TENNYSON. TO MEMORY. "Written very early in life," but published in "Poems, chiefly Lyrical," in 1830. I. HOU who stealest fire, THOU From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Thou dewy dawn of memory. II. Come not as thou camest of late, Flinging the gloom of yesternight On the white day; but robed in soften'd light Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd, Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, The black earth with brilliance rare. III. Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, And with the evening cloud, Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind Never grow sere, When rooted in the garden of the mind, In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Tho' deep not fathomless, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. Small thought was there of life's distress; For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres, O strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of memory. IV. Come forth, I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory! Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall Which ever sounds and shines A pillar of white light upon the wall Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, The seven elms, the poplars four That stand beside my father's door, And chiefly from the brook that loves To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand, Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland. Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat When the first matin-song hath waken'd loud What time the amber morn Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. V. Large dowries doth the raptured eye To the young spirit present When first she is wed; And like a bride of old In triumph led, With music and sweet showers Of festal flowers, Unto the dwelling she must sway. With royal frame-work of wrought gold; Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, And foremost in thy various gallery Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls For the discovery And newness of thine art so pleased thee, That all which thou hast drawn of fairest Or boldest since, but lightly weighs With thee unto the love thou bearest The first-born of thy genius. Ever retiring thou dost gaze Artist-like, On the prime labour of thine early days: No matter what the sketch might be; Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, Or even a sand-built ridge Of heaped hills that mound the sea, Overblown with murmurs harsh, Or even a lowly cottage whence we see Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, Where from the frequent bridge, Like emblems of infinity, The trenched waters run from sky to sky; Or a garden bower'd close With plaited alleys of the trailing rose, Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, Or opening upon level plots Of crowned lilies, standing near Purple-spiked lavender: Whither in after life retired From brawling torms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy re-inspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind, |