Alfred Lord Tennyson

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen,

With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, 'The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe

DEAR, near and true'no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life

I. Now is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast,

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, 'The Legend of Good Women,' long ago Sung by the morning star of song, who made

As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I,

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

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?

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry: All her maidens, watching, said,

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:

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed, The little seed they laugh'd at in the dark, Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes,

A voice by cedar tree In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me,

A voice spake out of the skies To a just man and a wise' 'The world and all within it

Sea-kings' daughter from over the sea, Alexandra! Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra!

The son of him with whom we strove for power' Whose will is lord thro' all his world-domain' Who made the serf a man, and burst his chain'

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be,

ILIAD, XVIII. 2O2. So saying, light-foot Iris pass'd away. Then rose Achilles dear to Zeus; and round

I. Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline,

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away. -Vain sympathies! For backward, Duddon! as I cast my eyes,

AN INSCRIPTION BY ABUL FAZL FOR A TEMPLE IN KASHMIR (Blochmann xxxii.) O God in every temple I see people that see thee, and in every language I hear spoken, people praise thee.

All Things will Die Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing Under my eye;

My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree,

'Te somnia nostra reducunt.' OVID. And ask ye why these sad tears stream?

As thro' the land of eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I,

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape, With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

Audley Court 'The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there

Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our pride Looks only for a moment whole and sound; Like that long-buried body of the king,

Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot In that first war, and had his realm restored But rendered tributary, failed of late

Athelstan King, Lord among Earls, Bracelet-bestower and

Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion, O you with your passionate shriek for the rights of an equal humanity,

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes,

While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries Burnt and broke the grove and altar of the Druid and Druidess, Far in the East Bo'dic'a, standing loftily charioted,

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter

The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, 'Am I your debtor?' And the Lord''Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,

I. What am I doing, you say to me, 'wasting the sweet summer hours'? Haven't you eyes? I am dressing the grave of a woman with flowers.

I. The City Child. Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander?

Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the heathy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival;

Where Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall:

Chains, my good lord: in your raised brows I read Some wonder at our chamber ornaments. We brought this iron from our isles of gold.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, Night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,

Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,

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?

What does little birdie say In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie,

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar,

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street. Doors, where my heart was used to beat

The Two Greetings. I. Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears; but all hath suffer'd change;

These to His Memory'since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously Some image of himself'I dedicate,

Dedication These to His Memory--since he held them dear, Perchance as finding there unconsciously

Dead Princess, living Power, if that which lived True life live on'and if the fatal kiss, Born of true life and love, divorce thee not

Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies All night across the darkness, and at dawn Falls on the threshold of her native land,

I. Is it you, that preach'd in the chapel there looking over the sand? Follow'd us too that night, and dogg'd us, and drew me to land?

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

Tho' Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy rod, Rail at 'Blind Fate' with many a vain 'Alas'' From sin thro' sorrow into Thee we pass

1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear in the pine overhead? 2. No; but the voice of the deep as it hollows

I. To' As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood,

I. Once more the Heavenly Power Makes all things new,

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way; 'And have you lost your heart?' she said;

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year, My one Oasis in the dust and drouth

I. Thy dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air,

O thou that sendest out the man To rule by land and sea, Strong mother of a Lion-line,

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf

Thy prayer was 'Light-more Light-while Time shall last!' Thou rawest a glory growing on the night, But not the shadows which that light would cast,

Warrior of God, man's friend, and tyrant's foe, Now somewhere dead far in the waste Soudan, Thou livest in all hearts, for all men know

Thou third great Canning, stand among our best And noblest, now thy long day's work hath ceased, Here silent in our Minster of the West

I. Doubt no longer that the Highest is the wisest and the best, Let not all that saddens Nature blight thy hope or break thy rest,

What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue, Far'far'away?

O love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight,

Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,

I. 'He is fled'I wish him dead' He that wrought my ruin'

'Frater Ave atque Vale' Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row! So they row'd, and there we landed''O venusta Sirmio!'

I. O thou so fair in summers gone, While yet thy fresh and virgin soul

O thou most holy Friendship! wheresoe'er Thy dwelling be'for in the courts of man But seldom thine all-heavenly voice we hear,

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent, And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine

O purblind race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves,

I. Will my tiny spark of being wholly vanish in your deeps and heights? Must my day be dark by reason, O ye Heavens, of your boundless nights,

I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To match the three tall spires; and there I shaped

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid,

First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man's the best Cosmopolite

I. Why wail you, pretty plover? and what is it that you fear? Is he sick your mate like mine? have you lost him, is he fled?

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why

Helen's tower, here I stand, Dominant over sea and land. Son's love built me, and I hold

O you chorus of indolent reviewers, Irresponsible, indolent reviewers, Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem

Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said,

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream!

