And then some other question'd if she came From foreign lands, and still she did not speak. Another, if the boy were hers: but she To all their queries answer'd not a word, Which made the amazement more, till one of them Said, shuddering, "Her spectre !" But his friend Replied, in half a whisper, "Not at least The spectre that will speak if spoken to. Terrible pity, if one so beautiful
Prove, as I almost dread to find her, dumb!"
But Julian, sitting by her, answer'd all: "She is but dumb, because in her you see That faithful servant whom we spoke about, Obedient to her second master now;
Which will not last. I have her here to-night a guest
So bound to me by common love and loss What! shall I bind him more? in his behalf, Shall I exceed the Persian, giving him That which of all things is the dearest to me, Not only showing? and he himself pronounced That my rich gift is wholly mine to give.
"Now all be dumb, and promise all of you Not to break in on what I say by word Or whisper, while I show you all my heart." And then began the story of his love As here to-day, but not so wordily- The passionate moment would not suffer that- Past thro' his visions to the burial; thence Down to this last strange hour in his own hall;
And then rose up, and with him all his guests Once more as by enchantment: all but he, Lionel, who fain had risen, but fell again, And sat as if in chains-to whom he said:
"Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife; And were it only for the giver's sake, And tho' she seem so like the one you lost, Yet cast her not away so suddenly,
Lest there be none left here to bring her back: I leave this land forever." Here he ceased.
Then taking his dear lady by one hand, And bearing on one arm the noble babe, He slowly brought them both to Lionel. And there the widower husband and dead wife Rushed each at each with a cry, that rather seem'd For some new death than for a life renew'd; At this the very babe began to wail;
At once they turned, and caught and brought him in To their charmed circle, and, half killing him With kisses, round him closed and claspt again. But Lionel, when at last he freed himself From wife and child, and lifted up a face
All over glowing with the sun of life,
And love, and boundless thanks-the sight of this So frighted our good friend, that turning to me And saying, "It is over: let us go" - There were our horses ready at the doors- We bade them no farewell, but mounting these He past forever from his native land;
And I with him, my Julian, back to mine.
PRINTED EXCLUSIVELY IN THIS EDITION.
TIMBUCTOO.*
"Deep in that lion-haunted inland lies
A mystic city, gaol of high emprise."-CHAPMAN.
I STOOD upon the Mountain which o'erlooks The narrow seas, whose rapid interval
Parts Afric from green Europe, when the Sun Had fall'n below th' Atlantic, and above
The silent heavens were blench'd with faery light, Uncertain whether faery light or cloud,
As those which starred the night o' the elder world!? Or is the rumor of thy Timbuctoo
A dream as frail as those of ancient time?"
A curve of whitening, flashing, ebbing light! A rustling of white wings! the bright descent Of a young Seraph! and he stood beside me There on the ridge, and looked into my face With his unutterable, shining orbs,
So that with hasty motion I did veil
My vision with both hands, and saw before me
Flowing Southward, and the chasms of deep, deep Such colored spots as dance athwart the eyes blue
Slumber'd unfathomable, and the stars
Were flooded over with clear glory and pale. I gazed upon the sheeny coast beyond, There where the Giant of old Time infix'd The limits of his prowess, pillars high Long time erased from earth: even as the Sea When weary of wild inroad buildeth up Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty waves. And much I mused on legends quaint and old Which whilome won the hearts of all on earth Toward their brightness, ev'n as flame draws air; But had their being in the heart of man
As air is th' life of flame: and thou wert then
A center'd glory-circled memory,
Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves
Have buried deep, and thou of later name, Imperial Eldorado, roof'd with gold:
Shadows to which, despite all shocks of change, All on-set of capricious accident,
Men clung with yearning hope which would not die. As when in some great city where the walls Shake, and the streets with ghastly faces thronged, Do utter forth a subterranean voice, Among the inner columns far retired At midnight, in the lone Acropolis, Before the awful genius of the place
Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, the while Above her head the weak lamp dips and winks Unto the fearful summoning without: Nathless she ever clasps the marble knees, Bathes the cold hand with tears, and gazeth on Those eyes which wear no light but that wherewith Her phantasy informs them.
Where are ye, Thrones of the Western wave, fair Islands green? Where are your moonlight halls, your cedarn glocms, The blossoming abysses of your hills?
Your flowering capes, and your gold-sanded bays Blown round with happy airs of odorous winds? Where are the infinite ways, which, seraph-trod, Wound through your great Elysian solitudes, Whose lowest deeps were, as with visible love, Filled with Divine effulgence, circumfused, Flowing between the clear and polished stems, And ever circling round their emerald cones In coronals and glories, such as gird
The unfading foreheads of the Saints in Heaven? For nothing visible, they say, had birth
In that blest ground, but it was played about With its peculiar glory. Then I raised
My voice and cried, "Wide Afric, doth thy Sun Lighten, thy hills enfold a city as fair
Of those that gaze upon the noonday Sun. Girt with a zone of flashing gold beneath His breast, and compassed round about his brow With triple arch of everchanging bows, And circled with the glory of living light And alternation of all hues, he stood.
