To——after reading a Life and LettersOriginally published in theExaminerfor 24th March, 1849; then in the sixth edition of the poems, 1850, with the second part of the title and the alterations noted. When reprinted in 1851 one more slight alteration was made. It has not been altered since. The work referred to was Moncton Milne’s (afterwards Lord Houghton)Letters and Literary Remains of Keatspublished in 1848, and the person to whom the poem may have been addressed was Tennyson’s brother Charles, afterwards Charles Tennyson Turner, to the facts of whose life and to whose character it would exactly apply. See Napier,Homes and Haunts of Tennyson, 48-50. But Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that it was most probably addressed to some imaginary person, as neither he nor such of Tennyson’s surviving friends as he kindly consulted for me are able to identify the person.You might have won the Poet’s nameIf such be worth the winning now,And gain’d a laurel for your browOf sounder leaf than I can claim;But you have made the wiser choice,A life that moves to gracious endsThro’ troops of unrecording friends,A deedful life, a silent voice:And you have miss’d the irreverent doomOf those that wear the Poet’s crown:Hereafter, neither knave nor clownShall hold their orgies at your tomb.For now the Poet cannot dieNor leave his music as of old,But round him ere he scarce be coldBegins the scandal and the cry:“Proclaim the faults he would not show:Break lock and seal: betray the trust:Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but justThe many-headed beast should know”.Ah, shameless! for he did but sing.A song that pleased us from its worth;No public life was his on earth,No blazon’d statesman he, nor king.He gave the people of his best:His worst he kept, his best he gave.My Shakespeare’s curse on[1]clown and knaveWho will not let his ashes rest!Who make it seem more sweet[2]to beThe little life of bank and brier,The bird that pipes his lone desireAnd dies unheard within his tree,Than he that warbles long and loudAnd drops at Glory’s temple-gates,For whom the carrion vulture waitsTo tear his heart before the crowd![1]In Examiner and in 1850. My curse upon the.[2]In Examiner. Sweeter seem. For the sentimentcf.Goethe:—Ich singe, wie der Vogel singtDer in den Zweigen wohnet;Das Lied das aus dem Seele dringtIst Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.(Der Sänger.)
after reading a Life and Letters
Originally published in theExaminerfor 24th March, 1849; then in the sixth edition of the poems, 1850, with the second part of the title and the alterations noted. When reprinted in 1851 one more slight alteration was made. It has not been altered since. The work referred to was Moncton Milne’s (afterwards Lord Houghton)Letters and Literary Remains of Keatspublished in 1848, and the person to whom the poem may have been addressed was Tennyson’s brother Charles, afterwards Charles Tennyson Turner, to the facts of whose life and to whose character it would exactly apply. See Napier,Homes and Haunts of Tennyson, 48-50. But Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that it was most probably addressed to some imaginary person, as neither he nor such of Tennyson’s surviving friends as he kindly consulted for me are able to identify the person.
You might have won the Poet’s nameIf such be worth the winning now,And gain’d a laurel for your browOf sounder leaf than I can claim;But you have made the wiser choice,A life that moves to gracious endsThro’ troops of unrecording friends,A deedful life, a silent voice:And you have miss’d the irreverent doomOf those that wear the Poet’s crown:Hereafter, neither knave nor clownShall hold their orgies at your tomb.For now the Poet cannot dieNor leave his music as of old,But round him ere he scarce be coldBegins the scandal and the cry:“Proclaim the faults he would not show:Break lock and seal: betray the trust:Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but justThe many-headed beast should know”.Ah, shameless! for he did but sing.A song that pleased us from its worth;No public life was his on earth,No blazon’d statesman he, nor king.He gave the people of his best:His worst he kept, his best he gave.My Shakespeare’s curse on[1]clown and knaveWho will not let his ashes rest!Who make it seem more sweet[2]to beThe little life of bank and brier,The bird that pipes his lone desireAnd dies unheard within his tree,Than he that warbles long and loudAnd drops at Glory’s temple-gates,For whom the carrion vulture waitsTo tear his heart before the crowd!
[1]In Examiner and in 1850. My curse upon the.
[2]In Examiner. Sweeter seem. For the sentimentcf.Goethe:—Ich singe, wie der Vogel singtDer in den Zweigen wohnet;Das Lied das aus dem Seele dringtIst Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.(Der Sänger.)