Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces by Charles Tennyson |
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| IV. |
| VII. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XV. |
| XVIII. |
| XXII. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVII. |
TO ------ |
 | Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces |  |
78
TO ------
Think'st thou if spirits pure as thine
Through life might be for ever near,
I should not every fear resign,
As from my boyhood's home I steer?
Through life might be for ever near,
I should not every fear resign,
As from my boyhood's home I steer?
But 'tis not so—my heart must bleed
With thorns amid a world of guile,
Snows to my rosy clime succeed,
And cunning's cant to Virtue's smile.
With thorns amid a world of guile,
Snows to my rosy clime succeed,
And cunning's cant to Virtue's smile.
O, say, is not this mournful span
Between the cradle and the pall,
Is not this weary life of man
A scene of rude transitions all?
Between the cradle and the pall,
Is not this weary life of man
A scene of rude transitions all?
79
A mother heard our infant cries,
And folded us with fond embrace,
And when we woke, our infant eyes
Were open'd on a mother's face.
And folded us with fond embrace,
And when we woke, our infant eyes
Were open'd on a mother's face.
Our wishes she did make her own,
Her bosom fed and pillow'd too,
Answering each start or fitful moan
With trembling pulses fond and true.
Her bosom fed and pillow'd too,
Answering each start or fitful moan
With trembling pulses fond and true.
Then knowledge was a thing untaught,
Heaven's charity, a daily dole,
Stole in inaudibly, and wrought
Its gentle bonds about the soul.
Heaven's charity, a daily dole,
Stole in inaudibly, and wrought
Its gentle bonds about the soul.
80
Eftsoons our ripen'd age is thrown
Abroad with things and many men,
Perchance to mock, perchance to groan,
To cower or trample, proud or mean.
Abroad with things and many men,
Perchance to mock, perchance to groan,
To cower or trample, proud or mean.
Perchance to view each opening morn,
The beggar, Memory, lean and pale,
Still asking alms of Hope, forlorn,
Hoary and sad, and bow'd with bale.
The beggar, Memory, lean and pale,
Still asking alms of Hope, forlorn,
Hoary and sad, and bow'd with bale.
Palms line the Llano's dreary waste,
And sunset rims the saddest moor;
But all our joy is gone and past,
Our hopes can face our fears no more.
And sunset rims the saddest moor;
But all our joy is gone and past,
Our hopes can face our fears no more.
81
They ne'er return upon the track
Their absence has consign'd to gloom,
Nor usher with sweet promise back
Delicious peace, and health and bloom.
Their absence has consign'd to gloom,
Nor usher with sweet promise back
Delicious peace, and health and bloom.
But oh! if spirits pure as thine
Through life might be for ever near,
There would be scantier chance that mine
Would sink beneath the doom I fear!
Through life might be for ever near,
There would be scantier chance that mine
Would sink beneath the doom I fear!
| Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces | |