Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series Read online

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  (1809-1892)

  Contents

  The Poetry Collections

  POEMS, BY TWO BROTHERS

  TIMBUCTOO : A POEM

  POEMS, CHIEFLY LYRICAL

  POEMS, 1832

  THE LOVER’S TALE. A FRAGMENT.

  POEMS, 1842

  MISCELLANEOUS CONTRIBUTIONS TO PERIODICALS, 1831-1868

  THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY

  IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.

  MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS

  IDYLLS OF THE KING

  ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS

  BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS

  TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS

  LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC.

  DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS

  THE DEATH OF ŒNONE, AND OTHER POEMS

  The Poems

  LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Plays

  QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA

  HAROLD: A DRAMA

  BECKET

  THE CUP: A TRAGEDY

  THE FALCON

  THE PROMISE OF MAY

  THE FORESTERS: ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN

  The Biographies

  TENNYSON AND HIS FRIENDS by Hallam, Lord Tennyson

  ALFRED TENNYSON by Andrew Lang

  TENNYSON’S LIFE AND POETRY by Eugene Parsons

  © Delphi Classics 2013

  Version 1

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  By Delphi Classics, 2013

  NOTE

  When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

  The Poetry Collections

  Tennyson was born in the Rectory at Somersby, Lincolnshire.

  The birthplace c. 1900

  An artist’s impression of Tennyson’s birthplace at the time of his birth

  The famous portrait of Tennyson as a young man by Samuel Laurence, c.1840

  POEMS, BY TWO BROTHERS

  Tennyson was born in Somersby, Lincolnshire, being the fourth of twelve children. His father, George Clayton Tennyson (1778–1831), was rector of Somersby (1807–1831), as well as vicar of Grimsby. His mother, Elizabeth Fytche (1781–1865), was the daughter of Stephen Fytche (1734–1799), vicar of St. James Church, Louth (1764) and rector of Withcall (1780), a small village between Horncastle and Louth. Rev. George Clayton Tennyson was an accomplished man, successful in studies of architecture, painting, music and, more importantly, able to infuse a like-minded passion for poetry in his son. The father, who supervised his children’s education himself, was financially well-off for a country clergyman, due to his shrewd money management, providing young Alfred with a stable and happy home in his childhood.

  Tennyson and two of his elder brothers began writing poetry in their early teenage years, and a collection of poems by all three were published locally when Alfred was only 17 years old. One of those brothers, Charles Tennyson Turner later married Louisa Sellwood, the younger sister of Alfred’s future wife; the other was Frederick Tennyson.

  Tennyson entered Trinity College, Cambridge in 1827, where he met Arthur Henry Hallam, a fellow poet, who became his closest friend and had a great influence on his early poetic works. In that same year, Tennyson published his first collection of poems, which he later referred to as “ boyish rhymes”, accompanied with poems by his elder brother Charles. Poems by Two Brothers was published in 1827, with verses, mostly imitative in the fashionable style of the day, with Alfred contributing to more than half the volume.

  Louth marketplace, eleven miles from Somersby. The tall building in the center of the picture is the bookshop and printing-office of the Jackson brothers, who in 1827 printed and published the Tennyson boys’ ‘Poems by Two Brothers’.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  ADVERTISEMENT.

  STANZAS.

  IN EARLY YOUTH I LOST MY SIRE.

  MEMORY.

  YES — THERE BE SOME GAY SOULS WHO NEVER WEEP.

  HAVE YE NOT SEEN THE BUOYANT ORB?

  THE EXILE’S HARP.

  WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR THOSE WHO DIE?

  RELIGION! THO’ WE SEEM TO SPURN.

  REMORSE.

  ON GOLDEN EVENINGS, WHEN THE SUN.

  THE DELL OF E —— — .

  MY BROTHER.

  ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA.

  I WANDER IN DARKNESS AND SORROW.

  TO ONE WHOSE HOPE REPOSED ON THEE.

  THE OLD SWORD.

  THE GONDOLA.

  WE MEET NO MORE.

