XI

The varied earth, the moving heaven,The rapid waste of roving sea,The fountainpregnant mountains rivenTo shapes of wildest anarchy,By secret fire and midnight stormsThat wander round their windy cones,The subtle life, the countless formsOf living things, the wondrous tonesOf man and beast are full of strangeAstonishment and boundless change.The day, the diamonded light,The echo, feeble child of sound,The heavy thunder's girding might,The herald lightning's starry bound,The vocal spring of bursting bloom,The naked summer's glowing birth,The troublous autumn's sallow gloom,The hoarhead winter paving earthWith sheeny white, are full of strangeAstonishment and boundless change.Each sun which from the centre flingsGrand music and redundant fire,The burning belts, the mighty rings,The murmurous planets' rolling choir,The globefilled arch that, cleaving air,Lost in its effulgence sleeps,The lawless comets as they glare,And thunder thro' the sapphire deepsIn wayward strength, are full of strangeAstonishment and boundless change.

The varied earth, the moving heaven,

The rapid waste of roving sea,

The fountainpregnant mountains riven

To shapes of wildest anarchy,

By secret fire and midnight storms

That wander round their windy cones,

The subtle life, the countless forms

Of living things, the wondrous tones

Of man and beast are full of strange

Astonishment and boundless change.

The day, the diamonded light,The echo, feeble child of sound,The heavy thunder's girding might,The herald lightning's starry bound,The vocal spring of bursting bloom,The naked summer's glowing birth,The troublous autumn's sallow gloom,The hoarhead winter paving earthWith sheeny white, are full of strangeAstonishment and boundless change.

The day, the diamonded light,

The echo, feeble child of sound,

The heavy thunder's girding might,

The herald lightning's starry bound,

The vocal spring of bursting bloom,

The naked summer's glowing birth,

The troublous autumn's sallow gloom,

The hoarhead winter paving earth

With sheeny white, are full of strange

Astonishment and boundless change.

Each sun which from the centre flingsGrand music and redundant fire,The burning belts, the mighty rings,The murmurous planets' rolling choir,The globefilled arch that, cleaving air,Lost in its effulgence sleeps,The lawless comets as they glare,And thunder thro' the sapphire deepsIn wayward strength, are full of strangeAstonishment and boundless change.

Each sun which from the centre flings

Grand music and redundant fire,

The burning belts, the mighty rings,

The murmurous planets' rolling choir,

The globefilled arch that, cleaving air,

Lost in its effulgence sleeps,

The lawless comets as they glare,

And thunder thro' the sapphire deeps

In wayward strength, are full of strange

Astonishment and boundless change.

Lost HopeYou cast to ground the hope which once was mine,But did the while your harsh decree deplore,Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine,My heart, where Hope had been and was no more.So on an oaken sproutA goodly acorn grew;But winds from heaven shook the acorn out,And filled the cup with dew.

Lost Hope

You cast to ground the hope which once was mine,But did the while your harsh decree deplore,Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine,My heart, where Hope had been and was no more.

You cast to ground the hope which once was mine,

But did the while your harsh decree deplore,

Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine,

My heart, where Hope had been and was no more.

So on an oaken sproutA goodly acorn grew;But winds from heaven shook the acorn out,And filled the cup with dew.

So on an oaken sprout

A goodly acorn grew;

But winds from heaven shook the acorn out,

And filled the cup with dew.

The Tears of HeavenHeaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,In darkness weeps, as all ashamed to weep,Because the earth hath made her state forlornWith selfwrought evils of unnumbered years,And doth the fruit of her dishonour reap.And all the day heaven gathers back her tearsInto her own blue eyes so clear and deep,And showering down the glory of lightsome day,Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.

The Tears of Heaven

Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,In darkness weeps, as all ashamed to weep,Because the earth hath made her state forlornWith selfwrought evils of unnumbered years,And doth the fruit of her dishonour reap.And all the day heaven gathers back her tearsInto her own blue eyes so clear and deep,And showering down the glory of lightsome day,Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.

Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,

In darkness weeps, as all ashamed to weep,

Because the earth hath made her state forlorn

With selfwrought evils of unnumbered years,

And doth the fruit of her dishonour reap.

And all the day heaven gathers back her tears

Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep,

And showering down the glory of lightsome day,

Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.

Love and SorrowO maiden, fresher than the first green leafWith which the fearful springtide flecks the lea,Weep not, Almeida, that I said to theeThat thou hast half my heart, for bitter griefDoth hold the other half in sovranty.Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline:Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine:Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thineMy heart's day, but the shadow of my heart,Issue of its own substance, my heart's nightThou canst not lighten even withthylight,All powerful in beauty as thou art.Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,Then might thy rays pass thro' to the other side,So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,But lose themselves in utter emptiness.Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleepThey never learnt to love who never knew to weep.

Love and Sorrow

O maiden, fresher than the first green leafWith which the fearful springtide flecks the lea,Weep not, Almeida, that I said to theeThat thou hast half my heart, for bitter griefDoth hold the other half in sovranty.Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline:Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine:Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thineMy heart's day, but the shadow of my heart,Issue of its own substance, my heart's nightThou canst not lighten even withthylight,All powerful in beauty as thou art.Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,Then might thy rays pass thro' to the other side,So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,But lose themselves in utter emptiness.Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleepThey never learnt to love who never knew to weep.

O maiden, fresher than the first green leaf

With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea,

Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee

That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief

Doth hold the other half in sovranty.

Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline:

Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine:

Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thine

My heart's day, but the shadow of my heart,

Issue of its own substance, my heart's night

Thou canst not lighten even withthylight,

All powerful in beauty as thou art.

Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,

Then might thy rays pass thro' to the other side,

So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,

But lose themselves in utter emptiness.

Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep

They never learnt to love who never knew to weep.

To a Lady SleepingO thou whose fringèd lids I gaze upon,Through whose dim brain the wingèd dreams are born,Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,In honour of the silverfleckèd morn:Long hath the white wave of the virgin lightDriven back the billow of the dreamful dark.Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,Though long ago listening the poisèd lark,With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.

To a Lady Sleeping

O thou whose fringèd lids I gaze upon,Through whose dim brain the wingèd dreams are born,Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,In honour of the silverfleckèd morn:Long hath the white wave of the virgin lightDriven back the billow of the dreamful dark.Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,Though long ago listening the poisèd lark,With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.

O thou whose fringèd lids I gaze upon,

Through whose dim brain the wingèd dreams are born,

Unroof the shrines of clearest vision,

In honour of the silverfleckèd morn:

Long hath the white wave of the virgin light

Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark.

Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,

Though long ago listening the poisèd lark,

With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,

Over heaven's parapets the angels lean.