How thought you that this thing could captivate? What are those graces that could make her dear, Who is not worth the notice of a sneer,

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice

O living will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock,

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage,

O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath,

I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; No lower life that earth's embrace

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII. Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face,

Farewell, whose like on earth I shall not find, Whose Faith and Work were bells of full accord, My friend, the most unworldly of mankind,

On Translations of Homer Hexameters acrd Pentameters. These lame hexameters the strong-wing'd music of Homer!

EMMIE I. Our doctor had call'd in another, I never

Nightingales warbled without, Within was weeping for thee; Shadows of three dead men

All along the valley, stream that flashest white, Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night, All along the valley, where thy waters flow,

Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended by

There on the top of the down, The wild heather round me and over me June's high blue, When I look'd at the bracken so bright and the heather so brown,

I. When from the terrors of Nature a people have fashion'd and worship a Spirit of Evil, Blest he the Voice of the Teacher who calls to them

I know her by her angry air, Her bright black eyes, her bright black hair, Her rapid laughters wild and shrill,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe

The foes of the east have come down on our shore, And the state and the strength of Peru are no more: Oh! curs'd, doubly curs'd, was that desolate hour,

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable, Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, High in her chamber up a tower to the east

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

Low-flying breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming; Thro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines. Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,

I Airy, Fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian,

Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars Before the stony face of Time,

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,

Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts, Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call,

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage,

I. Thou, from the first, unborn, undying Love, Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,

What time the mighty moon was gathering light Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes;

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts? Or all the same as if he had not been?

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied past, and used Within the present, but transfused

Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found Her master cold; for when the morning flush Of passion and the first embrace had died

I. Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine,

I. O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret,

With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots

With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat,

Light, so low upon earth, You send a flash to the sun. Here is the golden close of love,

PART I I. I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,

Now first we stand and understand, And sunder false from true, And handle boldly with the hand,

I. O young Mariner, You from the haven

A storm was coming, but the winds were still, And in the wild woods of Broceliande, Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old

'Tis midnight o'er the dim mere's lonely bosom, Dark, dusky, windy midnight: swift are driven The swelling vapours onward: every blossom

O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England,

Minnie and Winnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies!

They rose to where their sovran eagle sails, They kept their faith, their freedom, on the height, Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day and night

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's table, man by man,

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow: From fringes of the faded eve,

I. My life is full of weary days, But good things have not kept aloof,

I. DOSN'T thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awa'y? Proputty, proputty, proputty'that's what I 'ears 'em sa'y.

Wheer 'asta be'n saw long and me' liggin' 'ere alo'n? Noorse? thoort nowt o' a noorse: whoy, doctor's abe'n an' ago'n: Says that I mo'nt 'a naw moor a'le: but I be'nt a fool:

When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing

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:

O beauty, passing beauty! Sweetest sweet! How can thou let me waste my youth in sighs? I only ask to sit beside thy feet.

O, were I loved as I desire to be! What is there in the great sphere of the earth, Or range of evil between death and birth,

1852 I. Bury the Great Duke

I. Uplift a thousand voices full and sweet, In this wide hall with earth's invention stored,

I. Thou who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past,

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights:

I. Nature, so far as in her lies, Imitates God, and turns her face

While man and woman still are incomplete, I prize that soul where man and woman meet, Which types all Nature's male and female plan,

I. Fifty times the rose has flower'd and faded, Fifty times the golden harvest fallen,

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE PRINCE OF WALES I.

NA'Y, no' mander (2) o' use to be callin' 'im Ro', Ro', Ro', Fur the dog's sto'n-deaf, an' e's blind, 'e can naither Stan' nor go'. But I means fur to ma'ke 'is owd a'ge as 'appy as iver I can,

I. What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred fountain? Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain,

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors

This thing, that thing is the rage, Helter-skelter runs the age; Minds on this round earth of ours

Old poets foster'd under friendlier skies, Old Virgil who would write ten lines, they say, At dawn, and lavish all the golden day

We move, the wheel must always move, Nor always on the plain, And if we move to such a goal

Midnight June 30 1879 I. Midnight'in no midsummer tune

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft seaworthy still,

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes,

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 heaven fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free In the silken sail of infancy, The tide of time flow'd back with me,

Fair is her cottage in its place, Where yon broad water sweetly, slowly glides. It sees itself from thatch to base

There is a sound of thunder afar, Storm in the South that darkens the day! Storm of battle and thunder of war!

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night;

I. Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea' And Willy's voice in the wind, 'O mother, come out to me.'

'BEAT, little heart'I give you this and this' Who are you? What! the Lady Hamilton? Good, I am never weary painting you.

I. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,

A city clerk, but gently born and bred; His wife, an unknown artist's orphan child' One babe was theirs, a Margaret, three years old:

THY tuwhits are lull'd I wot, Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, Which upon the dark afloat,

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear and beat,

A garden here'May breath and bloom of spring' The cuckoo yonder from an English elm Crying 'with my false egg I overwhelm

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten,

Not here! the white North has thy bones; and thou, Heroic sailor-soul, Art passing on thine happier voyage now

My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout To take me to that hiding in the hills. I have broke their cage, no gilded one, I trow'

Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain

I. A spirit haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:

The winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth

Who can say Why To-day To-morrow will be yesterday?

So Hector spake; and Trojans roar'd applause; Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke, And each beside his chariot bound his own;

Birds' love and birds' song Flying here and there, Birds' songand birds' love

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes;

Altho' I be the basest of mankind, From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet

Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak Been hurl'd so high they ranged about the globe? For day by day, thro' many a blood-red eve,

O God! my God! have mercy now. I faint, I fall. Men say that Thou Didst die for me, for such as me,

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow,

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

? I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor:

A thousand summers ere the time of Christ From out his ancient city came a Seer Whom one that loved, and honour'd him, and yet

My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below,

To Sir Walter Scott... O GREAT AND GALLANT SCOTT, TRUE GENTLEMAN, HEART, BLOOD AND BONE,

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say; Barefooted came the beggar maid

O blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,

Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East And he for Italy'too late'too late: One whom the strong sons of the world despise;

His eyes in eclipse, Pale-cold his lips, The light of his hopes unfed,

A LEGEND OF THE NAVY He that only rules by terror Doeth grievous wrong.

I The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death

I. Eh? good da'y! good da'y! thaw it be'n't not mooch of a da'y, Nasty, casselty (1) weather! an' mea Ha'fe down wi' my ha'y! (2)

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard, Had one fair daughter, and none other child; And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth,

O love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,

Red of the Dawn! Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms of a Moloch of Tyre, Man with his brotherless dinner on man in the tropical wood,

PROLOGUE O Lady Flora, let me speak: A pleasant hour has passed away

I. Dead! And the Muses cried with a stormy cry

'none sat within the cave from out Whose ivy-matted mouth she used to gaze Down at the Troad; but the goodly view

To the Mourners. The bridal garland falls upon the bier, The shadow of a crown, that o'er him hung,

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,

I Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!

I. Life and Thought have gone away Side by side,

I. The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air,

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,' The game of forfeits done'the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away'

Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Thou art low! thou mighty one, How is the brilliance of thy diadem,

I. 'Wait a little,' you say, 'you are sure it 'll all come right,' But the boy was born i' trouble, an' looks so wan an' so white:

I. You, you, if you shall fail to understand What England is, and what her all-in-all,

Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not sleep, my sister dear! How can you sleep? the morning brings the day I hate and fear; The cock has crow'd already once, he crows before his time;

Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower,

This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote: It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me: we that day had been

I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door,

I. And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.

The Higher Pantheism The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains' Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale, Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,

'Whither, O whither, love, shall we go, For a score of sweet little summers or so?' The sweet little wife of the singer said,

Below the thunders of the upper deep, Far far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky;

I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye,

I On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye,

Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will,

Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood Had made mock-knight of Arthur's Table Round, At Camelot, high above the yellowing woods,

Still on the tower stood the vane, A black yew gloomed the stagnant air, I peered athwart the chancel pane

In her ear he whispers gaily, 'If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,

'Courage!' he said, and pointed toward the land, 'This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.' In the afternoon they came unto a land

I. Here far away, seen from the topmost cliff, Filling with purple gloom the vacancies

Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can escape From the lower world within him, moods of tiger, or of ape? Man as yet is being made, and ere the crowning Age of ages,

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, A tributary prince of Devon, one Of that great Order of the Table Round,

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day,

I. Who would be A mermaid fair,

I. Who would be A merman bold,

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

I. WA'IT till our Sally cooms in, fur thou mun a' sights1 to tell. Eh, but I be ma'in glad to see' tha sa 'arty an' well.

Live thy Life, Young and old, Like yon oak,

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb,

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, 'O Soul, make merry and carouse,

That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice

This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,

Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom'd with woe You all but sicken at the shifting scenes. And yet be patient. Our Playwright may show

The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

I. Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit;

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street; A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face, Of temper amorous, as the first of May, With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl,

At break of day the College Portress came: She brought us Academic silks, in hue The lilac, with a silken hood to each,

Morn in the wake of the morning star Came furrowing all the orient into gold. We rose, and each by other drest with care

'There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, If that hypothesis of theirs be sound' Said Ida; 'let us down and rest;' and we

Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound, We stumbled on a stationary voice, And 'Stand, who goes?' 'Two from the palace' I.