  BY AN EXILE OF BASSORAH.

  MARIA TO HER LUTE, THE GIFT OF HER DYING LOVER.

  THE VALE OF BONES.

  TO FANCY.

  BOYHOOD.

  DID NOT THY ROSEATE LIPS OUTVIE.

  HUNTSMAN’S SONG.

  PERSIA.

  EGYPT.

  THE DRUID’S PROPHECIES.

  LINES.

  SWISS SONG.

  THE EXPEDITION OF NADIR SHAH INTO HINDOSTAN.

  GREECE.

  THE MAID OF SAVOY.

  IGNORANCE OF MODERN EGYPT.

  MIDNIGHT.

  IN SUMMER, WHEN ALL NATURE GLOWS.

  SCOTCH SONG.

  BORNE ON LIGHT WINGS OF BUOYANT DOWN.

  SONG: IT IS THE SOLEMN EVEN-TIME.

  THE STARS OF YON BLUE PLACID SKY.

  FRIENDSHIP.

  ON THE DEATH OF MY GRANDMOTHER.

  AND ASK YE WHY THESE SAD TEARS STREAM?

  ON SUBLIMITY.

  THE DEITY.

  THE REIGN OF LOVE.

  TIS THE VOICE OF THE DEAD.

  TIME: AN ODE.

  GOD’S DENUNCIATIONS AGAINST PHARAOH-HOPHRA, OR APRIES.

  ALL JOYOUS IN THE REALMS OF DAY.

  THE BATTLE-FIELD.

  THE THUNDER-STORM.

  THE GRAVE OF A SUICIDE.

  ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

  THE WALK AT MIDNIGHT.

  MITHRIDATES PRESENTING BERENICE WITH THE CUP OF POISON.

  THE BARD’S FAREWELL.

  EPIGRAM.

  ON BEING ASKED FOR A SIMILE TO ILLUSTRATE THE ADVANTAGE OF KEEPING THE PASSIONS SUBSERVIENT TO REASON.

  EPIGRAM ON A MUSICIAN WHOSE HARP-STRINGS WERE CRACKED FROM WANT OF USING.

  THE OLD CHIEFTAIN.

  APOLLONIUS RHODIUS’S COMPLAINT.

  THE FALL OF JERUSALEM.

  LAMENTATION OF THE PERUVIANS.

  SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER.

  A SISTER, SWEET ENDEARING NAME!

  THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE DARK BLUE MAIN.

  STILL, MUTE, AND MOTIONLESS SHE LIES.

  OH! NEVER MAY FROWNS AND DISSENSION MOLEST.

  ON A DEAD ENEMY.

  LINES.

  THE DUKE OF ALVA’S OBSERVATION ON KINGS.

  AH! YES, THE LIP MAY FAINTLY SMILE.

  THOU CAMEST TO THY BOWER, MY LOVE.

  TO ——

  THE PASSIONS.

  THE HIGH-PRIEST TO ALEXANDER.

  THE DEW, WITH WHICH THE EARLY MEAD IS DREST.

  ON THE MOONLIGHT SHINING UPON A FRIEND’S GRAVE.

  A CONTRAST.

  EPIGRAM.

  THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

  THOSE WORLDLY GOODS THAT, DISTANT, SEEM.

  HOW GAYLY SINKS THE GORGEOUS SUN WITHIN HIS GOLDEN BED.

  OH! YE WILD WINDS, THAT ROAR AND RAVE.

  SWITZERLAND.

  A GLANCE.

  BABYLON.

  OH! WERE THIS HEART OF HARDEST STEEL.

  THE SLIGHTED LOVER.

  CEASE, RAILER, CEASE! UNTHINKING MAN.

  ANACREONTIC.

 
IN WINTER’S DULL AND CHEERLESS REIGN.

  SUNDAY MOBS.

  PHRENOLOGY.

  LOVE.

  TO —— —

  SONG: TO SIT BESIDE A CRYSTAL SPRING

  IMAGINATION.

  THE OAK OF THE NORTH.

