 | Alfred the Great |  |
95
THE PASSING OF MERLIN
97
I am Merlin,
And I am dying,
I am Merlin
Who follow The Gleam.
Tennyson's Merlin and The Gleam.
And I am dying,
I am Merlin
Who follow The Gleam.
Tennyson's Merlin and The Gleam.
I
Merlin has gone—has gone!—and through the landThe melancholy message wings its way;
To careless-ordered garden by the bay,
Back o'er the narrow strait to island strand,
Where Camelot looks down on wild Broceliand.
II
Merlin has gone, Merlin the Wizard who found,In the Past's glimmering tide, and hailed him King,
Arthur, great Uther's son, and so did sing
The mystic glories of the Table Round,
That ever its name will live so long as Song shall sound.
98
III
Merlin has gone, Merlin who followed the Gleam,And made us follow it; the flying tale
Of the Last Tournament, the Holy Grail,
And Arthur's Passing; till the Enchanter's dream
Dwells with us still awake, no visionary theme.
IV
To-day is dole in Astolat, and doleIn Celidon the forest, dole and tears.
In Joyous Gard blackhooded lean the spears:
The nuns of Almesbury sound a mournful toll,
And Guinevere kneeling weeps, and prays for Merlin's soul.
V
A wailing cometh from the shores that veilAvilion's island valley; on the mere,
Looms through the mist and wet winds weeping blear
A dusky barge, which, without oar or sail,
Fades to the far-off fields where falls nor snow nor hail.
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VI
Of all his wounds He will be healëd now,Wounds of harsh time and vulnerable life,
Fatigue of rest and weariness of strife,
Doubt and the long deep questionings that plough
The forehead of age but bring no harvest to the brow.
VII
And there He will be comforted; but weMust watch, like Bedivere, the dwindling light
That slowly shrouds Him darkling from our sight.
From the great deep to the great deep hath He
Passed, and, if now He knows, is mute eternally.
VIII
From Somersby's ivied tower there sinks and swellsA low slow peal, that mournfully is rolled
Over the long gray fields and glimmering wold,
To where, 'twixt sandy tracts and moorland fells,
Remembers Locksley Hall his musical farewells.
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IX
And many a sinewy youth on Cam to-daySuspends the dripping oar and lets his boat
Like dreaming water-lily drift and float,
While murmuring to himself the undying lay
That haunts the babbling Wye and Severn's dirgeful bay.
X
The bole of the broad oak whose knotted kneesLie hidden in the fern of Summer Place,
Feels stirred afresh, as when Olivia's face
Lay warm against its rind, though now it sees
Not Love but Death approach, and shivers in the breeze.
XI
In many a Vicarage garden, dense with age,The haunt of pairing throstles, many a grange
Moated against the assault and siege of change,
Fair eyes consult anew the cherished Sage,
And now and then a tear falls blistering the page.
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XII
April will blossom again, again will ringWith cuckoo's call and yaffel's flying scream,
And in veiled sleep the nightingale will dream,
Warbling as if awake. But what will bring
His sweet note back? He mute, it scarcely will be Spring.
XIII
The Seasons sorrow for Him, and the HoursDroop, like to bees belated in the rain.
The unmoving shadow of a pensive pain
Lies on the lawn and lingers on the flowers,
And sweet and sad seem one in woodbine-woven bowers.
XIV
In English gardens fringed with English foam,Or girt with English woods, He loved to dwell,
Singing of English lives in thorp or dell,
Orchard or croft; so that, when now we roam
Through them, and find Him not, it scarcely feels like home.
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XV
And England's glories stirred Him as the swellOf bluff winds blowing from Atlantic brine
Stirs mightier music in the murmuring pine.
Then sweet notes waxed to strong within his shell,
And bristling rose the lines, and billowy rose and fell.
XVI
So England mourns for Merlin, though its tearsFlow not from bitter source that wells in vain,
But kindred rather to the rippling rain
That brings the daffodil sheath and jonquil spears,
When Winter weeps away and April reappears.
XVII
For never hath England lacked a voice to singHer fairness and her fame, nor will she now.
Silence awhile may brood upon the bough,
But shortly once gain the Isle will ring
With wakening winds of March and rhapsodies of Spring.
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XVIII
From Arthur unto Alfred, Alfred crownedMonarch and Minstrel both, to Edward's day,
From Edward to Elizabeth, the lay
Of valour and love hath never ceased to sound,
But Song and Sword are twin, indissolubly bound.
XIX
Nor shall in Britain Taliessin tireTransmitting through his stock the sacred strain.
When fresh renown prolongs Victoria's Reign,
Some patriot hand will sweep the living lyre,
And prove, with native notes, that Merlin was his sire.
THE END.
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