SonnetCould I outwear my present state of woeWith one brief winter, and indue i' the springHues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrowThe wan dark coil of faded suffering—Forth in the pride of beauty issuingA sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers,Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowersAnd watered vallies where the young birds sing;Could I thus hope my lost delights renewing,I straightly would commend the tears to creepFrom my charged lids; but inwardly I weep:Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing:This to itself hath drawn the frozen rainFrom my cold eyes and melted it again.

Sonnet

Could I outwear my present state of woeWith one brief winter, and indue i' the springHues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrowThe wan dark coil of faded suffering—Forth in the pride of beauty issuingA sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers,Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowersAnd watered vallies where the young birds sing;Could I thus hope my lost delights renewing,I straightly would commend the tears to creepFrom my charged lids; but inwardly I weep:Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing:This to itself hath drawn the frozen rainFrom my cold eyes and melted it again.

Could I outwear my present state of woe

With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring

Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow

The wan dark coil of faded suffering—

Forth in the pride of beauty issuing

A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers,

Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers

And watered vallies where the young birds sing;

Could I thus hope my lost delights renewing,

I straightly would commend the tears to creep

From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep:

Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing:

This to itself hath drawn the frozen rain

From my cold eyes and melted it again.

SonnetThough Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon,And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl,All night through archways of the bridgèd pearlAnd portals of pure silver walks the moon.Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony:Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy,And dross to gold with glorious alchemy,Basing thy throne above the world's annoy.Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruthThat roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee:So shall thou pierce the woven glooms of truth;So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee;So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth,An honourable eld shall come upon thee.

Sonnet

Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon,And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl,All night through archways of the bridgèd pearlAnd portals of pure silver walks the moon.Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony:Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy,And dross to gold with glorious alchemy,Basing thy throne above the world's annoy.Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruthThat roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee:So shall thou pierce the woven glooms of truth;So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee;So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth,An honourable eld shall come upon thee.

Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon,

And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl,

All night through archways of the bridgèd pearl

And portals of pure silver walks the moon.

Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony:

Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy,

And dross to gold with glorious alchemy,

Basing thy throne above the world's annoy.

Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth

That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee:

So shall thou pierce the woven glooms of truth;

So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee;

So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth,

An honourable eld shall come upon thee.

SonnetShall the hag Evil die with the child of Good,Or propagate again her loathèd kind,Thronging the cells of the diseased mind,Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood,Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heatWould shatter and o'erbear the brazen beatOf their broad vans, and in the solitudeOf middle space confound them, and blow backTheir wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slakeWith points of blastborne hail their heated eyne!So their wan limbs no more might come betweenThe moon and the moon's reflex in the night;Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.

Sonnet

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good,Or propagate again her loathèd kind,Thronging the cells of the diseased mind,Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood,Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heatWould shatter and o'erbear the brazen beatOf their broad vans, and in the solitudeOf middle space confound them, and blow backTheir wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slakeWith points of blastborne hail their heated eyne!So their wan limbs no more might come betweenThe moon and the moon's reflex in the night;Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good,

Or propagate again her loathèd kind,

Thronging the cells of the diseased mind,

Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood,

Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat

Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat

Of their broad vans, and in the solitude

Of middle space confound them, and blow back

Their wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slake

With points of blastborne hail their heated eyne!

So their wan limbs no more might come between

The moon and the moon's reflex in the night;

Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.

SonnetThe palid thunderstricken sigh for gain,Down an ideal stream they ever float,And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strainWeak eyes upon the glistering sands that robeThe understream. The wise could he beholdCathedralled caverns of thick-ribbèd goldAnd branching silvers of the central globe,Would marvel from so beautiful a sightHow scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow:But Hatred in a gold cave sits below,Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent lightShot into gold, a snake her forehead clipsAnd skins the colour from her trembling lips.

Sonnet

The palid thunderstricken sigh for gain,Down an ideal stream they ever float,And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strainWeak eyes upon the glistering sands that robeThe understream. The wise could he beholdCathedralled caverns of thick-ribbèd goldAnd branching silvers of the central globe,Would marvel from so beautiful a sightHow scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow:But Hatred in a gold cave sits below,Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent lightShot into gold, a snake her forehead clipsAnd skins the colour from her trembling lips.

The palid thunderstricken sigh for gain,

Down an ideal stream they ever float,

And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,

Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain

Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe

The understream. The wise could he behold

Cathedralled caverns of thick-ribbèd gold

And branching silvers of the central globe,

Would marvel from so beautiful a sight

How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow:

But Hatred in a gold cave sits below,

Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light

Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips

And skins the colour from her trembling lips.

LoveIThou, from the first, unborn, undying love,Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,Before the face of God didst breath and move,Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here.Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere,The very throne of the eternal God:Passing through thee the edicts of his fearAre mellowed into music, borne abroadBy the loud winds, though they uprend the sea,Even from his central deeps: thine emperyIs over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse;Thou goest and returnest to His LipsLike lightning: thou dost ever brood aboveThe silence of all hearts, unutterable Love.IITo know thee is all wisdom, and old ageIs but to know thee: dimly we behold theeAthwart the veils of evil which enfold theeWe beat upon our aching hearts with rage;We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb.As dwellers in lone planets look uponThe mighty disk of their majestic sun,Hallowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom,Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee.Come, thou of many crowns, white-robèd love,Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee;Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee:Breathe on thy wingèd throne, and it shall moveIn music and in light o'er land and sea.IIIAnd now—methinks I gaze upon thee now,As on a serpent in his agoniesAwestricken Indians; what time laid lowAnd crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies,When the new year warm breathèd on the earth,Waiting to light him with his purple skies,Calls to him by the fountain to uprise.Already with the pangs of a new birthStrain the hot spheres of his convulsèd eyes,And in his writhings awful hues beginTo wander down his sable sheeny sides,Like light on troubled waters: from withinAnon he rusheth forth with merry din,And in him light and joy and strength abides;And from his brows a crown of living lightLooks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night

Love

Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love,Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,Before the face of God didst breath and move,Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here.Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere,The very throne of the eternal God:Passing through thee the edicts of his fearAre mellowed into music, borne abroadBy the loud winds, though they uprend the sea,Even from his central deeps: thine emperyIs over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse;Thou goest and returnest to His LipsLike lightning: thou dost ever brood aboveThe silence of all hearts, unutterable Love.

Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love,

Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,

Before the face of God didst breath and move,

Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here.

Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere,

The very throne of the eternal God:

Passing through thee the edicts of his fear

Are mellowed into music, borne abroad

By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea,

Even from his central deeps: thine empery

Is over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse;

Thou goest and returnest to His Lips

Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above

The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love.

To know thee is all wisdom, and old ageIs but to know thee: dimly we behold theeAthwart the veils of evil which enfold theeWe beat upon our aching hearts with rage;We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb.As dwellers in lone planets look uponThe mighty disk of their majestic sun,Hallowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom,Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee.Come, thou of many crowns, white-robèd love,Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee;Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee:Breathe on thy wingèd throne, and it shall moveIn music and in light o'er land and sea.

To know thee is all wisdom, and old age

Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee

Athwart the veils of evil which enfold thee

We beat upon our aching hearts with rage;

We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb.

As dwellers in lone planets look upon

The mighty disk of their majestic sun,

Hallowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom,

Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee.

Come, thou of many crowns, white-robèd love,

Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee;

Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee:

Breathe on thy wingèd throne, and it shall move

In music and in light o'er land and sea.

III

And now—methinks I gaze upon thee now,As on a serpent in his agoniesAwestricken Indians; what time laid lowAnd crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies,When the new year warm breathèd on the earth,Waiting to light him with his purple skies,Calls to him by the fountain to uprise.Already with the pangs of a new birthStrain the hot spheres of his convulsèd eyes,And in his writhings awful hues beginTo wander down his sable sheeny sides,Like light on troubled waters: from withinAnon he rusheth forth with merry din,And in him light and joy and strength abides;And from his brows a crown of living lightLooks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night

And now—methinks I gaze upon thee now,

As on a serpent in his agonies

Awestricken Indians; what time laid low

And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies,

When the new year warm breathèd on the earth,

Waiting to light him with his purple skies,

Calls to him by the fountain to uprise.

Already with the pangs of a new birth

Strain the hot spheres of his convulsèd eyes,

And in his writhings awful hues begin

To wander down his sable sheeny sides,

Like light on troubled waters: from within

Anon he rusheth forth with merry din,

And in him light and joy and strength abides;

And from his brows a crown of living light

Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night

English War SongWho fears to die? Who fears to die?Is there any here who fears to dieHe shall find what he fears, and none shall grieveFor the man who fears to die:But the withering scorn of the many shall cleaveTo the man who fears to die.Chorus.—Shout for England!Ho! for England!George for England!Merry England!England for aye!The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn,He shall eat the bread of common scorn;It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear,Shall be steeped in his own salt tear:Far better, far better he never were bornThan to shame merry England here.Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.There standeth our ancient enemy;Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy!On the ridge of the hill his banners rise;They stream like fire in the skies;Hold up the Lion of England on highTill it dazzle and blind his eyes.Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.Come along! we alone of the earth are free;The child in our cradles is bolder than he;For where is the heart and strength of slaves?Oh! where is the strength of slaves?He is weak! we are strong; he a slave, we are free;Come along! we will dig their graves.Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.There standeth our ancient enemy;Will he dare to battle with the free?Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight:Charge! charge to the fight!Hold up the Lion of England on high!Shout for God and our right!Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.

English War Song

Who fears to die? Who fears to die?Is there any here who fears to dieHe shall find what he fears, and none shall grieveFor the man who fears to die:But the withering scorn of the many shall cleaveTo the man who fears to die.

Who fears to die? Who fears to die?

Is there any here who fears to die

He shall find what he fears, and none shall grieve

For the man who fears to die:

But the withering scorn of the many shall cleave

To the man who fears to die.

Chorus.—Shout for England!Ho! for England!George for England!Merry England!England for aye!

Chorus.—Shout for England!

Ho! for England!

George for England!

Merry England!

England for aye!

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn,He shall eat the bread of common scorn;It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear,Shall be steeped in his own salt tear:Far better, far better he never were bornThan to shame merry England here.

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn,

He shall eat the bread of common scorn;

It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear,

Shall be steeped in his own salt tear:

Far better, far better he never were born

Than to shame merry England here.

Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.

There standeth our ancient enemy;Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy!On the ridge of the hill his banners rise;They stream like fire in the skies;Hold up the Lion of England on highTill it dazzle and blind his eyes.

There standeth our ancient enemy;

Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy!

On the ridge of the hill his banners rise;

They stream like fire in the skies;

Hold up the Lion of England on high

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.

Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.

Come along! we alone of the earth are free;The child in our cradles is bolder than he;For where is the heart and strength of slaves?Oh! where is the strength of slaves?He is weak! we are strong; he a slave, we are free;Come along! we will dig their graves.

Come along! we alone of the earth are free;

The child in our cradles is bolder than he;

For where is the heart and strength of slaves?

Oh! where is the strength of slaves?

He is weak! we are strong; he a slave, we are free;

Come along! we will dig their graves.

Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.

There standeth our ancient enemy;Will he dare to battle with the free?Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight:Charge! charge to the fight!Hold up the Lion of England on high!Shout for God and our right!

There standeth our ancient enemy;

Will he dare to battle with the free?

Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight:

Charge! charge to the fight!

Hold up the Lion of England on high!

Shout for God and our right!

Chorus.—Shout for England!etc.

National SongThere is no land like EnglandWhere'er the light of day be;There are no hearts like English hearts,Such hearts of oak as they be.There is no land like EnglandWhere'er the light of day be;There are no men like Englishmen,So tall and bold as they be.Chorus.—For the French the Pope may shrive 'em,For the devil a whit we heed 'em,As for the French, God speed 'emUnto their hearts' desire,And the merry devil drive 'emThrough the water and the fire.Chorus.—Our glory is our freedom,We lord it o'er the sea;We are the sons of freedom,We are free.There is no land like England,Where'er the light of day be;There are no wives like English wives,So fair and chaste as they be.There is no land like England,Where'er the light of day be,There are no maids like English maids,So beautiful as they be.Chorus.—For the French,etc.

National Song

There is no land like EnglandWhere'er the light of day be;There are no hearts like English hearts,Such hearts of oak as they be.There is no land like EnglandWhere'er the light of day be;There are no men like Englishmen,So tall and bold as they be.

There is no land like England

Where'er the light of day be;

There are no hearts like English hearts,

Such hearts of oak as they be.

There is no land like England

Where'er the light of day be;

There are no men like Englishmen,

So tall and bold as they be.

Chorus.—For the French the Pope may shrive 'em,For the devil a whit we heed 'em,As for the French, God speed 'emUnto their hearts' desire,And the merry devil drive 'emThrough the water and the fire.

Chorus.—For the French the Pope may shrive 'em,

For the devil a whit we heed 'em,

As for the French, God speed 'em

Unto their hearts' desire,

And the merry devil drive 'em

Through the water and the fire.

Chorus.—Our glory is our freedom,We lord it o'er the sea;We are the sons of freedom,We are free.

Chorus.—Our glory is our freedom,

We lord it o'er the sea;

We are the sons of freedom,

We are free.

There is no land like England,Where'er the light of day be;There are no wives like English wives,So fair and chaste as they be.There is no land like England,Where'er the light of day be,There are no maids like English maids,So beautiful as they be.

There is no land like England,

Where'er the light of day be;

There are no wives like English wives,

So fair and chaste as they be.

There is no land like England,

Where'er the light of day be,

There are no maids like English maids,

So beautiful as they be.

Chorus.—For the French,etc.

[Sixty years after first publication this Song was incorporated in 'The Foresters' (published 1892) as the opening chorus of the second act. The two verses were unaltered, but the two choruses were re-written.]

DualismsTwo bees within a chrystal flowerbell rockèdHum a lovelay to the westwind at noontide.Both alike, they buzz together,Both alike, they hum togetherThrough and through the flowered heather.Where in a creeping cove the wave unshockèdLays itself calm and wide,Over a stream two birds of glancing featherDo woo each other, carolling together.Both alike, they glide togetherSide by side;Both alike, they sing together,Arching blue-glossèd necks beneath the purple weather.Two children lovelier than love, adown the lea are singing,As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing:Both in blosmwhite silk are frockèd:Like, unlike, they roam togetherUnder a summervault of golden weather;Like, unlike, they sing togetherSide by side;Mid May's darling goldenlockèd,Summer's tanling diamondeyed.

Dualisms

Two bees within a chrystal flowerbell rockèdHum a lovelay to the westwind at noontide.Both alike, they buzz together,Both alike, they hum togetherThrough and through the flowered heather.

Two bees within a chrystal flowerbell rockèd

Hum a lovelay to the westwind at noontide.

Both alike, they buzz together,

Both alike, they hum together

Through and through the flowered heather.

Where in a creeping cove the wave unshockèdLays itself calm and wide,Over a stream two birds of glancing featherDo woo each other, carolling together.Both alike, they glide togetherSide by side;Both alike, they sing together,Arching blue-glossèd necks beneath the purple weather.

Where in a creeping cove the wave unshockèd

Lays itself calm and wide,

Over a stream two birds of glancing feather

Do woo each other, carolling together.

Both alike, they glide together

Side by side;

Both alike, they sing together,

Arching blue-glossèd necks beneath the purple weather.

Two children lovelier than love, adown the lea are singing,As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing:Both in blosmwhite silk are frockèd:Like, unlike, they roam togetherUnder a summervault of golden weather;Like, unlike, they sing togetherSide by side;Mid May's darling goldenlockèd,Summer's tanling diamondeyed.

Two children lovelier than love, adown the lea are singing,

As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing:

Both in blosmwhite silk are frockèd:

Like, unlike, they roam together

Under a summervault of golden weather;

Like, unlike, they sing together

Side by side;

Mid May's darling goldenlockèd,

Summer's tanling diamondeyed.

οἱ ρἑοντεςIAll thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true,All visions wild and strange;Man is the measure of all truthUnto himself. All truth is change:All men do walk in sleep, and allHave faith in that they dream:For all things are as they seem to all,And all things flow like a stream.IIThere is no rest, no calm, no pause,Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade,Nor essence nor eternal laws:For nothing is, but all is made,But if I dream that all these are,They are to me for that I dream;For all things are as they seem to all,And all things flow like a stream.

οἱ ρἑοντες

All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true,All visions wild and strange;Man is the measure of all truthUnto himself. All truth is change:All men do walk in sleep, and allHave faith in that they dream:For all things are as they seem to all,And all things flow like a stream.

All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true,

All visions wild and strange;

Man is the measure of all truth

Unto himself. All truth is change:

All men do walk in sleep, and all

Have faith in that they dream:

For all things are as they seem to all,

And all things flow like a stream.

There is no rest, no calm, no pause,Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade,Nor essence nor eternal laws:For nothing is, but all is made,But if I dream that all these are,They are to me for that I dream;For all things are as they seem to all,And all things flow like a stream.

There is no rest, no calm, no pause,

Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade,

Nor essence nor eternal laws:

For nothing is, but all is made,

But if I dream that all these are,

They are to me for that I dream;

For all things are as they seem to all,

And all things flow like a stream.

Argal.—This very opinion is only true relatively to the flowing philosophers. (Tennyson's note.)

SongIThe lintwhite and the throstlecockHave voices sweet and clear;All in the bloomèd May.They from the blosmy brereCall to the fleeting year,If that he would them hearAnd stay.Alas! that one so beautifulShould have so dull an ear.IIFair year, fair year, thy children call,But thou art deaf as death;All in the bloomèd May.When thy light perishethThat from thee issueth,Our life evanisheth:Oh! stay.Alas! that lips so cruel dumbShould have so sweet a breath!IIIFair year, with brows of royal loveThou comest, as a King.All in the bloomèd May.Thy golden largess fling,And longer hear us sing;Though thou art fleet of wing,Yet stay.Alas! that eyes so full of lightShould be so wandering!IVThy locks are full of sunny sheenIn rings of gold yronne,[C]All in the bloomèd May,We pri' thee pass not on;If thou dost leave the sun,Delight is with thee gone,Oh! stay.Thou art the fairest of thy feres,We pri' thee pass not on.

Song

The lintwhite and the throstlecockHave voices sweet and clear;All in the bloomèd May.They from the blosmy brereCall to the fleeting year,If that he would them hearAnd stay.Alas! that one so beautifulShould have so dull an ear.

The lintwhite and the throstlecock

Have voices sweet and clear;

All in the bloomèd May.

They from the blosmy brere

Call to the fleeting year,

If that he would them hear

And stay.

Alas! that one so beautiful

Should have so dull an ear.

Fair year, fair year, thy children call,But thou art deaf as death;All in the bloomèd May.When thy light perishethThat from thee issueth,Our life evanisheth:Oh! stay.Alas! that lips so cruel dumbShould have so sweet a breath!

Fair year, fair year, thy children call,

But thou art deaf as death;

All in the bloomèd May.

When thy light perisheth

That from thee issueth,

Our life evanisheth:

Oh! stay.

Alas! that lips so cruel dumb

Should have so sweet a breath!

III

Fair year, with brows of royal loveThou comest, as a King.All in the bloomèd May.Thy golden largess fling,And longer hear us sing;Though thou art fleet of wing,Yet stay.Alas! that eyes so full of lightShould be so wandering!

Fair year, with brows of royal love

Thou comest, as a King.

All in the bloomèd May.

Thy golden largess fling,

And longer hear us sing;

Though thou art fleet of wing,

Yet stay.

Alas! that eyes so full of light

Should be so wandering!

