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1
TENNYSON.
Obiit October 6, 1892.
3
Tennyson.
Obiit, Aldworth, October 6th, 1892.
The moonlight lay with glory on his face
About whose bed in grief the nation bowed,
And darkly flew the wild October cloud:
Sobbed the pale morn, and came with faltering pace
As if it feared to lift a dead man's shroud;
And all the streams made lamentation loud.
About whose bed in grief the nation bowed,
And darkly flew the wild October cloud:
Sobbed the pale morn, and came with faltering pace
As if it feared to lift a dead man's shroud;
And all the streams made lamentation loud.
But such majestic calm was in his look
As seemed to say, ‘Why weeping o'er me bend,
Or bid me longer here on earth attend
Whose home is Heaven?’ His hand held Shakespeare's book—
Shakespeare, so soon to greet him as a friend!
And so he went companioned, to the end.
As seemed to say, ‘Why weeping o'er me bend,
Or bid me longer here on earth attend
Whose home is Heaven?’ His hand held Shakespeare's book—
Shakespeare, so soon to greet him as a friend!
And so he went companioned, to the end.
4
Then to the poet, crowned with power and years,
One bore the wreath of immortality,
And laid his chaplet of green laurel by.
Wept England; over-seas a land in tears
For its own bard, caught up the bitter cry
That rings right round the world when singers die.
One bore the wreath of immortality,
And laid his chaplet of green laurel by.
Wept England; over-seas a land in tears
For its own bard, caught up the bitter cry
That rings right round the world when singers die.
For he, the music-maker of the earth,
Who ruled of right by sound's melodious sway,
Who still within his heart had words to say,
Turned to the home whence all his song had birth;
The first, last, Laureate of a golden day,
Untouched by time, passed painlessly away.
Who ruled of right by sound's melodious sway,
Who still within his heart had words to say,
Turned to the home whence all his song had birth;
The first, last, Laureate of a golden day,
Untouched by time, passed painlessly away.
But as men sorrowed for the glory gone,
And the dark dumbness fallen upon the time,
There rang from Heaven triumphant angel-chime,
And voices cried, “Behold the twain are one,
The friend beloved, who left him ere his prime,
The friend who made Love's great Memorial Rhyme.”
And the dark dumbness fallen upon the time,
There rang from Heaven triumphant angel-chime,
And voices cried, “Behold the twain are one,
The friend beloved, who left him ere his prime,
The friend who made Love's great Memorial Rhyme.”
5
And lo! at ending of that heavenly psalm
The silent sunshine flooded all the lea,
The golden leaf scarce fluttered from the tree,
The distant ocean lay in autumn-calm;
There was “no moaning at the bar,” when he—
Our princely poet-soul, put out to sea.
The silent sunshine flooded all the lea,
The golden leaf scarce fluttered from the tree,
The distant ocean lay in autumn-calm;
There was “no moaning at the bar,” when he—
Our princely poet-soul, put out to sea.
But we are left disconsolate; no lyre
To sound a people's glory, soothe its pain,
No trumpet-call to chivalry again,
No words of subtlest feeling, finest fire
To keep us still a nation, and no strain
To bring new Knowledge to a wiser reign.
To sound a people's glory, soothe its pain,
No trumpet-call to chivalry again,
No words of subtlest feeling, finest fire
To keep us still a nation, and no strain
To bring new Knowledge to a wiser reign.
He was true patriot, and his soul was set
To give our England flowers of song for weeds.
He planted well, he scattered fruitful seeds;
He showed us love was more than coronet,
And in the jarring of a hundred creeds
Taught life and truth were hid in noble deeds.
To give our England flowers of song for weeds.
He planted well, he scattered fruitful seeds;
He showed us love was more than coronet,
And in the jarring of a hundred creeds
Taught life and truth were hid in noble deeds.
6
Yet most that purest passion for a maid
And manly love with maiden virtue crowned,
Availed to keep our social fabric sound;
And loving Arthur well, he well pourtrayed
That kingliest Arthur of the Table Round,
Who entered Heaven to heal him of Earth's wound.
And manly love with maiden virtue crowned,
Availed to keep our social fabric sound;
And loving Arthur well, he well pourtrayed
That kingliest Arthur of the Table Round,
Who entered Heaven to heal him of Earth's wound.
And he has entered Heaven by earth unharmed;
Years could not blanch a single lock with grey,
Time could not steal a single bolt away,
Nor blunt the sword wherewith his soul was armed:
But from this shore, whereon he might not stay,
His music nevermore shall die away.
Years could not blanch a single lock with grey,
Time could not steal a single bolt away,
Nor blunt the sword wherewith his soul was armed:
But from this shore, whereon he might not stay,
His music nevermore shall die away.
Now he is gone, who up the windy ways
Followed the shepherd to the bleating fold;
Who, when the level plain was laid in gold,
Ran with the reapers, learnt their Doric phrase,
And to his great iambic's stately mould
Caught back rich words that never can grow old.
Followed the shepherd to the bleating fold;
Who, when the level plain was laid in gold,
Ran with the reapers, learnt their Doric phrase,
And to his great iambic's stately mould
Caught back rich words that never can grow old.
7
Now he is gone, who spoke with Greece and Rome,
And took the herdsman's sunny pipe, and played
Idyllic music fit for English shade;
Who in his ocean-sounding island home
Walked with the mighty Homer unafraid,
And Saxon metre to his thunder made.
And took the herdsman's sunny pipe, and played
Idyllic music fit for English shade;
Who in his ocean-sounding island home
Walked with the mighty Homer unafraid,
And Saxon metre to his thunder made.
I shall not find his welcome at the home,
Nor front those searching eyes that when we met
Would ask what father's-features lingered yet;
Nor mark the sun-browned ample forehead's dome,
Strong Norman mouth-swirls, cheeks whereon was set
The powerful seal of the Plantagenet.
Nor front those searching eyes that when we met
Would ask what father's-features lingered yet;
Nor mark the sun-browned ample forehead's dome,
Strong Norman mouth-swirls, cheeks whereon was set
The powerful seal of the Plantagenet.
I shall not press that soft and tender hand,
Nor hear far off his rich voice like a bell
Ring after crying “Friend! farewell, farewell!”
Nor see the dreaming dark-cloaked poet stand
Like some Velasquez figure in the dell,
Where o'er his face full shadow rose and fell.
Nor hear far off his rich voice like a bell
Ring after crying “Friend! farewell, farewell!”
Nor see the dreaming dark-cloaked poet stand
Like some Velasquez figure in the dell,
Where o'er his face full shadow rose and fell.
8
Friends! we no more shall climb the darkened down
And hear him measure music to the beat
Of summer seas reverberant at his feet;
Never in orchard-garden overblown
With spice of rose and lily, and made sweet
With song of birds, can share his arbour seat,
And hear him measure music to the beat
Of summer seas reverberant at his feet;
Never in orchard-garden overblown
With spice of rose and lily, and made sweet
With song of birds, can share his arbour seat,
And listen to the tale of boyhood days
Not quite forgotten, in the Lincoln land
Of corn that yellowed to the yellow sand,
Where first he strove to win a mother's praise
By warbling with his brother, hand in hand,
The wild-wood notes her heart could understand,
Not quite forgotten, in the Lincoln land
Of corn that yellowed to the yellow sand,
Where first he strove to win a mother's praise
By warbling with his brother, hand in hand,
The wild-wood notes her heart could understand,
Or move from boyhood's day and personal theme
To hint of curious workmanship confessed
In some great thought his labour had expressed,
To talk of nations, and the poet's dream
Of England, free, pure, faithful, self-possessed,
His fears for Modred's battle in the West.
To hint of curious workmanship confessed
In some great thought his labour had expressed,
To talk of nations, and the poet's dream
Of England, free, pure, faithful, self-possessed,
His fears for Modred's battle in the West.
9
With him we cannot claim the moorland walk
And watch the sunlight shoot athwart the rain,
Or halt to hear new bird-notes in the lane;
Or see him stoop from philosophic talk
To shred some simple wayside weed in twain,
And marvel at the miracle made plain.
And watch the sunlight shoot athwart the rain,
Or halt to hear new bird-notes in the lane;
Or see him stoop from philosophic talk
To shred some simple wayside weed in twain,
And marvel at the miracle made plain.
Nor ever view soft veils of vapour drawn
From the ‘grey sea’ beyond the Sussex glade,
Nor watch from Aldworth's height, the morning made,
Nor ever leave the cedar-scented lawn
To thread the high-o'er-arching colonnade
Of cloistral trees that gave the poet shade.
From the ‘grey sea’ beyond the Sussex glade,
Nor watch from Aldworth's height, the morning made,
Nor ever leave the cedar-scented lawn
To thread the high-o'er-arching colonnade
Of cloistral trees that gave the poet shade.
And when the birds have sought their ilex home,
And the magnolia pours its fragrance rare,
We shall not mount again his turret stair
And hear the strong deep-chested music come,
While light in hand within his simple chair
He summoned sound to people all the air,
And the magnolia pours its fragrance rare,
We shall not mount again his turret stair
And hear the strong deep-chested music come,
While light in hand within his simple chair
He summoned sound to people all the air,
10
And set the rafters ringing to the wail
Of a great nation for its warrior dead,
The boom of cannon and the mourner's tread;
Or bade the bugle's elfin echoes fail,
The long low lights on castle walls be shed—
Then shut the book in dream, and bowed his head.
Of a great nation for its warrior dead,
The boom of cannon and the mourner's tread;
Or bade the bugle's elfin echoes fail,
The long low lights on castle walls be shed—
Then shut the book in dream, and bowed his head.
Nor ever after meat when lamps are lit,
About the shining table drawing nigher,
Feel the fine soul that flashed forth at desire;
Sharp sallies, rapier-thrusts of genial wit
That called for friend, and bade the foe retire,
And filled the hall with laughter, and with fire.
About the shining table drawing nigher,
Feel the fine soul that flashed forth at desire;
Sharp sallies, rapier-thrusts of genial wit
That called for friend, and bade the foe retire,
And filled the hall with laughter, and with fire.
The hall is filled with silence and with tears!
The stately hound that licked his dying hand,
Fair-flewed, rough-chested, sorrowful must stand,
Must wonder why no well-loved step he hears,
Or, restless, roam among the funeral band
That comes to bear his master thro' the land.
The stately hound that licked his dying hand,
Fair-flewed, rough-chested, sorrowful must stand,
Must wonder why no well-loved step he hears,
Or, restless, roam among the funeral band
That comes to bear his master thro' the land.