  EXHORTATION TO THE GREEKS.

  KING CHARLES’S VISION.

  A sketch of Tennyson made close to the time of publication, aged 18

  POEMS, BY TWO BROTHERS.

  “Haec nos novimus esse nihil.” — MARTIAL.

  ADVERTISEMENT.

  THE following Poems were written from the ages of fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly, but individually; which may account for their difference of style and matter. To light upon any novel combination of images, or to open any vein of sparkling thought untouched before, were no easy task; indeed, the remark itself is as old as the truth is clear; and, no doubt, if submitted to the microscopic eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and imitations would result from the investigation. But so it is: we have passed the Rubicon, and we leave the rest to fate; though its edict may create a fruitless regret that we ever emerged from “ the shade,” and courted notoriety.

  March, 1827.

  ‘Tis sweet to lead from stage to stage,

  Like infancy to a maturer age,

  The fleeting thoughts that crowd quick Fancy’s view,

  And the coy image into form to woo;

  Till all its charms to life and shape awake,

  Wrought to the finest polish they can take:

  Now out of sight the crafty Proteus steals,

  The mind’s quick emissaries at his heels,

  Its nature now a partial light reveals.

  Each moment’s labour, easier than before,

  Embodies the illusive image more;

  Brings it more closely underneath the eye,

  And lends it form and palpability.

  What late in shadowy vision fleeted by,

  Receives at each essay a deepening dye;

  Till diction gives us, modell’d into song,

  The fairy phantoms of the motley throng;

  Detaining and elucidating well

  Her airy embryos with binding spell;

  For when the mind reflects its image true —

  Sees its own aim — expression must ensue;

  If all but language is supplied before,

  She quickly follows, and the task is o’er.

  Thus when the hand of pyrotechnic skill

  Has stored the spokes of the fantastic wheel,

  Apply the flame — it spreads as is design’d,

  And glides and lightens o’er the track defined -,

  Unerring on its faithful pathway burns,

  Searches each nook, and tracks its thousand turns;

  The well-fill’d tubes in flexile flame arrays,

  And fires each winding of the pregnant maze;

  Feeding on prompt materials, spurns delay,

  Till o’er the whole the lambent glories play.

  I know no joy so well deserves the name,

  None that more justly may that title claim,

  Than that of which the poet is possess’d

  When warm imagination fires his breast,

  And countless images like claimants throng,

  Prompting the ardent ecstasy of song.

  He walks his study in a dreaming mood,

  Like Pythia’s priestess panting with the god;

  His varying brow, betraying what he feels,

  The labour of his plastic mind reveals:

  Now roughly furrow’d into anxious storms,

  If with much toil his lab’ring lines he forms;

  Now brightening into triumph as, the skein

  Unravelling, he cons them o’er again,

  As each correction of his favourite piece

  Confers more smoothness, elegance, or ease.

  Such are the sweets of song — and in this age,

  Perchance too many in its lists engage;

  And they who now would fain awake the lyre,

  May swell this supernumerary choir:

  But ye, who deign to read, forget t’ apply

  The searching microscope of scrutiny:

  Few from too near inspection fail to lose,

  Distance on all a mellowing haze bestows;

  And who is not indebted to that aid

  Which throws his failures into welcome shade?

  STANZAS.

  YON star of eve, so soft and clear,

  Beams mildly from the realms of rest:

  And, sure, some deathless angel there

  Lives in its light supremely blest:

  Yet if it be a spirit’s shrine,

  I think, my love, it must be thine.

  Oh! if in happier worlds than this

  The just rejoice — to thee is giv’n

  To taste the calm, undying bliss

  Eternally in that blue heav’n,

  Whither, thine earnest soul would flow,

  While yet it linger’d here below.

  If Beauty, Wit, and Virtue find

  In heav’n a more exalted throne,

  To thee such glory is assign’d,

  And thou art matchless and alone:

  Who lived on earth so pure — may grace

  In heav’n the brightest seraph’s place.

  For tho’ on earth thy beauty’s bloom

  Blush’d in its spring, and faded then,

  And, mourning o’er thine early tomb,

  I weep thee still, but weep in vain;

  Bright was the transitory gleam

  That cheer’d thy life’s short wav’ring dream.

  Each youthful rival may confess

  Thy look, thy smile, beyond compare,

  Nor ask the palm of loveliness,

  When thou wert more than doubly fair:

  Yet ev’n the magic of that form

  Drew from thy mind its loveliest charm.

  Be thou as the immortal are,

  Who dwell beneath their God’s own wing

  A spirit of light, a living star,

  A holy and a searchless thing:

  But oh! forget not those who mourn,

  Because thou canst no more return.

  IN EARLY YOUTH I LOST MY SIRE.

  “Hinc mihi prima mali labes.” — VIRGIL.

  IN early youth I lost my sire,

  That fost’ring guide, which all require,

  But chief in youth, when passion glows,

  And, if uncheck’d, to frenzy grows,

  The fountain of a thousand woes.

  To flowers it is an hurtful thing

  To lose the sunshine in the spring;

  Without the sun they cannot bloom,

  And seldom to perfection come.

  E’en so my soul, that might have borne

  The fruits of virtue, left forlorn,

  By every blast of vice was torn.

  Why lowers my brow, dost thou enquire?

  Why burns mine eye with feverish fire?

  I With hatred now, and now with ire?

  In early youth I lost my sire.

  From this I date whatever vice

  Has numb’d my feelings into ice;

  From this — the frown upon my brow;

  From this — the pangs that rack me now.

  My wealth, I can with safety say,

  Ne’er bought me one unruffled day,

  But only wore my life away.

  The pruning-knife ne’er lopp’d a bough;

  My passions spread, and strengthen’d too.

  The chief of these was vast ambition,

  That long’d with eagle-wing to soar;

  Nor ever soften’d in contrition,

  Tho’ that wild wing were drench’d in gore.

  And other passions play’d their part

  On stage most fit — a youthful heart;

  Till far beyond all hope I fell,

  A play-thing for the fiends of hell —

  A ves
sel, tost upon a deep

  Whose stormy waves would never sleep.

  Alas! when virtue once has flown,

  We need not ask why peace is gone:

  If she at times a moment play’d

  With bright beam on my mind’s dark shade,

  I knew the rainbow soon would fade!

  Why thus it is, dost thou enquire?

  Why bleeds my breast with tortures dire?

  Loathes the rank earth, yet soars not higher?

  In early youth I lost my sire.

  MEMORY.

  “The memory is perpetually looking back when we have nothing present to entertain us: it is like those repositories in animals that are filled with stores of food on which they may ruminate when their present pasture fails.” — Addison.

  MEMORY! dear enchanter!

  Why bring back to view

  Dreams of youth, which banter

  All that e’er was true?

  Why present before me

  Thoughts of years gone by,

  Which, like shadows o’er me,

  Dim in distance fly?

  Days of youth, now shaded

  By twilight of long years,

  Flowers of youth, now faded

  Though bathed in sorrow’s tears:

  Thoughts of youth, which waken

  Mournful feelings now,

  Fruits which time hath shaken

  From off their parent bough:

  Memory! why, oh why,

  This fond heart consuming,

  Show me years gone by,

  When those hopes were blooming?

  Hopes which now are parted,

  Hopes which then I prized,

  Which this world, cold-hearted,

  Ne’er has realized?

  I knew not then its strife,

  I knew not then its rancour;

  In every rose of life,

  Alas! there lurks a canker.

  Round every palm-tree, springing

  With bright fruit in the waste,

  A mournful asp is clinging,

  Which sours it to our taste.

  O’er every fountain, pouring

  Its waters thro’ the wild,

  Which man imbibes, adoring,

  And deems it undefiled,

  The poison-shrubs are dropping

  Their dark dews day by day;

  And Care is hourly lopping

  Our greenest boughs away!

  Ah! these are thoughts that grieve me

  Then, when others rest.

  Memory! why deceive me