Thy locks are full of sunny sheenIn rings of gold yronne,[C]All in the bloomèd May,We pri' thee pass not on;If thou dost leave the sun,Delight is with thee gone,Oh! stay.Thou art the fairest of thy feres,We pri' thee pass not on.

Thy locks are full of sunny sheen

In rings of gold yronne,[C]

All in the bloomèd May,

We pri' thee pass not on;

If thou dost leave the sun,

Delight is with thee gone,

Oh! stay.

Thou art the fairest of thy feres,

We pri' thee pass not on.

A Fragment

[Published inThe Gem: a Literary Annual. London: W. Marshall, Holborn Bars, mdcccxxxi.]

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which stoodIn the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes,A perfect Idol, with profulgent browsFar sheening down the purple seas to thoseWho sailed from Mizraim underneath the starNamed of the Dragon—and between whose limbsOf brassy vastness broad-blown ArgosiesDrave into haven? Yet endure unscathedOf changeful cycles the great PyramidsBroad-based amid the fleeting sands, and slopedInto the slumberous summer noon; but where,Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisksGraven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned?Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile?Thy shadowy Idols in the solitudes,Awful Memnonian countenances calmLooking athwart the burning flats, far offSeen by the high-necked camel on the vergeJourneying southward? Where are thy monumentsPiled by the strong and sunborn AnakimOver their crowned brethrenΟΝandΟΡΕ?Thy Memnon, when his peaceful lips are kissedWith earliest rays, that from his mother's eyesFlow over the Arabian bay, no moreBreathes low into the charmed ears of mornClear melody flattering the crisped NileBy columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone down:The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in deathThey sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips,Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old grotsRock-hewn and sealed for ever.

Where is the Giant of the Sun, which stood

In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes,

A perfect Idol, with profulgent brows

Far sheening down the purple seas to those

Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the star

Named of the Dragon—and between whose limbs

Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies

Drave into haven? Yet endure unscathed

Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids

Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and sloped

Into the slumberous summer noon; but where,

Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks

Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned?

Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile?

Thy shadowy Idols in the solitudes,

Awful Memnonian countenances calm

Looking athwart the burning flats, far off

Seen by the high-necked camel on the verge

Journeying southward? Where are thy monuments

Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim

Over their crowned brethrenΟΝandΟΡΕ?

Thy Memnon, when his peaceful lips are kissed

With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes

Flow over the Arabian bay, no more

Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn

Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile

By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone down:

The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in death

They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips,

Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old grots

Rock-hewn and sealed for ever.

Anacreontics

[Published inThe Gem: a Literary Annual. London: W. Marshall, Holborn Bars, mdcccxxxi.]

With roses musky breathed,And drooping daffodilly,And silverleaved lily,And ivy darkly-wreathed,I wove a crown before her,For her I love so dearly,A garland for Lenora.With a silken cord I bound it.Lenora, laughing clearlyA light and thrilling laughter,About her forehead wound it,And loved me ever after.

With roses musky breathed,

And drooping daffodilly,

And silverleaved lily,

And ivy darkly-wreathed,

I wove a crown before her,

For her I love so dearly,

A garland for Lenora.

With a silken cord I bound it.

Lenora, laughing clearly

A light and thrilling laughter,

About her forehead wound it,

And loved me ever after.

[Published inThe Gem: a Literary Annual. London: W. Marshall, Holborn Bars, mdcccxxxi.]

O sadNo more!O sweetNo more!O strangeNo more!By a mossed brookbank on a stoneI smelt a wildweed flower alone;There was a ringing in my ears,And both my eyes gushed out with tears.Surely all pleasant things had gone before,Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee,NO MORE!

O sadNo more!O sweetNo more!

O strangeNo more!

By a mossed brookbank on a stone

I smelt a wildweed flower alone;

There was a ringing in my ears,

And both my eyes gushed out with tears.

Surely all pleasant things had gone before,

Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee,

NO MORE!

Sonnet

[Published in theEnglishman's Magazine, August, 1831. London: Edward Moxon, 64 New Bond Street. Reprinted inFriendship's Offering: a Literary Albumfor 1833. London; Smith and Elder.]

Check every outflash, every ruder sallyOf thought and speech; speak low, and give up whollyThy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy;This is the place. Through yonder poplar alleyBelow, the blue-green river windeth slowly;But in the middle of the sombre valleyThe crispèd waters whisper musically,And all the haunted place is dark and holy.The nightingale, with long and low preamble,Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches,And in and out the woodbine's flowery archesThe summer midges wove their wanton gambol,And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above—When in this valley first I told my love.

Check every outflash, every ruder sally

Of thought and speech; speak low, and give up wholly

Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy;

This is the place. Through yonder poplar alley

Below, the blue-green river windeth slowly;

But in the middle of the sombre valley

The crispèd waters whisper musically,

And all the haunted place is dark and holy.

The nightingale, with long and low preamble,

Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches,

And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches

The summer midges wove their wanton gambol,

And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above—

When in this valley first I told my love.

Sonnet

[Published inFriendships Offering: a Literary Albumfor 1832. London: Smith and Elder.]

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh:Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory:Thy spirit, circled with a living glory,In summer still a summer joy resumeth.Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh,Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary,From an old garden where no flower bloometh,One cypress on an inland promontory.But yet my lonely spirit follows thine,As round the rolling earth night follows day:But yet thy lights on my horizon shineInto my night when thou art far away;I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright,When we two meet there's never perfect light.

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh:

Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory:

Thy spirit, circled with a living glory,

In summer still a summer joy resumeth.

Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh,

Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary,

From an old garden where no flower bloometh,

One cypress on an inland promontory.

But yet my lonely spirit follows thine,

As round the rolling earth night follows day:

But yet thy lights on my horizon shine

Into my night when thou art far away;

I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright,

When we two meet there's never perfect light.

Sonnet

[Published in theYorkshire Literary Annualfor 1832. Edited by C.F. Edgar, London: Longman and Co. Reprinted in theAthenæum, 4 May, 1867.]

There are three things that fill my heart with sighsAnd steep my soul in laughter (when I viewFair maiden forms moving like melodies),Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue.There are three things beneath the blessed skiesFor which I live—black eyes, and brown and blue;I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes,I live and die, and only die for you.Of late such eyes looked at me—while I musedAt sunset, underneath a shadowy planeIn old Bayona, nigh the Southern Sea—From an half-open lattice looked atme.I saw no more only those eyes—confusedAnd dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.

There are three things that fill my heart with sighsAnd steep my soul in laughter (when I viewFair maiden forms moving like melodies),Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue.

There are three things that fill my heart with sighs

And steep my soul in laughter (when I view

Fair maiden forms moving like melodies),

Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue.

There are three things beneath the blessed skiesFor which I live—black eyes, and brown and blue;I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes,I live and die, and only die for you.

There are three things beneath the blessed skies

For which I live—black eyes, and brown and blue;

I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes,

I live and die, and only die for you.

Of late such eyes looked at me—while I musedAt sunset, underneath a shadowy planeIn old Bayona, nigh the Southern Sea—From an half-open lattice looked atme.

Of late such eyes looked at me—while I mused

At sunset, underneath a shadowy plane

In old Bayona, nigh the Southern Sea—

From an half-open lattice looked atme.

I saw no more only those eyes—confusedAnd dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.

I saw no more only those eyes—confused

And dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.

[The poems numbered XXXI-XXXIX were published in the 1832 volume (Poems by Alfred Tennyson. London: Edward Moxon, 94 New Bond Street. MDCCCXXXIII; published December, 1832), and were thereafter suppressed.]

SonnetOh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs;I only ask to sit beside thy feet.Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not foldMy arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak.And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek.Methinks if I should kiss thee, no controlWithin the thrilling brain could keep afloatThe subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,The bare word KISS hath made my inner soulTo tremble like a lutestring, ere the noteHath melted in the silence that it broke.

Sonnet

Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs;I only ask to sit beside thy feet.Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not foldMy arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak.And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek.Methinks if I should kiss thee, no controlWithin the thrilling brain could keep afloatThe subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,The bare word KISS hath made my inner soulTo tremble like a lutestring, ere the noteHath melted in the silence that it broke.

Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!

How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs;

I only ask to sit beside thy feet.

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,

Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold

My arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak.

And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,

As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek.

Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control

Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat

The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,

The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul

To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note

Hath melted in the silence that it broke.

The HesperidesHesperus and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree.—COMUS.The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarréd nightZidonian Hanno, voyaging beyondThe hoary promontory of SoloëPast Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,Between the Southern and the Western Horn,Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusfluteBlown seaward from the shore; but from a slopeThat ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,Beneath a highland leaning down a weightOf cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,Came voices, like the voices in a dream,Continuous till he reached the other sea.

The Hesperides

Hesperus and his daughters threeThat sing about the golden tree.—COMUS.

Hesperus and his daughters three

That sing about the golden tree.

—COMUS.

The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarréd nightZidonian Hanno, voyaging beyondThe hoary promontory of SoloëPast Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,Between the Southern and the Western Horn,Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusfluteBlown seaward from the shore; but from a slopeThat ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,Beneath a highland leaning down a weightOf cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,Came voices, like the voices in a dream,Continuous till he reached the other sea.

The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarréd night

Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond

The hoary promontory of Soloë

Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,

Between the Southern and the Western Horn,

Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,

Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusflute

Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope

That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,

Beneath a highland leaning down a weight

Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,

Came voices, like the voices in a dream,

Continuous till he reached the other sea.

SongIThe golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,Guard it well, guard it warily,Singing airily,Standing about the charméd root.Round about all is mute,As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.Crocodiles in briny creeksSleep and stir not: all is mute.If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,We shall lose eternal pleasure,Worth eternal want of rest.Laugh not loudly: watch the treasureOf the wisdom of the West.In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth;Evermore it is born anew;And the sap to three-fold music floweth,From the rootDrawn in the dark,Up to the fruit,Creeping under the fragrant bark,Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'.Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,Looking warilyEvery way,Guard the apple night and day,Lest one from the East come and take it away.IIFather Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye,Looking under silver hair with a silver eye.Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight;Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die;Honour comes with mystery;Hoarded wisdom brings delight.Number, tell them over and numberHow many the mystic fruit-tree holds,Lest the redcombed dragon slumberRolled together in purple folds.Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away,For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings night and day,Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled—Sing away, sing aloud and evermore in the wind, without stop,Lest his scalèd eyelid drop,For he is older than the world.If he waken, we waken,Rapidly levelling eager eyes.If he sleep, we sleep,Dropping the eyelid over the eyes.If the golden apple be takenThe world will be overwise.Five links, a golden chain, are we,Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,Bound about the golden tree.IIIFather Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day,Lest the old wound of the world be healèd,The glory unsealèd,The golden apple stol'n away,And the ancient secret revealèd.Look from west to east along:Father, old Himla weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong.Wandering waters unto wandering waters call;Let them clash together, foam and fall.Out of watchings, out of wiles,Comes the bliss of secret smiles,All things are not told to all,Half round the mantling night is drawn,Purplefringed with even and dawn.Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.IVEvery flower and every fruit the redolent breathOf this warm seawind ripeneth,Arching the billow in his sleep;But the land-wind wandereth,Broken by the highland-steep,Two streams upon the violet deep:For the western sun and the western star,And the low west wind, breathing afar,The end of day and beginning of nightMake the apple holy and bright,Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,Mellowed in a land of rest;Watch it warily day and night;All good things are in the west,Till midnoon the cool east lightIs shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow;But when the fullfaced sunset yellowlyStays on the flowering arch of the bough,The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,Goldenkernelled, goldencored,Sunset ripened, above on the tree,The world is wasted with fire and sword,But the apple of gold hangs over the sea,Five links, a golden chain, are we,Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,Daughters three,Bound aboutAll round aboutThe gnarlèd bole of the charmèd tree,The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,Guard it well, guard it warily,Watch it warily,Singing airily,Standing about the charmèd root.

Song

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,Guard it well, guard it warily,Singing airily,Standing about the charméd root.Round about all is mute,As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.Crocodiles in briny creeksSleep and stir not: all is mute.If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,We shall lose eternal pleasure,Worth eternal want of rest.Laugh not loudly: watch the treasureOf the wisdom of the West.In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth;Evermore it is born anew;And the sap to three-fold music floweth,From the rootDrawn in the dark,Up to the fruit,Creeping under the fragrant bark,Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'.Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,Looking warilyEvery way,Guard the apple night and day,Lest one from the East come and take it away.

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,

Guard it well, guard it warily,

Singing airily,

Standing about the charméd root.

Round about all is mute,

As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,

As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.

Crocodiles in briny creeks

Sleep and stir not: all is mute.

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,

We shall lose eternal pleasure,

Worth eternal want of rest.

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure

Of the wisdom of the West.

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three

(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.

For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth;

Evermore it is born anew;

And the sap to three-fold music floweth,

From the root

Drawn in the dark,

Up to the fruit,

Creeping under the fragrant bark,

Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'.

Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,

Looking warily

Every way,

Guard the apple night and day,

Lest one from the East come and take it away.

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye,Looking under silver hair with a silver eye.Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight;Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die;Honour comes with mystery;Hoarded wisdom brings delight.Number, tell them over and numberHow many the mystic fruit-tree holds,Lest the redcombed dragon slumberRolled together in purple folds.Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away,For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings night and day,Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled—Sing away, sing aloud and evermore in the wind, without stop,Lest his scalèd eyelid drop,For he is older than the world.If he waken, we waken,Rapidly levelling eager eyes.If he sleep, we sleep,Dropping the eyelid over the eyes.If the golden apple be takenThe world will be overwise.Five links, a golden chain, are we,Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,Bound about the golden tree.

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye,

Looking under silver hair with a silver eye.

Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight;

Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die;

Honour comes with mystery;

Hoarded wisdom brings delight.

Number, tell them over and number

How many the mystic fruit-tree holds,

Lest the redcombed dragon slumber

Rolled together in purple folds.

Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away,

For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings night and day,

Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled—

Sing away, sing aloud and evermore in the wind, without stop,

Lest his scalèd eyelid drop,

For he is older than the world.

If he waken, we waken,

Rapidly levelling eager eyes.

If he sleep, we sleep,

Dropping the eyelid over the eyes.

If the golden apple be taken

The world will be overwise.

Five links, a golden chain, are we,

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,

Bound about the golden tree.

III

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day,Lest the old wound of the world be healèd,The glory unsealèd,The golden apple stol'n away,And the ancient secret revealèd.Look from west to east along:Father, old Himla weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong.Wandering waters unto wandering waters call;Let them clash together, foam and fall.Out of watchings, out of wiles,Comes the bliss of secret smiles,All things are not told to all,Half round the mantling night is drawn,Purplefringed with even and dawn.Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day,

Lest the old wound of the world be healèd,

The glory unsealèd,

The golden apple stol'n away,

And the ancient secret revealèd.

Look from west to east along:

Father, old Himla weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong.

Wandering waters unto wandering waters call;

Let them clash together, foam and fall.

Out of watchings, out of wiles,

Comes the bliss of secret smiles,

All things are not told to all,

Half round the mantling night is drawn,

Purplefringed with even and dawn.

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breathOf this warm seawind ripeneth,Arching the billow in his sleep;But the land-wind wandereth,Broken by the highland-steep,Two streams upon the violet deep:For the western sun and the western star,And the low west wind, breathing afar,The end of day and beginning of nightMake the apple holy and bright,Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,Mellowed in a land of rest;Watch it warily day and night;All good things are in the west,Till midnoon the cool east lightIs shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow;But when the fullfaced sunset yellowlyStays on the flowering arch of the bough,The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,Goldenkernelled, goldencored,Sunset ripened, above on the tree,The world is wasted with fire and sword,But the apple of gold hangs over the sea,Five links, a golden chain, are we,Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,Daughters three,Bound aboutAll round aboutThe gnarlèd bole of the charmèd tree,The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,Guard it well, guard it warily,Watch it warily,Singing airily,Standing about the charmèd root.

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath

Of this warm seawind ripeneth,

Arching the billow in his sleep;

But the land-wind wandereth,

Broken by the highland-steep,

Two streams upon the violet deep:

For the western sun and the western star,

And the low west wind, breathing afar,

The end of day and beginning of night

Make the apple holy and bright,

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,

Mellowed in a land of rest;

Watch it warily day and night;

All good things are in the west,

Till midnoon the cool east light

Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow;

But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly

Stays on the flowering arch of the bough,

The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,

Goldenkernelled, goldencored,

Sunset ripened, above on the tree,

The world is wasted with fire and sword,

But the apple of gold hangs over the sea,

Five links, a golden chain, are we,

Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,

Daughters three,

Bound about

All round about

The gnarlèd bole of the charmèd tree,

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,

Guard it well, guard it warily,

Watch it warily,

Singing airily,

Standing about the charmèd root.

RosalindMy Rosalind, my Rosalind,Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,Is one of those who know no strifeOf inward woe or outward fear;To whom the slope and stream of life,The life before, the life behind,In the ear, from far and near,Chimeth musically clear.My falconhearted RosalindFullsailed before a vigorous wind,Is one of those who cannot weepFor others' woes, but overleapAll the petty shocks and fearsThat trouble life in early years,With a flash of frolic scornAnd keen delight, that never fallsAway from freshness, self-upborneWith such gladness, as, wheneverThe freshflushing springtime callsTo the flooding waters cool,Young fishes, on an April morn,Up and down a rapid river,Leap the little waterfallsThat sing into the pebbled pool.My happy falcon, Rosalind,Hath daring fancies of her own,Fresh as the dawn before the day,Fresh as the early seasmell blownThrough vineyards from an inland bay.My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Because no shadow on you falls,Think you hearts are tennis ballsTo play with, wanton Rosalind?

Rosalind

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,Is one of those who know no strifeOf inward woe or outward fear;To whom the slope and stream of life,The life before, the life behind,In the ear, from far and near,Chimeth musically clear.My falconhearted RosalindFullsailed before a vigorous wind,Is one of those who cannot weepFor others' woes, but overleapAll the petty shocks and fearsThat trouble life in early years,With a flash of frolic scornAnd keen delight, that never fallsAway from freshness, self-upborneWith such gladness, as, wheneverThe freshflushing springtime callsTo the flooding waters cool,Young fishes, on an April morn,Up and down a rapid river,Leap the little waterfallsThat sing into the pebbled pool.My happy falcon, Rosalind,Hath daring fancies of her own,Fresh as the dawn before the day,Fresh as the early seasmell blownThrough vineyards from an inland bay.My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Because no shadow on you falls,Think you hearts are tennis ballsTo play with, wanton Rosalind?

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,

Is one of those who know no strife

Of inward woe or outward fear;

To whom the slope and stream of life,

The life before, the life behind,

In the ear, from far and near,

Chimeth musically clear.

My falconhearted Rosalind

Fullsailed before a vigorous wind,

Is one of those who cannot weep

For others' woes, but overleap

All the petty shocks and fears

That trouble life in early years,

With a flash of frolic scorn

And keen delight, that never falls

Away from freshness, self-upborne

With such gladness, as, whenever

The freshflushing springtime calls

To the flooding waters cool,

Young fishes, on an April morn,

Up and down a rapid river,

Leap the little waterfalls

That sing into the pebbled pool.

My happy falcon, Rosalind,

Hath daring fancies of her own,

Fresh as the dawn before the day,

Fresh as the early seasmell blown

Through vineyards from an inland bay.

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Because no shadow on you falls,

Think you hearts are tennis balls

To play with, wanton Rosalind?

SongWho can sayWhy To-dayTo-morrow will be yesterday?Who can tellWhy to smellThe violet, recalls the dewy primeOf youth and buried time?The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Song

Who can sayWhy To-dayTo-morrow will be yesterday?Who can tellWhy to smellThe violet, recalls the dewy primeOf youth and buried time?The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Who can say

Why To-day

To-morrow will be yesterday?

Who can tell

Why to smell

The violet, recalls the dewy prime

Of youth and buried time?

The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Written on hearing of the outbreak of the Polish Insurrection.

SonnetBlow ye the trumpet, gather from afarThe hosts to battle: be not bought and sold.Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold;Break through your iron shackles—fling them far.O for those days of Piast, ere the CzarGrew to this strength among his deserts cold;When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolledThe growing murmurs of the Polish war!Now must your noble anger blaze out moreThan when from Sobieski, clan by clan,The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before—Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan,Than earlier, when on the Baltic shoreBoleslas drove the Pomeranian.

Sonnet

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afarThe hosts to battle: be not bought and sold.Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold;Break through your iron shackles—fling them far.O for those days of Piast, ere the CzarGrew to this strength among his deserts cold;When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolledThe growing murmurs of the Polish war!Now must your noble anger blaze out moreThan when from Sobieski, clan by clan,The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before—Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan,Than earlier, when on the Baltic shoreBoleslas drove the Pomeranian.

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar

The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold.

Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold;

Break through your iron shackles—fling them far.

O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar

Grew to this strength among his deserts cold;

When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled

The growing murmurs of the Polish war!

Now must your noble anger blaze out more

Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan,

The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before—

Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan,

Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore

Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.

O Darling Room[D]IO darling room, my heart's delight,Dear room, the apple of my sight,With thy two couches soft and white,There is no room so exquisite,No little room so warm and brightWherein to read, wherein to write.IIFor I the Nonnenwerth have seen,And Oberwinter's vineyards green,Musical Lurlei; and betweenThe hills to Bingen have I been,Bingen in Darmstadt, where the RheneCurves towards Mentz, a woody scene.IIIYet never did there meet my sight,In any town, to left or right,A little room so exquisite,With two such couches soft and white;Not any room so warm and bright,Wherein to read, wherein to write.

O Darling Room[D]

O darling room, my heart's delight,Dear room, the apple of my sight,With thy two couches soft and white,There is no room so exquisite,No little room so warm and brightWherein to read, wherein to write.

O darling room, my heart's delight,

Dear room, the apple of my sight,

With thy two couches soft and white,

There is no room so exquisite,

No little room so warm and bright

Wherein to read, wherein to write.

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen,And Oberwinter's vineyards green,Musical Lurlei; and betweenThe hills to Bingen have I been,Bingen in Darmstadt, where the RheneCurves towards Mentz, a woody scene.

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen,

And Oberwinter's vineyards green,

Musical Lurlei; and between

The hills to Bingen have I been,

Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene

Curves towards Mentz, a woody scene.

III

Yet never did there meet my sight,In any town, to left or right,A little room so exquisite,With two such couches soft and white;Not any room so warm and bright,Wherein to read, wherein to write.

Yet never did there meet my sight,

In any town, to left or right,

A little room so exquisite,

With two such couches soft and white;

Not any room so warm and bright,

Wherein to read, wherein to write.

To Christopher NorthYou did late review my lays,Crusty Christopher;You did mingle blame and praise,Rusty Christopher.When I learnt from whom it came,I forgave you all the blame,Musty Christopher;I couldnotforgive the praise,Fusty Christopher.

To Christopher North

You did late review my lays,Crusty Christopher;You did mingle blame and praise,Rusty Christopher.When I learnt from whom it came,I forgave you all the blame,Musty Christopher;I couldnotforgive the praise,Fusty Christopher.

You did late review my lays,

Crusty Christopher;

You did mingle blame and praise,

Rusty Christopher.

When I learnt from whom it came,

I forgave you all the blame,

Musty Christopher;

I couldnotforgive the praise,

Fusty Christopher.

[This epigram was Tennyson's reply to an article by Professor Wilson—'Christopher North'—inBlackwood's Magazinefor May 1832, dealing in sensible fashion with Tennyson's 1830 volume, and ridiculing the fulsome praise lavished on him by his inconsiderate friends—especially referring to Arthur Hallam's article in theEnglishman's Magazinefor August, 1831.]

The Lotos-Eaters

[These forty lines formed the conclusion to the original (1833) version of the poem. When the poem was reprinted in the 1842 volumes these lines were suppressed.]

We have had enough of motion,Weariness and wild alarm,Tossing on the tossing ocean,Where the tuskèd seahorse wallowethIn a stripe of grassgreen calm,At noon-tide beneath the lea;And the monstrous narwhale swallowethHis foamfountains in the sea.Long enough the winedark wave our weary bark did carry.This is lovelier and sweeter,Men of Ithaca, this is meeter,In the hollow rosy vale to tarry,Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater!We will eat the Lotos, sweetAs the yellow honeycomb,In the valley some, and someOn the ancient heights divine;And no more roam,On the loud hoar foam,To the melancholy homeAt the limit of the brine,The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline.We'll lift no more the shattered oar,No more unfurl the straining sail;With the blissful Lotos-eaters paleWe will abide in the golden valeOf the Lotos-land, till the Lotos fail;We will not wander more.Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleatOn the solitary steeps,And the merry lizard leaps,And the foam-white waters pour;And the dark pine weeps,And the lithe vine creeps,And the heavy melon sleepsOn the level of the shore:Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more,Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shoreThan labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar,Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.

We have had enough of motion,

Weariness and wild alarm,

Tossing on the tossing ocean,

Where the tuskèd seahorse walloweth

In a stripe of grassgreen calm,

At noon-tide beneath the lea;

And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth

His foamfountains in the sea.

Long enough the winedark wave our weary bark did carry.

This is lovelier and sweeter,

Men of Ithaca, this is meeter,

In the hollow rosy vale to tarry,

Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater!

We will eat the Lotos, sweet

As the yellow honeycomb,

In the valley some, and some

On the ancient heights divine;

And no more roam,

On the loud hoar foam,

To the melancholy home

At the limit of the brine,

The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day's decline.

We'll lift no more the shattered oar,

No more unfurl the straining sail;

With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale

We will abide in the golden vale

Of the Lotos-land, till the Lotos fail;

We will not wander more.

Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat

On the solitary steeps,

And the merry lizard leaps,

And the foam-white waters pour;

And the dark pine weeps,

And the lithe vine creeps,

And the heavy melon sleeps

On the level of the shore:

Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more,

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore

Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar,

Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.

A Dream of Fair Women

[In the 1833 volume the poem opened with the following four verses, suppressed after 1842. These Fitz Gerald considered made 'a perfect poem by themselves.']

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