"O child of man, why muse you here alone Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of old Which filled the earth with passing loveliness, Which flung strange music on the howling winds, And odors rapt from remote Paradise? Thy sense is clogged with dull mortality: Open thine eyes and see."
Upon his face, for it was wonderful With its exceeding brightness, and the light Of the great Angel Mind which looked from out The starry glowing of his restless eyes.
I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit With supernatural excitation bound Within me, and my mental eye grew large With such a vast circumference of thought, That in my vanity I seemed to stand Upon the outward verge and bound alone Of full beatitude. Each failing sense, As with a momentary flash of light, Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I saw The smallest grain that dappled the dark earth, The indistinctest atom in deep air,
The Moon's white cities, and the opal width Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud, And the unsounded, undescended depth Of her black hollows. The clear galaxy Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light, Blaze within blaze, an unimagined depth And harmony of planet-girded suns And moon-encircled planets, wheel in wheel, Arched the wan sapphire. Nay-the hum of men, Or other things talking in unknown tongues, And notes of busy life in distant worlds Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear. A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling thoughts, Involving and embracing each with each, Rapid as fire, inextricably linked, Expanding momently with every sight And sound which struck the palpitating sense, The issue of strong impulse, hurried through The riven rapt brain; as when in some large lake From pressure of descendant crags, which lapse Disjointed, crumbling from their parent slope At slender interval, the level calm
* A Poem which obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Cambridge Is ridged with restless and increasing spheres
Commencement, MDCCCXXIX. By A. TENNYSON, of Trinity Col
Which break upon each other, each th' effect Of separate impulse, but more fleet and strong
Than its precursor, till the eye in vain Amid the wild unrest of swimming shade Dappled with hollow and alternate rise Of interpenetrated arc, would scan Definite round.
I know not if I shape These things with accurate similitude From visible objects, for but dimly now, Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream, The memory of that mental excellence Comes o'er me, and it may be I entwine The indecision of my present mind
With its past clearness, yet it seems to me As even then the torrent of quick thought Absorbed me from the nature of itself
With its own fleetness. Where is he, that borne Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream, Could link his shalop to the fleeting edge, And muse midway with philosophic calm Upon the wondrous laws which regulate The fierceness of the bounding element?
My thoughts which long had grovelled in the slime Of this dull world, like dusky worms which house Beneath unshaken waters, but at once Upon some earth-awakening day of Spring Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft Winnow the purple, bearing on both sides Double display of star-lit wings, which burn Fan-like and fibred with intensest bloom; Even so my thoughts erewhile so low, now felt Unutterable buoyancy and strength
To bear them upward through the trackless fields Of undefined existence far and free.
Then first within the South methought I saw
A wilderness of spires, and crystal pile
Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome, Illimitable range of battlement
On battlement, and the Imperial height Of canopy o'ercanopied.
In diamond light up spring the dazzling peaks Of Pyramids, as far surpassing earth's
As heaven than earth is fairer. Each aloft
Upon his narrowed eminence bore globes Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances
Of either, showering circular abyss
Of radiance. But the glory of the place Stood out a pillared front of burnished gold, Interminably high, if gold it were
Or metal more ethereal, and beneath
Two doors of blinding brilliance, where no gaze Might rest, stood open, and the eye could scan, Through length of porch and valve and boundless hall,
Part of a throne of fiery flame, wherefrom The snowy skirting of a garment hung, And glimpse of multitude of multitudes That ministered around it - if I saw These things distinctly, for my human brain Staggered beneath the vision, and thick night Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell.
With ministering hand he raised me up: Then with a mournful and ineffable smile, Which but to look on for a moment filled
My eyes with irresistible sweet tears,
In accents of majestic melody,
Like a swoln river's gushings in still night Mingled with floating music, thus he spake: "There is no mightier Spirit than I to sway The heart of man; and teach him to attain By shadowing forth the Unattainable;
And step by step to scale that mighty stair Whose landing-place is wrapt about with clouds Of glory of heaven.* With earliest light of Spring, And in the glow of sallow Summertide,
And in red Autumn when the winds are wild With gambols, and when full-voiced Winter roofs The headland with inviolate white snow,
I play about his heart a thousand ways, Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears With harmonies of wind and wave and wood, -Of winds which tell of waters, and of waters Betraying the close kisses of the wind- And win him unto me: and few there be So gross of heart who have not felt and known A higher than they see: they with dim eyes Behold me darkling. Lo! I have given thee To understand my presence, and to feel
My fullness: I have filled thy lips with power.
I have raised thee nigher to the spheres of heaven, Man's first, last home: and thou with ravished sense Listenest the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years. I am the Spirit, The permeating life which courseth through All th' intricate and labyrinthine veins Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspread With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters rare, Reacheth to every corner under heaven, Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth;
So that men's hopes and fears take refuge in The fragrance of its complicated glooms,
And cool impleachéd twilights. Child of man, Seest thou yon river, whose translucent wave, Forth issuing from the darkness, windeth through The argent streets o' the city, imaging The soft inversion of her tremulous domes, Her gardens frequent with the stately palm, Her pagods hung with music of sweet bells, Her obelisks of rangéd chrysolite,
Minarets and towers? Lo! how he passeth by, And gulphs himself in sands, as not enduring To carry through the world those waves, which bore The reflex of my city in their depths.