My dream had never died or lived again. As in some mystic middle state I lay; Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard:

So was their sanctuary violated, So their fair college turned to hospital; At first with all confusion: by and by

Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun Up to the people: thither flocked at noon

So closed our tale, of which I give you all The random scheme as wildly as it rose: The words are mostly mine; for when we ceased

The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould, Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea, Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold

A Ballad of the Fleet 1878 I

Miriam (singing). Mellow moon of heaven. Bright in blue,

'Your ringlets, your ringlets, That look so golden-gay, If you will give me one, but one,

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago, When I was in my June, you in your May, Two words, 'My Rose,' set all your face aglow,

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar, And reach'd the ship and caught the rope,

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest

When the dumb Hour, clothed in black, Brings the Dreams about my bed, Call me not so often back,

We were two daughters of one race; She was the fairest in the face. The wind is blowing in turret and tree.

They have left the doors ajar; and by their clash, And prelude on the keys, I know the song, Their favourite'which I call 'The Tables Turned.'

We were two daughters of one race; She was the fairest in the face. The wind is blowing in turret and tree.

Sure never yet was antelope Could skip so lightly by. Stand off, or else my skipping-rope

Many, many welcomes, February fair-maid, Ever as of old time,

1 Milk for my sweet-arts, Bess! fur it mun be the time about now When dolly cooms in fro' the far-end close wi' her pa'ils fro' the cow.

Here, it is here, the close of the year, And with it a spiteful letter. My name in song has done him much wrong,

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes,

Once more the gate behind me falls; Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,

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

My Lords, we heard you speak: you told us all That England's honest censure went too far, That our free press should cease to brawl,

'Summer is coming, summer is coming. I know it, I know it, I know it. Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,'

Ralph would fight in Edith's sight, For Ralph was Edith's lover, Ralph went down like a fire to the fight,

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?'

I. A plague upon the people fell, A famine after laid them low;

'Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur New Squire coom'd last night. Butter an' heggs'yis'yis. I'll go' wi' tha back: all right; Butter I warrants be prime, an' I warrants the heggs be as well,

I. I had a vision when the night was late: A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.

I. The voice and the Peak Far over summit and lawn,

I. We left behind the painted buoy That tosses at the harbor-mouth;

I. I WAS the chief of the race'he had stricken my father dead' But I gather'd my fellows together, I swore I would strike off his head.

Soft, shadowy moon-beam! by the light Sleeps the wide meer serenely pale: How various are the sounds of night,

The gleam of household sunshine ends, And here no longer can I rest; Farewell! - You will not speak, my friends,

ON THE HILL. The lights and shadows fly! Yonder it brightens and darkens down on the plain.

Hide me, Mother! my Fathers belong'd to the church of old, I am driven by storm and sin and death to the ancient fold, I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith that saves,

I wish I were as in the years of old While yet the blessed daylight made itself Ruddy thro' both the roofs of sight, and woke

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,

Golden-hair'd Ally whose name is one with mine, Crazy with laughter and babble and earth's new wine, Now that the flower of a year and a half is thine,

King, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and grown In power, and ever growest, since thine own Fair Florence honouring thy nativity,

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange, Where once I tarried for a while, Glance at the wheeling orb of change,

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Pene'an pass,

Two Suns of Love make day of human life, Which else with all its pains, and griefs, and deaths, Were utter darkness'one, the Sun of dawn

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those

I. 'Spring-flowers'! While you still delay to take Your leave of town,

You make our faults too gross, and thence maintain Our darker future. May your fears be vain! At times the small black fly upon the pane

O you that were eyes and light to the King till he past away From the darkness of life' He saw not his daughter'he blest her: the blind King sees you to-day,

Fair things are slow to fade away, Bear witness you, that yesterday1 From out the Ghost of Pindar inyou

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know The limits of resistance, and the bounds Determining concession; still be bold

I. At times our Britain cannot rest, At times her steps are swift and rash;

Dear Master in our classic town, You, loved by all the younger gown There at Balliol,

O loyal to the royal in thyself, And loyal to thy land, as this to thee-- Bear witness, that rememberable day,

Revered, beloved'O you that hold A nobler office upon earth Than arms, or power of brain, or birth

January, 1854 Come, when no graver cares employ, Godfather, come and see your boy:

Brooks, for they call'd you so that knew you best, Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth my rhymes, How oft we two have heard St. Mary's chimes!

I. Ulysses, much-experienced man, Whose eyes have known this globe of ours,

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance, Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears, French of the French, and Lord of human tears;

I. Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's lofty temples robed in fire,

1851 Farewell, Macready, since to-night we part; Full-handed thunders often have confessed

I send you here a sort of allegory' For you will understand it'of a soul, A sinful soul possess'd of many gifts,

I. Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain

I. HER, that yer Honour was spakin' to? Whin, yer Honour? last year' Standin' here be the bridge, when last yer Honour was here?

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole

I. Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish'd face,

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea' Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong'

John.        I'm glad I walk'd.        How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.

Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse

I. O well for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock.

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist,