About a stone-cast from the wallA 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 markThe 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 fellUpon 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 mouseBehind 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 call'd her from without.She only said, 'My life is dreary,He cometh not,' she said;She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,'I would that I were dead!'
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,The slow clock ticking, and the soundWhich to the wooing wind aloofThe poplar made, did all confoundHer sense; but most she loathed the hourWhen the thick-moted sunbeam layAthwart the chambers, and the dayWas sloping toward his western bower.Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,He will not come,' she said;She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,O God, that I were dead!'
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
700. The Lady of Shalott
ON either side the river lieLong fields of barley and of rye,That clothe the wold and meet the sky;And thro' the field the road runs byTo many-tower'd Camelot;And up and down the people go,Gazing where the lilies blowRound an island there below,The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs for everBy the island in the riverFlowing down to Camelot.Four gray walls, and four gray towers,Overlook a space of flowers,And the silent isle imbowersThe Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil'd,Slide the heavy barges trail'dBy slow horses; and unhail'dThe shallop flitteth silken-sail'dSkimming down to Camelot:But who hath seen her wave her hand?Or at the casement seen her stand?Or is she known in all the land,The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping earlyIn among the bearded barley,Hear a song that echoes cheerlyFrom the river winding clearly,Down to tower'd Camelot:And by the moon the reaper weary,Piling sheaves in uplands airy,Listening, whispers ''Tis the fairyLady of Shalott.'
There she weaves by night and dayA magic web with colours gay.She has heard a whisper say,A curse is on her if she stayTo 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 clearThat hangs before her all the year,Shadows of the world appear.There she sees the highway nearWinding 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 blueThe knights come riding two and two:She hath no loyal knight and true,The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror's magic sights,For often thro' the silent nightsA 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,' saidThe Lady of Shalott.
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 greavesOf bold Sir Lancelot.A red-cross knight for ever kneel'dTo 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 seeHung in the golden Galaxy.The bridle bells rang merrilyAs he rode down to Camelot:And from his blazon'd baldric slungA mighty silver bugle hung,And as he rode his armour rung,Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weatherThick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,The helmet and the helmet-featherBurn'd like one burning flame together,As he rode down to Camelot.As often thro' the purple night,Below the starry clusters bright,Some bearded meteor, trailing light,Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;From underneath his helmet flow'dHis coal-black curls as on he rode,As he rode down to Camelot.From the bank and from the riverHe flash'd into the crystal mirror,'Tirra lirra,' by the riverSang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' the room,She saw the water-lily bloom,She saw the helmet and the plume,She look'd down to Camelot.Out flew the web and floated wide;The mirror crack'd from side to side;'The curse is come upon me!' criedThe Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,The pale yellow woods were waning,The broad stream in his banks complaining,Heavily the low sky rainingOver tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boatBeneath a willow left afloat,And round about the prow she wroteThe 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 countenanceDid she look to Camelot.And at the closing of the dayShe loosed the chain, and down she lay;The broad stream bore her far away,The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy whiteThat loosely flew to left and right—The leaves upon her falling light—Thro' the noises of the nightShe floated down to Camelot:And as the boat-head wound alongThe 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 tideThe 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 upon the wharfs they came,Knight and burgher, lord and dame,And round the prow they read her name,The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?And in the lighted palace nearDied the sound of royal cheer;And they cross'd themselves for fear,All the knights at Camelot:But Lancelot mused a little space;He said, 'She has a lovely face;God in His mercy lend her grace,The Lady of Shalott.'
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
701. The Miller's Daughter
IT is the miller's daughter,And she is grown so dear, so dear,That I would be the jewelThat trembles in her ear:For hid in ringlets day and night,I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
And I would be the girdleAbout her dainty dainty waist,And her heart would beat against me,In sorrow and in rest:And I should know if it beat right,I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
And I would be the necklace,And all day long to fall and riseUpon 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.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
702. Song of the Lotos-Eaters
THERE is sweet music here that softer fallsThan petals from blown roses on the grass,Or night-dews on still waters between wallsOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.Here are cool mosses deep,And thro' the moss the ivies creep,And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,And utterly consumed with sharp distress,While all things else have rest from weariness?All things have rest: why should we toil alone,We only toil, who are the first of things,And make perpetual moan,Still from one sorrow to another thrown:Nor ever fold our wings,And cease from wanderings,Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,'There is no joy but calm!'—Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,The folded leaf is woo'd from out the budWith winds upon the branch, and thereGrows green and broad, and takes no care,Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moonNightly dew-fed; and turning yellowFalls, and floats adown the air.Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,Drops in a silent autumn night.All its allotted length of days,The flower ripens in its place,Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.Death is the end of life; ah, whyShould life all labour be?Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,And in a little while our lips are dumb.Let us alone. What is it that will last?All things are taken from us, and becomePortions and parcels of the dreadful Past.Let us alone. What pleasure can we haveTo war with evil? Is there any peaceIn ever climbing up the climbing wave?All things have rest, and ripen toward the graveIn silence; ripen, fall and cease:Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,With half-shut eyes ever to seemFalling asleep in a half-dream!To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;To hear each other's whisper'd speech;Eating the Lotos day by day,To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,And tender curving lines of creamy spray;To lend our hearts and spirits whollyTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy;To muse and brood and live again in memory,With those old faces of our infancyHeap'd over with a mound of grass,Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,And dear the last embraces of our wivesAnd their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change;For surely now our household hearts are cold:Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.Or else the island princes over-boldHave eat our substance, and the minstrel singsBefore them of the ten years' war in Troy,And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.Is there confusion in the little isle?Let what is broken so remain.The Gods are hard to reconcile:'Tis hard to settle order once again.There is confusion worse than death,Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,Long labour unto aged breath,Sore task to hearts worn out with many warsAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)With half-dropt eyelids still,Beneath a heaven dark and holy,To watch the long bright river drawing slowlyHis waters from the purple hill—To hear the dewy echoes callingFrom cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—To watch the emerald-colour'd water fallingThro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:The Lotos blows by every winding creek:All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:Thro' every hollow cave and alley loneRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.We have had enough of action, and of motion we,Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seethingfree,Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relinedOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'dFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'dRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fierysands,Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and prayinghands.But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful songSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hellSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
703. St. Agnes' Eve
DEEP on the convent-roof the snowsAre sparkling to the moon:My breath to heaven like vapour goes:May my soul follow soon!The shadows of the convent-towersSlant down the snowy sward,Still creeping with the creeping hoursThat lead me to my Lord:Make Thou my spirit pure and clearAs are the frosty skies,Or this first snowdrop of the yearThat in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soil'd and dark,To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper's earthly spark,To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb,My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am,To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,Thro' all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,In raiment white and clean.
He lifts me to the golden doors;The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors,And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gatesRoll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity,One sabbath deep and wide—A light upon the shining sea—The Bridegroom with his bride!
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
704. Blow, Bugle, blow
THE splendour falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river:Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow for ever and for ever.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
705. Summer Night
NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.
Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars,And all thy heart lies open unto me.
Now slides the silent meteor on, and leavesA shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,And slips into the bosom of the lake:So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slipInto my bosom and be lost in me.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
706. Come down, O Maid
COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang),In height and cold, the splendour of the hills?But cease to move so near the Heavens, and ceaseTo glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine,To sit a star upon the sparkling spire;And come, for Love is of the valley, come,For Love is of the valley, come thou downAnd find him; by the happy threshold, he,Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,Or red with spirted purple of the vats,Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walkWith Death and Morning on the silver horns,Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine,Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice,That huddling slant in furrow-cloven fallsTo roll the torrent out of dusky doors:But follow; let the torrent dance thee downTo find him in the valley; let the wildLean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leaveThe monstrous ledges there to slope, and spillTheir thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,That like a broken purpose waste in air:So waste not thou; but come; for all the valesAwait thee; azure pillars of the hearthArise to thee; the children call, and IThy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,The moan of doves in immemorial elms,And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
707. From 'In Memoriam' (ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII)
FAIR ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur's loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favourable speedRuffle thy mirror'd mast, and leadThro' prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, thro' early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widow'd race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.
I hear the noise about thy keel;I hear the bell struck in the night;I see the cabin-window bright;I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,And travell'd men from foreign lands;And letters unto trembling hands;And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.
So bring him: we have idle dreams:This look of quiet flatters thusOur home-bred fancies: O to us,The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,That takes the sunshine and the rains,Or where the kneeling hamlet drainsThe chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wellsShould gulf him fathom-deep in brine;And hands so often clasp'd in mine,Should toss with tangle and with shells.
Calm is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only thro' the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,And on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.
To-night the winds begin to riseAnd roar from yonder dropping day:The last red leaf is whirl'd away,The rooks are blown about the skies;
The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,The cattle huddled on the lea;And wildly dash'd on tower and treeThe sunbeam strikes along the world:
And but for fancies, which averThat all thy motions gently passAthwart a plane of molten glass,I scarce could brook the strain and stir
That makes the barren branches loud;And but for fear it is not so,The wild unrest that lives in woeWould dote and pore on yonder cloud
That rises upward always higher,And onward drags a labouring breast,And topples round the dreary west,A looming bastion fringed with fire.
Thou comest, much wept for: such a breezeCompell'd thy canvas, and my prayerWas as the whisper of an airTo breathe thee over lonely seas.
For I in spirit saw thee moveThro' circles of the bounding sky,Week after week: the days go by:Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roamMy blessing, like a line of light,Is on the waters day and night,And like a beacon guards thee home.
So may whatever tempest marsMid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;And balmy drops in summer darkSlide from the bosom of the stars.
So kind an office hath been done,Such precious relics brought by thee;The dust of him I shall not seeTill all my widow'd race be run.
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,Or breaking into song by fits,Alone, alone, to where he sits,The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,I wander, often falling lame,And looking back to whence I came,Or on to where the pathway leads;
And crying, How changed from where it ranThro' lands where not a leaf was dumb;But all the lavish hills would humThe murmur of a happy Pan:
When each by turns was guide to each,And Fancy light from Fancy caught,And Thought leapt out to wed with ThoughtEre Thought could wed itself with Speech;
And all we met was fair and good,And all was good that Time could bring,And all the secret of the SpringMoved in the chambers of the blood;
And many an old philosophyOn Argive heights divinely sang,And round us all the thicket rangTo many a flute of Arcady.
How fares it with the happy dead?For here the man is more and more;But he forgets the days beforeGod shut the doorways of his head.
The days have vanish'd, tone and tint,And yet perhaps the hoarding senseGives out at times (he knows not whence)A little flash, a mystic hint;
And in the long harmonious years(If Death so taste Lethean springs)May some dim touch of earthly thingsSurprise thee ranging with thy peers.
If such a dreamy touch should fall,O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;My guardian angel will speak outIn that high place, and tell thee all.
The wish, that of the living wholeNo life may fail beyond the grave,Derives it not from what we haveThe likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,That Nature lends such evil dreams?So careful of the type she seems,So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhereHer secret meaning in her deeds,And finding that of fifty seedsShe often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,And falling with my weight of caresUpon the great world's altar-stairsThat slope thro' darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,And gather dust and chaff, and callTo what I feel is Lord of all,And faintly trust the larger hope.
'So careful of the type?' but no.From scarped cliff and quarried stoneShe cries, 'A thousand types are gone:I care for nothing, all shall go.
Thou makest thine appeal to me:I bring to life, I bring to death:The spirit does but mean the breath:I know no more.' And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,Such splendid purpose in his eyes,Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
Who trusted God was love indeedAnd love Creation's final law—Tho' Nature, red in tooth and clawWith ravine, shriek'd against his creed—
Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,Who battled for the True, the Just,Be blown about the desert dust,Or seal'd within the iron hills?
No more? A monster then, a dream,A discord. Dragons of the prime,That tare each other in their slime,Were mellow music match'd with him.
O life as futile, then, as frail!O for thy voice to soothe and bless!What hope of answer, or redress?Behind the veil, behind the veil.
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,The tender blossom flutter down;Unloved, that beech will gather brown,This maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair,Ray round with flames her disk of seed,And many a rose-carnation feedWith summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,The brook shall babble down the plain,At noon or when the lesser wainIs twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,And flood the haunts of hern and crake;Or into silver arrows breakThe sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wildA fresh association blow,And year by year the landscape growFamiliar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tillsHis wonted glebe, or lops the glades;And year by year our memory fadesFrom all the circle of the hills.
Now fades the last long streak of snow,Now burgeons every maze of quickAbout the flowering squares, and thickBy ashen roots the violets blow.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,The distance takes a lovelier hue,And drown'd in yonder living blueThe lark becomes a sightless song.
Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,The flocks are whiter down the vale,And milkier every milky sailOn winding stream or distant sea;
Where now the seamew pipes, or divesIn yonder greening gleam, and flyThe happy birds, that change their skyTo build and brood; that live their lives
From land to land; and in my breastSpring wakens too; and my regretBecomes an April violet,And buds and blossoms like the rest.
Love is and was my Lord and King,And in his presence I attendTo hear the tidings of my friend,Which every hour his couriers bring.
Love is and was my King and Lord,And will be, tho' as yet I keepWithin his court on earth, and sleepEncompass'd by his faithful guard,
And hear at times a sentinelWho moves about from place to place,And whispers to the worlds of space,In the deep night, that all is well.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
708. Maud
COME into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, Night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves,To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr'dTo the dancers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?She is weary of dance and play.'Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.O young lord-lover, what sighs are thoseFor one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music clash'd in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood,For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake,They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892
709. O that 'twere possible
O THAT 'twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!…
A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee:Ah, Christ! that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be!
Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. 1809-1885
710. Shadows
THEY seem'd, to those who saw them meet,The casual friends of every day;Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet,His courtesy was free and gay.
But yet if one the other's nameIn some unguarded moment heard,The heart you thought so calm and tameWould struggle like a captured bird:
And letters of mere formal phraseWere blister'd with repeated tears,—And this was not the work of days,But had gone on for years and years!
Alas, that love was not too strongFor maiden shame and manly pride!Alas, that they delay'd so longThe goal of mutual bliss beside!
Yet what no chance could then reveal,And neither would be first to own,Let fate and courage now conceal,When truth could bring remorse alone.
Henry Alford. 1810-1871
711. The Bride
'RISE,' said the Master, 'come unto the feast.'She heard the call and rose with willing feet;But thinking it not otherwise than meetFor such a bidding to put on her best,She is gone from us for a few short hoursInto her bridal closet, there to waitFor the unfolding of the palace gateThat gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.We have not seen her yet, though we have beenFull often to her chamber door, and oftHave listen'd underneath the postern green,And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft.But she hath made no answer, and the dayFrom the clear west is fading fast away.
Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886
712. Cean Dubh Deelish
PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
O many and many a young girl for me is pining,Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,Your darling black head my heart above;O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
Cean dubh deelish] darling black head.
Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886
713. Cashel of Munster FROM THE IRISH
I'D wed you without herds, without money or rich array,And I'd wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray;My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far awayIn Cashel town, tho' the bare deal board were our marriage-bed thisday!
O fair maid, remember the green hill-side,Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide;Time now has worn me; my locks are turn'd to gray;The year is scarce and I am poor—but send me not, love, away!
O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl;O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl;Marry me and prove me, and say soon you willThat noble blood is written on my right side still.
My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white;No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight;But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho' I be and lone,O, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!
O my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are;And O my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear!—I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly,And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!
Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886
714. The Fair Hills of Ireland FROM THE IRISH
A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,Uileacan dubh O!Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;Uileacan dubh O!There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand,And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd,There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee—Uileacan dubh O!Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea;Uileacan dubh O!And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand,Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand,And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command,For the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,Uileacan dubh O!The butter and the cream do wondrously abound;Uileacan dubh O!The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland,And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand,On the fair hills of holy Ireland.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
715. Song from 'Paracelsus'
HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smear'd with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair: such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.
And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian's fine worm-eaten shroudWhich breaks to dust when once unroll'd;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vow'd,With moth'd and dropping arras hung,Mouldering her lute and books among,As when a queen, long dead, was young.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
716. The Wanderers
OVER the sea our galleys went,With cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament:Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nail'd all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,To bear the playful billows' game;So, each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view.But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented rowKept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning droop'd the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor star-shineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day's voyage more,We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretch'd along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too:So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast!
Now, one morn, land appear'd—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky—'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!'But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nigh;So we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steer'd right into the harbour thus,With pomp and paean glorious.
A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for ever one,Nor paused till in the westering sunWe sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done;When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngsOf gentle islanders!'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried,'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are open'd wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keepingFor these majestic forms'—they cried.O, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight:Yet we call'd out—'Depart!Our gifts, once given, must here abide:Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work,'—we cried.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
717. Thus the Mayne glideth
THUS the Mayne glidethWhere my Love abideth;Sleep 's no softer: it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate'er befall,Meandering and musical,Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patchOf primroses too faint to catchA weary bee…. And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flitIn and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they:Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne'er so still.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
718. Pippa's Song
THE year 's at the spring,And day 's at the morn;Morning 's at seven;The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd;The lark 's on the wing;The snail 's on the thorn;God 's in His heaven—All 's right with the world!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
719. You'll love Me yet
YOU'LL love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love's protracted growing:June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant a heartful now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave 's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What 's death? You'll love me yet!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
720. Porphyria's Lover
THE rain set early in to-night,The sullen wind was soon awake,It tore the elm-tops down for spite,And did its worst to vex the lake:I listen'd with heart fit to break.When glided in Porphyria; straightShe shut the cold out and the storm,And kneel'd and made the cheerless grateBlaze up, and all the cottage warm;Which done, she rose, and from her formWithdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,And laid her soil'd gloves by, untiedHer hat and let the damp hair fall,And, last, she sat down by my sideAnd call'd me. When no voice replied,She put my arm about her waist,And made her smooth white shoulder bare,And all her yellow hair displaced,And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,Murmuring how she loved me—sheToo weak, for all her heart's endeavour,To set its struggling passion freeFrom pride, and vainer ties dissever,And give herself to me for ever.But passion sometimes would prevail,Nor could to-night's gay feast restrainA sudden thought of one so paleFor love of her, and all in vain:So, she was come through wind and rain.Be sure I look'd up at her eyesHappy and proud; at last I knewPorphyria worshipp'd me; surpriseMade my heart swell, and still it grewWhile I debated what to do.That moment she was mine, mine, fair,Perfectly pure and good: I foundA thing to do, and all her hairIn one long yellow string I woundThree times her little throat around,And strangled her. No pain felt she;I am quite sure she felt no pain.As a shut bud that holds a bee,I warily oped her lids: againLaugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.And I untighten'd next the tressAbout her neck; her cheek once moreBlush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:I propp'd her head up as before,Only, this time my shoulder boreHer head, which droops upon it still:The smiling rosy little head,So glad it has its utmost will,That all it scorn'd at once is fled,And I, its love, am gain'd instead!Porphyria's love: she guess'd not howHer darling one wish would be heard.And thus we sit together now,And all night long we have not stirr'd,And yet God has not said a word!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
721. Song
NAY but you, who do not love her,Is she not pure gold, my mistress?Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her?Aught like this tress, see, and this tress,And this last fairest tress of all,So fair, see, ere I let it fall?Because, you spend your lives in praising;To praise, you search the wide world over:Then why not witness, calmly gazing,If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her?Above this tress, and this, I touchBut cannot praise, I love so much!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
722. Earl Mertoun's Song
THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest;And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's thesurest:And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustreHid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grapecluster,Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble:Then her voice's music … call it the well's bubbling, the bird'swarble!
And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights weremoonless,Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreaktuneless,If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her,Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her—I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
723. In a Gondola
THE moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made me believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.
The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you enter'd gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is render'd up,And passively its shatter'd cupOver your head to sleep I bow.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
724. Meeting at Night
THE gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
725. Parting at Morning
ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim:And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
726. The Lost Mistress
ALL 's over, then: does truth sound bitterAs one at first believes?Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitterAbout your cottage eaves!
And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,I noticed that, to-day;One day more bursts them open fully—You know the red turns gray.
To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?May I take your hand in mine?Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merestKeep much that I resign:
For each glance of the eye so bright and black,Though I keep with heart's endeavour,—Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,Though it stay in my soul for ever!—
Yet I will but say what mere friends say,Or only a thought stronger;I will hold your hand but as long as all may,Or so very little longer!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
727. The Last Ride together
I SAID—Then, dearest, since 'tis so,Since now at length my fate I know,Since nothing all my love avails,Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails,Since this was written and needs must be—My whole heart rises up to blessYour name in pride and thankfulness!Take back the hope you gave,—I claimOnly a memory of the same,—And this beside, if you will not blame;Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers,Those deep dark eyes where pride demursWhen pity would be softening through,Fix'd me a breathing-while or twoWith life or death in the balance: right!The blood replenish'd me again;My last thought was at least not vain:I and my mistress, side by sideShall be together, breathe and ride,So, one day more am I deified.Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloudAll billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'dBy many benedictions—sun'sAnd moon's and evening-star's at once—And so, you, looking and loving best,Conscious grew, your passion drewCloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,Down on you, near and yet more near,Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!—Thus leant she and linger'd—joy and fear!Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soulSmooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scrollFreshening and fluttering in the wind.Past hopes already lay behind.What need to strive with a life awry?Had I said that, had I done this,So might I gain, so might I miss.Might she have loved me? just as wellShe might have hated, who can tell!Where had I been now if the worst befell?And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?Why, all men strive and who succeeds?We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew,Saw other regions, cities new,As the world rush'd by on either side.I thought,—All labour, yet no lessBear up beneath their unsuccess.Look at the end of work, contrastThe petty done, the undone vast,This present of theirs with the hopeful past!I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever pair'd?What heart alike conceived and dared?What act proved all its thought had been?What will but felt the fleshly screen?We ride and I see her bosom heave.There 's many a crown for who can reach.Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!The flag stuck on a heap of bones,A soldier's doing! what atones?They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,Your brains beat into rhythm, you tellWhat we felt only; you express'dYou hold things beautiful the best,And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,Have you yourself what 's best for men?Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time—Nearer one whit your own sublimeThan we who never have turn'd a rhyme?Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor—so, you gaveA score of years to Art, her slave,And that 's your Venus, whence we turnTo yonder girl that fords the burn!You acquiesce, and shall I repine?What, man of music, you grown grayWith notes and nothing else to say,Is this your sole praise from a friend,'Greatly his opera's strains intend,But in music we know how fashions end!'I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fateProposed bliss here should sublimateMy being—had I sign'd the bond—Still one must lead some life beyond,Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.This foot once planted on the goal,This glory-garland round my soul,Could I descry such? Try and test!I sink back shuddering from the quest.Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet—she has not spoke so long!What if heaven be that, fair and strongAt life's best, with our eyes upturn'dWhither life's flower is first discern'd,We, fix'd so, ever should so abide?What if we still ride on, we twoWith life for ever old yet new,Changed not in kind but in degree,The instant made eternity,—And heaven just prove that I and sheRide, ride together, for ever ride?
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
728. Misconceptions
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure,Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,Fit for her nest and her treasure.O, what a hope beyond measureWas the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,—So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrill'd in a minute erratic,Ere the true bosom she bent on,Meet for love's regal dalmatic.O, what a fancy ecstaticWas the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on—Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
729. Home-thoughts, from Abroad
O, TO be in EnglandNow that April 's there,And whoever wakes in EnglandSees, some morning, unaware,That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheafRound the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,While the chaffinch sings on the orchard boughIn England—now!
And after April, when May follows,And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedgeLeans to the field and scatters on the cloverBlossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,Lest you should think he never could recaptureThe first fine careless rapture!And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,All will be gay when noontide wakes anewThe buttercups, the little children's dower—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
Robert Browning. 1812-1889
730. Home-thoughts, from the Sea
NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar grand and gray;'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say,Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
William Bell Scott. 1812-1890
731. The Which's Ballad
O, I hae come from far away,From a warm land far away,A southern land across the sea,With sailor-lads about the mast,Merry and canny, and kind to me.
And I hae been to yon townTo try my luck in yon town;Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.Right braw we were to pass the gate,Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue.
Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth,Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;Elspie wore a scarlet gown,Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg.My Castile comb was like a crown.
We walk'd abreast all up the street,Into the market up the street;Our hair with marigolds was wound,Our bodices with love-knots laced,Our merchandise with tansy bound.
Nort had chickens, I had cocks,Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,—For a wee groat or a pound;We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.
—Lost nae time, for well we knew,In our sleeves full well we knew,When the gloaming came that night,Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cockWould be found by candle-light.
And when our chaffering all was done,All was paid for, sold and done,We drew a glove on ilka hand,We sweetly curtsied, each to each,And deftly danced a saraband.
The market-lassies look'd and laugh'd,Left their gear, and look'd and laugh'd;They made as they would join the game,But soon their mithers, wild and wud,With whack and screech they stopp'd the same.
Sae loud the tongues o' randies grew,The flytin' and the skirlin' grew,At all the windows in the place,Wi' spoons or knives, wi' needle or awl,Was thrust out every hand and face.
And down each stair they throng'd anon,Gentle, semple, throng'd anon:Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan,The ancient widow young again,Simpering behind her fan.
Without a choice, against their will,Doited, dazed, against their will,The market lassie and her mither,The farmer and his husbandman,Hand in hand dance a' thegither.
Slow at first, but faster soon,Still increasing, wild and fast,Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,Blindly doff'd and cast away,Left them naked, heads and toes.
They would have torn us limb from limb,Dainty limb from dainty limb;But never one of them could winAcross the line that I had drawnWith bleeding thumb a-widdershin.
But there was Jeff the provost's son,Jeff the provost's only son;There was Father Auld himsel',The Lombard frae the hostelry,And the lawyer Peter Fell.
All goodly men we singled out,Waled them well, and singled out,And drew them by the left hand in;Mysie the priest, and Elspie wonThe Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,I mysel' the provost's son.
Then, with cantrip kisses seven,Three times round with kisses seven,Warp'd and woven there spun weArms and legs and flaming hair,Like a whirlwind on the sea.
Like a wind that sucks the sea,Over and in and on the sea,Good sooth it was a mad delight;And every man of all the fourShut his eyes and laugh'd outright.
Laugh'd as long as they had breath,Laugh'd while they had sense or breath;And close about us coil'd a mistOf gnats and midges, wasps and flies,Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.
Drawn up I was right off my feet,Into the mist and off my feet;And, dancing on each chimney-top,I saw a thousand darling impsKeeping time with skip and hop.