back with me The forwardflowing tide of time; And many a sheeny summermorn, Adown the Tigris I was borne, By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold, Highwalléd gardens green and old; True Mussulman was I and sworn, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>II. Anight my shallop, rustling through The low and blooméd foliage, drove The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove The citronshadows in the blue: By gardenporches on the brim, The costly doors flung open wide, Gold glittering through lamplight dim, And broidered sophas on each side: In sooth it was a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>III. Often, where clearstemmed platans guard The outlet, did I turn away The boathead down a broad canal From the main river sluiced, where all The sloping of the moonlit sward Was damaskwork, and deep inlay

Of breaded blosms unmown, which crept Adown to where the waters slept. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid!

<>IV. A motion from the river won Ridged the smooth level, bearing on My shallop through the starstrown calm, Until another night in night I entered, from the clearer light, Imbowered vaults of pillared palm, Imprisoning sweets, which as they clomb Heavenward, were stayed beneath the dome Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid!

<>V. Still onward; and the clear canal Is rounded to as clear a lake. From the green rivage many a fall Of diamond rillets musical, Through little chrystal arches low Down from the central fountain's flow Fall'n silverchiming, seemed to shake The sparkling flints beneath the prow. A goodly place, a goodly time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid!

<>VI. Above through many a bowery turn A walk with varycoloured shells Wandered engrained. 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 odour in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>VII. Far off, and where the lemongrove In closest coverture upsprung, The living airs of middle night Died round the bulbul as he sung. Not he: but something which possessed The darkness of the world, delight, Life, anguish, death, immortal love Ceasing not, mingled, unrepressed, Apart from place, witholding time, But flattering the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>VIII. Blackgreen the gardenbowers and grots Slumbered: the solemn palms were ranged Above, unwooed of summer wind. A sudden splendour from behind Flushed all the leaves with rich goldgreen, And flowing rapidly between Their interspaces, counterchanged The level lake with diamondplots Of saffron light. A lovely time, For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid!

<>IX. Darkblue the deep sphere overhead, Distinct with vivid stars unrayed, Grew darker from that underflame; So, leaping lightly from the boat, With silver anchor left afloat, In marvel whence that glory came

Upon me, as in sleep I sank In cool soft turf upon the bank, Entrancéd with that place and time, So worthy of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>X. Thence through the garden I was borne— A realm of pleasance, many a mound, And many a shadowchequered lawn Full of the city's stilly sound. And deep myrrhthickets blowing round The stately cedar, tamarisks, Thick rosaries of scented thorn, Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks Graven with emblems of the time, In honour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>XI. With dazéd vision unawares From the long alley's latticed shade Emerged, I came upon the great Pavilion of the Right to the carven cedarn doors, Flung inward over spangled floors, Broadbaséd flights of marble stairs Ran up with golden balustrade, After the fashion of the time, And humour of the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

<>XII. The fourscore windows all alight As with the quintessence of flame, A million tapers flaring bright From wreathéd silvers looked to shame The hollowvaulted dark, and streamed Upon the moonéd domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seemed Hundreds of crescents on the roof Of night newrisen, that marvellous time, To celebrate the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.