Oh city: oh latest throne! where I was raised To be a mystery of loveliness
Unto all eyes, the time is well-nigh come When I must render up this glorious home To keen Discovery; soon yon brilliant towers Shall darken with the waving of her wand; Darken and shrink and shiver into huts, Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand, Low-built, mud-walled, barbarian settlements. How changed from this fair city!"
Thus far the Spirit: Then parted heaven-ward on the wing: and I Was left alone on Calpe, and the moon Had fallen from the night, and all was dark!
"Be ye perfect, even as your father in heaven is perfect."
ELEGIACS.-THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY."
POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1830, AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS.
LOWFLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimmed in the gloming:
Thro' the blackstemmed pines only the far river shines.
Creeping through blossomy rushes and bowers of roseblowing bushes,
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly;
Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep: dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:
Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and
Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth :
Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the dark hyaline.
Lowthroned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad
Throbbing in wild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth,
Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.
Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even.
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?
I AM any man's suitor,
If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast, In time there is no present, In eternity no future,
In eternity no past.
We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, Who will riddle me the how and the why?
The bulrush nods unto its brother. The wheatears whisper to each other: What is it they say? what do they there?
Why two and two make four? why round is not square?
Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly? Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows
Why deep is not high, and high is not deep?
Whether we wake, or whether we sleep?
Whether we sleep, or whether we die?
How you are you? why I am I?
Who will riddle me the how and the why?
The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow: But what is the meaning of then and now?
I feel there is something; but how and what?
I know there is somewhat: but what and why?
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.
The little bird pipeth-"why? why?" In the summer woods when the sun falls low, And the great bird sits on the opposite bough, And stares in his face, and shouts "how? how?" And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight, And chants "how? how?" the whole of the night.
Why the life goes when the blood is spilt?
What the life is? where the soul may lie? Why a church is with a steeple built: And a house with a chimney-pot? Who will riddle me the how and the what? Who will riddle me the what and the why?
SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS
OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN UNITY WITH ITSELF.
OH GOD! my God! have mercy now.
I faint, I fall. Men say that thou Didst die for me, for such as me, Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt thy brow, Wounding thy soul. That even now, In this extremest misery
Of ignorance, I should require A sign and if a bolt of fire
Would rive the slumbrous summer noon
While I do pray to thee alone,
Think my belief would stronger grow!
Is not my human pride brought low? The boastings of my spirit still? The joy I had in my free will
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? And what is left to me, but thou, And faith in thee? Men pass me by: Christians with happy countenances- And children all seem full of thee! And women smile with saintlike glances Like thine own mother's when she bowed Above thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And thou and peace to earth were born. Goodwill to me as well as all- -I one of them: my brothers they : Brothers in Christ-a world of peace And confidence, day after day; And trust and hope till things should cease, And then one Heaven receive us all.
How sweet to have a common faith! To hold a common scorn of death! And at a burial to hear
The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,
With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!
A grief not uninformed, and dull, Hearted with hope, of hope as full As is the blood with life, or night And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. To stand beside a grave, and see The red small atoms wherewith we
SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND.
Are built, and smile in calm, and say— "These little motes and grains shall be Clothed on with immortality
More glorious than the noon of day.
All that is pass'd into the flowers, And into beasts and other men,
And all the Norland whirlwind showers From open vaults, and all the sea O'erwashes with sharp salts, again Shall fleet together all, and be Indued with immortality."
Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee! Who lets his waxen fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day, They light his little life alway;
He hath no thought of coming woe3; He hath no care of life or death, Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible IIer subtil, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Fullfills him with beatitude. Oh! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triple mailéd trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year. Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listened to thy vows, For me outpoured in holiest prayer — For me unworthy!-and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining through. Oh! wherefore do we grow awry
From roots which strike so deep? why dɛre Paths in the desert? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To th' earth-until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?
What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst reared-to brush the dow From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard? What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong, That thou, if thou wert yet alive,
In deep and daily prayers would'st strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still- "Bring this lamb back into thy fold,
My Lord, if so it be thy will." Would'st tell me I must brook the rod, And chastisement of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God! That hitherto I had defied,
And had rejected God that Grace Would drop from his o'erbrimming love,
As manna on my wilderness,
If I would pray that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness,
Would issue tears of penitence
Which would keep green hope's life. Alas! I think that pride hath now no place Or sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.
Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broadimbaséd beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain torn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland meer? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexéd pools
All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other? I am too forlorn,
Too shaken: my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.
"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunned freshness of my strength, When I went forth in quest of truth, "It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length, Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows, And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The hornéd valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summerheats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flowered furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Through his warm heart; and then, from whence He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall men live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and analyze Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one,
If one there be?" Ay me! I fear All may not doubt, but every where Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins
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