going the city prophecy Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field. And And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most s a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion s thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, al here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly slowly, c on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks be slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one i ing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen' the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not h of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence be ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom linger I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving towar stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, so ing on the bugle-horn, They to whom my foolish passion we target for their scorn: Shall it not be scorn to me to har such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakn woman's pleasure, woman's pain Nature made them blinder motions bour in a shallower brain: Woman is the lesser man, and all passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and water unto wine Here at least, where nature sickens, no ing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell father evil-starr'd; I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfi uncle's ward. ALFRED LORD TENNYSON Or to burst all links of habit - there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing-space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the grey barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage-what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: Better fifty years of Europe than ค cycle O, I see the crescent promise of my hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well th my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long fa to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, bla ing over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, breast a thunder-bolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with ra hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring ward, and I go. SIR GALAHAD [1842] My good blade carves the casques of The shattering trumpet shrilleth high The hard brands shiver on the stee The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stand Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and sh: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and th So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns; Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wid The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The chill bell Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, And, ringing, springs from brand and But o'er the dark a glory spreads, I leave the plain, I climb the height; Such hope, I know not fear; concepute maiden knight-to me is given I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven virginity Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, The clouds are broken in the sky, A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. By bridge and ford, by park and pale, MOVE EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH scientific onservati42] MOVE eastward, happy earth, and leave Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, BREAK, BREAK, BREAK [1842 Arthur Haiham. on the occasion of BREAK, break, break, Clevedon On thy cold grey stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. SONGS FROM THE PRINCESS [1850] AS THRO' the land at eve we went, That all the more endears, For when we came where lies the child SWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea! Come from the dying moon, and blow, While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. THE splendour falls on castle walls O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made. O tell her brief is life but love is long, O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. THY voice is heard thro' rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee. HOME they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Call'd him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept, Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her kneeLike summer tempest came her tears'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' гонд of love 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 fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A 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 slip Into my bosom and be lost in me. '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 cease To 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 down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, or wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and, spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling watersmoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, IN MEMORIAM [1850] IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. |