11
Yea! bear him down, by weald, and wood, and town;
He knew each rosy farm, he loved each lane,
For he was home-bred English. Lo! the plain
Is gold from harvest; he, whom Death has mown
In ripeness, goes to where our goodliest grain
Is garnered, till the Christ return again.
He knew each rosy farm, he loved each lane,
For he was home-bred English. Lo! the plain
Is gold from harvest; he, whom Death has mown
In ripeness, goes to where our goodliest grain
Is garnered, till the Christ return again.
Bear him in some triumphal leafy car,
Laced round with moss, with laurel interwove,
And let the simple pall be strewn above
With all white flowers that pure and fragrant are—
Wild roses, on the pall embroidered, prove
His zeal for knightliness, our England's love.
Laced round with moss, with laurel interwove,
And let the simple pall be strewn above
With all white flowers that pure and fragrant are—
Wild roses, on the pall embroidered, prove
His zeal for knightliness, our England's love.
But bear him when the sunset, saffron-gold,
Floods the pale Heaven, above the moorland height,
And in the west one waning star hangs bright;
For now the race is run, the tale is told,
One last lone star sinks down into the night,
Our one last prophet vanishes from sight.
Floods the pale Heaven, above the moorland height,
And in the west one waning star hangs bright;
For now the race is run, the tale is told,
One last lone star sinks down into the night,
Our one last prophet vanishes from sight.
12
For, though I find thy voice in hall or cot,
And see thy words in every flying sheet,
Or hear thee lisped by children in the street,
And murmured in the cloister,—Thou art not.
Thy soul, that shunned earth's restlessness and heat,
Has sought Heaven's unapproachable retreat.
And see thy words in every flying sheet,
Or hear thee lisped by children in the street,
And murmured in the cloister,—Thou art not.
Thy soul, that shunned earth's restlessness and heat,
Has sought Heaven's unapproachable retreat.
I trace the brooklet swirling to the plain
From near the copse beside thy father's door,
That ancient grove whence ‘holy waters’ pour;
I pass by thorpe and tower toward the main,
I roam the long sands thou didst love of yore,
But ah! thy feet have left the lonely shore.
From near the copse beside thy father's door,
That ancient grove whence ‘holy waters’ pour;
I pass by thorpe and tower toward the main,
I roam the long sands thou didst love of yore,
But ah! thy feet have left the lonely shore.
Far off, by Cam, I catch the careless chimes,
Through close-cropt meads and stately halls I stray,
Where those disciples of thy glorious day
Made mirth and music underneath the limes,
Thou with the twelve—nigh latest didst thou stay;
But now the last leaf falls, the world is grey.
Through close-cropt meads and stately halls I stray,
13
Made mirth and music underneath the limes,
Thou with the twelve—nigh latest didst thou stay;
But now the last leaf falls, the world is grey.
I wander to the chapel by the mere,
I win the Hall, beyond the grove of pine,
Where-over, Skiddaw doth at day's decline
Shed back its fern-flushed glory. Thou wert there—
There didst out-roll ‘Morte d'Arthur’ line on line
To willing ears—thy ghost alone is mine.
I win the Hall, beyond the grove of pine,
Where-over, Skiddaw doth at day's decline
Shed back its fern-flushed glory. Thou wert there—
There didst out-roll ‘Morte d'Arthur’ line on line
To willing ears—thy ghost alone is mine.
Or leaving Thames I seek by chalky dell
My father's terrace-garden o'er the flood,
Where once a bride and bridegroom-poet stood,
And heard in June-tide air the marriage bell
Ring thro' the walnuts that “the hour is good
When noble man weds noblest woman-hood.”
My father's terrace-garden o'er the flood,
Where once a bride and bridegroom-poet stood,
And heard in June-tide air the marriage bell
Ring thro' the walnuts that “the hour is good
When noble man weds noblest woman-hood.”
14
There now perchance in thought slow moveth one
Pale and in pain: she hears another sound,
Her eyes for sorrow cannot leave the ground,
The gentlest wife that ever bore a son,
Who once for Love and Life, went gaily-gowned,
And now, for Death, with weeds is wrapt around.
Pale and in pain: she hears another sound,
Her eyes for sorrow cannot leave the ground,
The gentlest wife that ever bore a son,
Who once for Love and Life, went gaily-gowned,
And now, for Death, with weeds is wrapt around.
Then to the church close-bosomed in the chine,
Where moves and moans the silver Severn sea,
I turn. I feel thy spirit, joyous, free;
There lies the heart, once lost, now wholly thine,
Of whose true wards thy music held the key;
There men who mourn shall surely meet with thee.
Where moves and moans the silver Severn sea,
I turn. I feel thy spirit, joyous, free;
There lies the heart, once lost, now wholly thine,
Of whose true wards thy music held the key;
There men who mourn shall surely meet with thee.
15
Somersby.
Here was the haunt of those three nightingales,
Whose voices soothed an England of unrest
Thro' changeful seasons. From the circling crest
Of yonder hill they saw the far-off sails
Shine as great Hingvar's shone. The viking tales
Of that fierce worm that all the wold possest
Rang in their ears, and knights that dared their best
Knelt in near churches clad with chain and scales.
Whose voices soothed an England of unrest
Thro' changeful seasons. From the circling crest
Of yonder hill they saw the far-off sails
Shine as great Hingvar's shone. The viking tales
Of that fierce worm that all the wold possest
Rang in their ears, and knights that dared their best
Knelt in near churches clad with chain and scales.
And here they mixed with peasants, learned the lore
Of peaceful men who tend the flock and wain,
Here, book in hand, they wandered thro' the grove,
But most they loved beside the beck to rove,
The brook that murmured prose toward the plain,
But, since they sang, sings on for evermore.
Of peaceful men who tend the flock and wain,
Here, book in hand, they wandered thro' the grove,
But most they loved beside the beck to rove,
The brook that murmured prose toward the plain,
But, since they sang, sings on for evermore.
Hingvar and Hubba's invasion peopled this part of Lincolnshire with Danes, A.D. 866.
The Dragon of ‘Walmsgate’ or ‘Ormsby,’ a village near Somersby, was fabled to have laid waste the neighbouring wold.
It is still remembered in the village how the young boy Tennysons were nearly always seen with a book in their hands as they wandered down the Somersby lanes.
16
Clevedon.
He missed the fresh, salt, eastern airs that blow,
The mills that whirl their white arms in the wind;
His father's ashes he had left, to find
Love's heart inurned where Severn's waters flow.
Here in the marsh the hollow reeds might grow
For sound to suit the sorrow of his mind;
But grief needs friendly ears to keep it kind,
And his beloved unheeding lies below.
The mills that whirl their white arms in the wind;
His father's ashes he had left, to find
Love's heart inurned where Severn's waters flow.
Here in the marsh the hollow reeds might grow
For sound to suit the sorrow of his mind;
But grief needs friendly ears to keep it kind,
And his beloved unheeding lies below.
Then to sad eyes thy cottage gave reproof—
Thy cottage, Coleridge, by the western sea,
Its simple chimneys and its gable-end;
For he remembered there his chamber-roof,
Hid in the poplar shade of Somersby!
And the lone poet found in thee a friend.
Thy cottage, Coleridge, by the western sea,
Its simple chimneys and its gable-end;
For he remembered there his chamber-roof,
Hid in the poplar shade of Somersby!
And the lone poet found in thee a friend.
The roof of Coleridge's cottage reminded me of the roof of Somersby Rectory described in In Memoriam, ci. The two brothers wrote much of their earliest poetry in the little garret chamber at the northern gable-end of the Lincolnshire parsonage.
“The poplars four that stand beside my father's door” alas! now only whisper in the Laureate's song.
17
Farringford.
1883.
This is the Poet's home, from east to west
A silver amulet, the Solent shines,
To guard him, where he sees in stately lines
The white-winged vessels pass, for toil or rest.
No ruder sound has his fine ear distrest
Than rippling ilex, and the sigh of pines
When south winds sweep with clamour up the chines,
And waves leap high on milk-white Watcomb's breast.
A silver amulet, the Solent shines,
To guard him, where he sees in stately lines
The white-winged vessels pass, for toil or rest.
No ruder sound has his fine ear distrest
Than rippling ilex, and the sigh of pines
When south winds sweep with clamour up the chines,
And waves leap high on milk-white Watcomb's breast.
But if at all he leave his song's retreat,
The cypress bowers, the labyrinthine maze,
To climb the hushed, companionable Down,
And seaward at the Beacon's height to gaze,
He hears the ocean like his great heart beat,
And to its rhythmic cadence times his own.
The cypress bowers, the labyrinthine maze,
To climb the hushed, companionable Down,
And seaward at the Beacon's height to gaze,
He hears the ocean like his great heart beat,
And to its rhythmic cadence times his own.
18
On Leaving Farringford.
1883.
You waved your hand, I could not say farewell,
For those last words, “My time can not be long,”
Took speech away. Great Leader of our song,
Time cannot touch the thought-built citadel
Wherein thou sittest throned! What sovereign spell,
If thy voice ceases, what prevailing tongue,
Can tune earth's discords, show us right from wrong
And light the darkening years wherein we dwell?
For those last words, “My time can not be long,”
Took speech away. Great Leader of our song,
Time cannot touch the thought-built citadel
Wherein thou sittest throned! What sovereign spell,
If thy voice ceases, what prevailing tongue,
Can tune earth's discords, show us right from wrong
And light the darkening years wherein we dwell?
But if the dread, inevitable hour
Comes near, and now the music of thy mind
Is fit for angels' high intelligence,
Yet take thy harp, leave one last strain behind,
To bid us guide the world's advancing power
Up steps of change, with slow-foot reverence.
Comes near, and now the music of thy mind
Is fit for angels' high intelligence,
Yet take thy harp, leave one last strain behind,
To bid us guide the world's advancing power
Up steps of change, with slow-foot reverence.
19
To Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
JANUARY 18TH, 1884.
New Lord of England, but old lord of song,
Voice to the realm, in council of our peers
Long present, peerless, for these many years
Thy muse in her nobility was strong
To sit high-throned above earth's common throng,
Thy helm such laurels as a poet wears,
Thy sword a pen that knew not any fears,
Weapon for lordly right against the wrong.
Voice to the realm, in council of our peers
Long present, peerless, for these many years
Thy muse in her nobility was strong
To sit high-throned above earth's common throng,
Thy helm such laurels as a poet wears,
Thy sword a pen that knew not any fears,
Weapon for lordly right against the wrong.
And if no children's children in thy hall,
Pointing to broken lance and battered shield,
Shall say, “These arms the first great Baron wore!”
Thy verse, that fired our deeds by flood and field,
That gave us back the chivalry of yore,
Will sound like clarions on our country's wall.
Pointing to broken lance and battered shield,
Shall say, “These arms the first great Baron wore!”
Thy verse, that fired our deeds by flood and field,
That gave us back the chivalry of yore,
Will sound like clarions on our country's wall.
20
To Lord Tennyson.
ON HIS 80TH BIRTHDAY, AUGUST 6TH, 1889.
The four-score years that blanch the heads of men
Touch not the immortals, and we bring to-day
No flowers to twine with laurel and with bay,
Seeing the spring is with thee now, as when
Above the wold and marsh and mellowing fen
Thy song bade England listen. Powers decay,
Hands fail, and eyes, tongues scarce their will can say,
But still Heaven's fire burns in thy hollow pen.
Touch not the immortals, and we bring to-day
No flowers to twine with laurel and with bay,
Seeing the spring is with thee now, as when
Above the wold and marsh and mellowing fen
Thy song bade England listen. Powers decay,
Hands fail, and eyes, tongues scarce their will can say,
But still Heaven's fire burns in thy hollow pen.
Oh, singer of the knightly days of old!
Oh, ringer of the knell to lust and hate!
Oh, bringer of new hope from memory's shrine!
When God doth set in Heaven thy harp of gold,
The souls that made this generation great
Shall own, The voice that nerved their hearts was thine.
Oh, ringer of the knell to lust and hate!
Oh, bringer of new hope from memory's shrine!
When God doth set in Heaven thy harp of gold,
The souls that made this generation great
Shall own, The voice that nerved their hearts was thine.
21
A Story from the “Arabian Nights.”
1889.
To one, a Chief Physician in the land,
Nasr-ed-Din the Persian, King of Kings,
Sends greeting; bids when dawn to-morrow brings,
The great Hhâkeem shall kneel to kiss his hand.
To whom the Chief Physician: “Sire, command
Aught else, to-morrow's haste with plumy wings
Bears me to one, our Laureate Lord, who sings
For in his presence I am sworn to stand.”
Nasr-ed-Din the Persian, King of Kings,
Sends greeting; bids when dawn to-morrow brings,
The great Hhâkeem shall kneel to kiss his hand.
To whom the Chief Physician: “Sire, command
Aught else, to-morrow's haste with plumy wings
Bears me to one, our Laureate Lord, who sings
For in his presence I am sworn to stand.”
Whereat waxed wroth the Shah; then spake his page:—
“Nay! hath not music mightier realms than thine?
The singer's rule about the world doth run,
The Bard is King of Kings by right divine.”
“Well spoken, boy, give the Hhâkeem his wage,
Salute him, Knight of Lion and of Sun.”
“Nay! hath not music mightier realms than thine?
The singer's rule about the world doth run,
The Bard is King of Kings by right divine.”
“Well spoken, boy, give the Hhâkeem his wage,
Salute him, Knight of Lion and of Sun.”
The Shah when last in England summoned Sir Andrew Clark to an audience; but as he had promised his friend Lord Tennyson, who was somewhat ailing, that he would go down to Aldworth that day, he did not comply with the Shah's request. The Shah was disappointed; but when he learned that Sir Andrew Clark's absence had been caused by his attendance on his old friend the poet, he gave him, by way of signal honour, the decoration of the “Lion and the Sun.” The sonnet is based on the story as sent me by the Laureate.
22
A Farewell to the “Sunbeam.”
1889.
We watched the ship from speck to phantom grow,
From phantom to its three fair towers of sail,
Then o'er the Solent's tide of silver pale
We saw the sunset flash upon thy bow.
The whole air sang, waves sang as we did row,
We heard from land the far-off nightingale,
But clear above all music an “All hail!”
Broke o'er us as we neared the golden prow.
From phantom to its three fair towers of sail,
Then o'er the Solent's tide of silver pale
We saw the sunset flash upon thy bow.
The whole air sang, waves sang as we did row,
We heard from land the far-off nightingale,
But clear above all music an “All hail!”
Broke o'er us as we neared the golden prow.
Farewell! no Syrens shall thy keel perplex,
No need of thongs thy pilot safe to bind
From death in Scylla's song-enchanted seas;
For one full-voiced as old Mæonides
And skilled as Orpheus, walks the shining decks,
Whose spell shall charm the deeps and woo the wind.
No need of thongs thy pilot safe to bind
From death in Scylla's song-enchanted seas;
For one full-voiced as old Mæonides
And skilled as Orpheus, walks the shining decks,
Whose spell shall charm the deeps and woo the wind.
23
On hearing Lord Tennyson read his Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington.
Great builder of this monument of sound
To him whose praise shall never cease to be,
As long as hearts beat fast for victory,
Or laurels grow on any English ground!—
Oh! how my heart and how mine ears were bound,
Hearing the boom of that articulate sea
Which, wave on wave of wondrous melody,
Flowed in from deeps of gratefulness profound!
To him whose praise shall never cease to be,
As long as hearts beat fast for victory,
Or laurels grow on any English ground!—
Oh! how my heart and how mine ears were bound,
Hearing the boom of that articulate sea
Which, wave on wave of wondrous melody,
Flowed in from deeps of gratefulness profound!
The sands may chafe old Chephren's pyramid,
The Colosseum crumble and decay,
Yea, even the Dome that shows the golden cross
Sink with its whisper of a nation's loss—
And the world-victor's victor's tomb be hid—
But this sonorous cenotaph shall stay.
The Colosseum crumble and decay,
Yea, even the Dome that shows the golden cross
Sink with its whisper of a nation's loss—
And the world-victor's victor's tomb be hid—
But this sonorous cenotaph shall stay.
24
After the Epilogue to the Charge of the Heavy Brigade.
When thrushes called between the day and night,
And you clomb up the down toward the stars,
My heart went with you, for the thoughtful bars
Of that last music had possessed me quite.
True seer, I cried, you have delivered right
The only message that, to heal our scars,
Unriddling these dread necessary wars,
Can crown with song the soldier's deed of might.
And you clomb up the down toward the stars,
My heart went with you, for the thoughtful bars
Of that last music had possessed me quite.
True seer, I cried, you have delivered right
The only message that, to heal our scars,
Unriddling these dread necessary wars,
Can crown with song the soldier's deed of might.
For till these bastions crumble with the frost,
Or earth shall meet the sun and melt in fire,
Some new-won land shall court the jealous eye,
Some voice shall startle lust and tyranny,
Some heart refuse to own the battle lost,
Some patriot find in death his soul's desire.
Or earth shall meet the sun and melt in fire,
Some new-won land shall court the jealous eye,
Some voice shall startle lust and tyranny,
Some heart refuse to own the battle lost,
Some patriot find in death his soul's desire.
25
Death and Fame.
1890.
From Lym to Yar I crossed the Solent flood,
And sought the village nestling 'neath the Down
Where you, whom more than four-score summers crown,
Sing from the solemn shelter of your wood.
Once more beside your cedar-tree I stood,
Climbed the grey ridge, and saw the distance frown
And flash to silver, heard the long wave thrown
In music on your island solitude.
And sought the village nestling 'neath the Down
Where you, whom more than four-score summers crown,
Sing from the solemn shelter of your wood.
Once more beside your cedar-tree I stood,
Climbed the grey ridge, and saw the distance frown
And flash to silver, heard the long wave thrown
In music on your island solitude.
We talked of those old foemen, Death and Fame,
And you, you told me how a letter came
Wherein a young girl summoned heart to say—
“Tell him I read his poems, and I rise
Ever with will to be more good, more wise.”
You sighed, Death vanished, only Fame could stay.
And you, you told me how a letter came
Wherein a young girl summoned heart to say—
“Tell him I read his poems, and I rise
Ever with will to be more good, more wise.”
You sighed, Death vanished, only Fame could stay.
26
“I have Opened the Book.”
AT ALDWORTH, OCTOBER 5TH, 1892.
Yea, thou hast opened book on book, who now,
While the mist gathers ere the light breaks in,
Dost open this. For from thy books we win
How life and love lead upward, blest but slow;
How knowledge humbleth, lifting up the low;
How Reverence is of Heaven; Pride,—earth and sin;
How self is weakness, to the brute akin,
And self-restraint such strength as angels know.
While the mist gathers ere the light breaks in,
Dost open this. For from thy books we win
How life and love lead upward, blest but slow;
How knowledge humbleth, lifting up the low;
How Reverence is of Heaven; Pride,—earth and sin;
How self is weakness, to the brute akin,
And self-restraint such strength as angels know.
And thou hast opened now that other Book
Whereof through life, with longings manifold,
Thy soul did yearn: therein thou readest clear
The names of friend and son, so lost, so dear;
Yea, and therein all living ones that look
Shall find thine own, immortal, writ in gold.
Whereof through life, with longings manifold,
Thy soul did yearn: therein thou readest clear
The names of friend and son, so lost, so dear;
Yea, and therein all living ones that look
Shall find thine own, immortal, writ in gold.
The present Lord Tennyson, in a letter to Sir Arthur Hodgson, of Stratford-on-Avon, says:—
“My father was reading King Lear, Troilus and Cressida, and Cymbeline through the last days of his life. On Wednesday he asked for Shakespeare. I gave him the book, but said—‘You must not try to read.’ He answered, ‘I have opened the book.’ I looked at the book at midnight, when I was sitting by him lying dead, on Thursday, and found he had opened it on one of the passages which he called the tenderest in Shakespeare.”
27
The Poet's Death-Chamber.
October 6th, 1892.
“There were no lights in the room, but the moon's rays
streamed in through the oriel window, and lighted up the face
and form of the dying Poet.”
Not in the bright, unsolitary noon,
When all the air with life and music rings,
Came the great hush of those archangel wings,
That gave the singer peace and endless boon;
But rather at the midnight hour of swoon
When Sleep, Death's prophet, unto nature brings
Surcease of sense and outward communings
Beneath that world of loneliness the moon.
When all the air with life and music rings,
Came the great hush of those archangel wings,
That gave the singer peace and endless boon;
But rather at the midnight hour of swoon
When Sleep, Death's prophet, unto nature brings
Surcease of sense and outward communings
Beneath that world of loneliness the moon.
And so he grew to marble—he who made
In hearts of stone the generous life-blood run,
But o'er him dead, Death's planet wheeling slow
Flung down such splendour through the awful shade,
As bade us feel his soul was with the Sun
And needed Death to give us back the glow.
In hearts of stone the generous life-blood run,
But o'er him dead, Death's planet wheeling slow
Flung down such splendour through the awful shade,
As bade us feel his soul was with the Sun
And needed Death to give us back the glow.
28
The Laureate Dead.
October 6th, 1892.
The laurels fall from off as high a brow
As since our Shakespeare wore the poet-bays;
Who breathed Sicilian music thro' his lays,
And felt great Homer's resonant ebb and flow,
Who knew all art of word that man may know,
And led us on by love's undying ways,
Who gave us back the old Arthurian days,
Latest of Laureates, Tennyson, lies low.
As since our Shakespeare wore the poet-bays;
Who breathed Sicilian music thro' his lays,
And felt great Homer's resonant ebb and flow,
Who knew all art of word that man may know,
And led us on by love's undying ways,
Who gave us back the old Arthurian days,
Latest of Laureates, Tennyson, lies low.
Our golden age is shorter, and the spheres
That sooner wane may swiftlier wax to prime,
But when shall sing another as he sung,
Who wrought with Saxon purity of tongue
The one great Epic of two hundred years,
The one Memorial utterance for all time?
That sooner wane may swiftlier wax to prime,
But when shall sing another as he sung,
Who wrought with Saxon purity of tongue
The one great Epic of two hundred years,
The one Memorial utterance for all time?
29
Tennyson's Home-Going.
October 11th, 1892.
Bear him by quiet wood and silent down,
And let the first gold leafage on him fall,
His leaf of Life fell golden. Let the pall
Be strewn with English roses, and the crown
Of gold and laurel on his bier be shown.
For now the laurel fades beyond recall
The rose of song lies shattered; in the hall
Of Heaven, he wears that wreath he made his own.
And let the first gold leafage on him fall,
His leaf of Life fell golden. Let the pall
Be strewn with English roses, and the crown
Of gold and laurel on his bier be shown.
For now the laurel fades beyond recall
The rose of song lies shattered; in the hall
Of Heaven, he wears that wreath he made his own.
Yea! bear him from the fair fields of his love
To that old abbey of the Faithful King;
The roaring streets, that felt thro' all their roar
His psalm of peace, shall never wake him more;
And leave him there where Chaucer's heart shall move
For joy to greet the brother whom ye bring.
To that old abbey of the Faithful King;
The roaring streets, that felt thro' all their roar
His psalm of peace, shall never wake him more;
And leave him there where Chaucer's heart shall move
For joy to greet the brother whom ye bring.
30
Leaving Aldworth.
October 11th, 1892.
When from his laurel grove, reluctant, slow,
To his far rest we bore the Poet dead,
One star alone in Heaven its radiance shed,
So lingered long our sad day's after-glow;
But when we neared that twilit town below,
A thousand stars our mute procession led:
The “Lyre” shone bright, the “Swan” flew overhead
And high on Hindhead, level stood the “Plow.”
To his far rest we bore the Poet dead,
One star alone in Heaven its radiance shed,
So lingered long our sad day's after-glow;
But when we neared that twilit town below,
A thousand stars our mute procession led:
The “Lyre” shone bright, the “Swan” flew overhead
And high on Hindhead, level stood the “Plow.”
A thousand suns that from the dawn had gleamed
Above his sleep, but waited eventide
To show their lamps and light the Poet home:
A thousand worlds from which full glory streamed,
To give us hope that though the dark had come,
His star of song should brighten and abide.
Above his sleep, but waited eventide
To show their lamps and light the Poet home:
A thousand worlds from which full glory streamed,
To give us hope that though the dark had come,
His star of song should brighten and abide.
31
The Two Poets.
“Admiringly, affectionately yours,”
So wrote his brother bard upon the day
When eighty years of life had rolled away
And blessed us from the stream that still outpours
Of harmony for England's harsher hours.
“That I have loved you dearly let this say,
Secure your glorious song on earth will stay
When your high soul shall seek the Heavenly bowers.”
So wrote his brother bard upon the day
When eighty years of life had rolled away
And blessed us from the stream that still outpours
Of harmony for England's harsher hours.
“That I have loved you dearly let this say,
Secure your glorious song on earth will stay
When your high soul shall seek the Heavenly bowers.”
Now his high soul has won the heavenly place,
He who from out cool shadow saw the heat
Of earth's endeavour, sees from sunnier height
The covering cast on all the nation's face,
And, from his unassailable retreat,
He feels far off ‘our wonder, our delight.’
He who from out cool shadow saw the heat
Of earth's endeavour, sees from sunnier height
The covering cast on all the nation's face,
And, from his unassailable retreat,
He feels far off ‘our wonder, our delight.’
“29 De Vere Gardens, W., August 5, 1889.
“My dear Tennyson,—To-morrow is your birthday—indeed, a memorable one. Let me say I associate myself with the universal pride of our country in your glory, and in its hope that for many and many a year we may have your very self among us—secure that your poetry will be a wonder and delight to all those appointed to come after. And for my own part, let me further say, I have loved you dearly. May God bless you and yours.
“At no moment from first to last of my acquaintance with your works, or friendship with yourself, have I had any other feeling, expressed or kept silent, than this which an opportunity allows me to utter—that I am, and ever shall be, my dear Tennyson, admiringly and affectionately yours,
“Robert Browning.”32
Christmas without the Laureate.
1892.
The organ peals, the white-robed chorus tells,
That tale the shepherds heard their flocks among,
When open wide the gates of Heaven were flung,
Where Bethlehem's village from her plain upswells.
Yet ah! one voice has failed! Our old church bells
Give back an echo of the songs he sung,
But sadness sounds in every silver tongue
That sends this Christmas message up the Fells.
That tale the shepherds heard their flocks among,
When open wide the gates of Heaven were flung,
Where Bethlehem's village from her plain upswells.
Yet ah! one voice has failed! Our old church bells
Give back an echo of the songs he sung,
But sadness sounds in every silver tongue
That sends this Christmas message up the Fells.
For he who knew indeed the Word was God,
Who felt the Faith that sought the Holy Grail,
Who set a lamp of Duty in the mist,
Who smote the beast in man with iron rod,
And sang two generations back to Christ,
Sings now more sweetly—but behind the veil.
Who felt the Faith that sought the Holy Grail,
Who set a lamp of Duty in the mist,
Who smote the beast in man with iron rod,
And sang two generations back to Christ,
Sings now more sweetly—but behind the veil.
33
Charles Tennyson Turner.
APRIL 25, 1879.
Maker of songs most simple and most sweet,
With artlessness that only art commands,
Thy notes are hushed, the lute has slipped thy hands,
And lies still echoing with thy heart's last beat,
Full tuned and fit for service, at thy feet.
But whoso dares to wake its tender strands
Must know the touch a humble soul demands,
And eyes of love that lowliest things will greet.
With artlessness that only art commands,
Thy notes are hushed, the lute has slipped thy hands,
And lies still echoing with thy heart's last beat,
Full tuned and fit for service, at thy feet.
But whoso dares to wake its tender strands
Must know the touch a humble soul demands,
And eyes of love that lowliest things will greet.
In thee the dumb creation found a voice;
Though fenced and fine thy music's dainty sphere,
No wings that flashed but did thy song rejoice,
No hedge-row cry but found a listening ear;
Child-hearted thou, by nature as by choice,
True Christian Poet! blameless Sonneteer!
Though fenced and fine thy music's dainty sphere,
No wings that flashed but did thy song rejoice,
No hedge-row cry but found a listening ear;
Child-hearted thou, by nature as by choice,
True Christian Poet! blameless Sonneteer!
34
At Mablethorpe;
AN EPISODE IN THE PUBLICATION OF THE “POEMS BY TWO BROTHERS.”
1827.
That evening's sun set rosy o'er the wold,
A burnished shield the level marsh-land lay;
Tall reeds in wonder whispered all the way
As towards the sea their car of triumph rolled;
The whirling mills with voices manifold
Tossed up their arms to cheer; the churches grey—
The lonely churches where the marsh-men pray—
Breathed forth a blessing on the venture bold.
A burnished shield the level marsh-land lay;
Tall reeds in wonder whispered all the way
As towards the sea their car of triumph rolled;
The whirling mills with voices manifold
Tossed up their arms to cheer; the churches grey—
The lonely churches where the marsh-men pray—
Breathed forth a blessing on the venture bold.
Thou far retiring ocean, o'er what sands
Of rippled silver glistening to the stars
Didst thou entice those happy brothers' feet;
With what a rhythm didst thou clap thy hands,
And rear thyself above the shelving bars,
And pause, and fall, their music to repeat!
Of rippled silver glistening to the stars
Didst thou entice those happy brothers' feet;
With what a rhythm didst thou clap thy hands,
And rear thyself above the shelving bars,
And pause, and fall, their music to repeat!
I am indebted to the late Charles Tennyson Turner for this reminiscence. On the afternoon of the appearance of their joint first volume of poems Lord Tennyson and his elder brother took carriage, and, driving across the marsh to Mablethorpe, shared their natural triumph with the waves and winds of the wild eastern shore, and came back with shout and song late at night to the moonlit streets of the little market town of Louth.
The late Lord Tennyson, referring to this sonnet, said he had no recollection of the fact which is the motive of it; but it is fair to his elder brother to reassert that he described the incident as clear in his memory, and that the sonnet was written with his narrative fresh in the writer's ears.
35
To a Portrait of the Mother of the Poets.
GRASBY VICARAGE, 1873.
Sweet mother of the many nightingales,
Who in a northern land that seldom heard
The passionate warbling of the Attic bird,
Poured out on Lincoln wolds and Lincoln dales
Such song as never with the season fails,
In Spring, or when the wheat to shade is stirred,
Or when by wintry winds the mills are whirred,
Or breathless Autumn stays their shining sails.
Who in a northern land that seldom heard
The passionate warbling of the Attic bird,
Poured out on Lincoln wolds and Lincoln dales
Such song as never with the season fails,
In Spring, or when the wheat to shade is stirred,
Or when by wintry winds the mills are whirred,
Or breathless Autumn stays their shining sails.
Sweet mother of that swarthy brotherhood,
Tho' all the world should swear their southern race,
And one still sings of those far Grecian isles,
The wilding rose that in thy bosom smiles,
No surelier drew from English earth its blood
To fill our English June with joy and grace.
Tho' all the world should swear their southern race,
And one still sings of those far Grecian isles,
The wilding rose that in thy bosom smiles,
No surelier drew from English earth its blood
To fill our English June with joy and grace.
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