Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  His frozen hand each pulse is stealing;

  Yet still I do not fear!

  There is a hope — not frail as that

  Which rests on human things —

  The hope of an immortal state,

  And with the King of kings!

  And ye may gaze upon my brow,

  Which is not sad, tho’ pale;

  These hope-illumined features show

  But little to bewail.

  Death should not chase the wonted bloom

  From off the Christian’s face;

  Ill prelude of the bliss to come,

  Prepared by heavenly grace.

  Lament no more — no longer weep

  That I depart from men;

  Brief is the intermediate sleep,

  And bliss awaits me then!

  THOSE WORLDLY GOODS THAT, DISTANT, SEEM.

  THOSE worldly goods that, distant, seem

  With every joy and bliss to teem,

  Are spurn’d as trivial when possess’d,

  And, when acquired, delight us least:

  As torrent-rainbows, which appear

  Still dwindling as we still draw near;

  And yet contracting on the eye,

  Till the bright circling colours die.

  HOW GAYLY SINKS THE GORGEOUS SUN WITHIN HIS GOLDEN BED.

  “Tu fais naitre la lumière

  Du sein de l’obscurité.” — ROUSSEAU.

  How gayly sinks the gorgeous sun within his golden bed,

  As heaven’s immortal azure glows and deepens into red!

  How gayly shines the burnish’d main beneath that living light,

  And trembles with his million waves magnificently bright!

  But ah! how soon that orb of day must close his burning eye,

  And night, in sable pall array’d, involve yon lovely sky!

  E’en thus in life our fairest scenes are preludes to our woe;

  For fleeting as that glorious beam is happiness below.

  But what? though evil fates may frown upon our mortal birth,

  Yet Hope shall be the star that lights our night of grief on earth:

  And she shall point to sweeter morns, when brighter suns shall rise,

  And spread the radiance of their rays o’er earth, and sea, and skies!

  OH! YE WILD WINDS, THAT ROAR AND RAVE.

  “It is the great army of the dead returning on the northern blast.”

  Song of the Five Bards in Ossian.

  OH! ye wild winds, that roar and rave

  Around the headland’s stormy brow,

  That toss and heave the Baltic wave,

  And bid the sounding forest bow,

  Whence is your course? and do ye bear

  The sigh of other worlds along,

  When through the dark immense of air

  Ye rush in tempests loud and strong?

  Methinks, upon your moaning course

  I hear the army of the dead;

  Each on his own invisible horse,

  Triumphing in his trackless tread.

  For when the moon conceals her ray,

  And midnight spreads her darkest veil,

  Borne on the air, and far away,

  Upon the eddying blasts they sail.

  Then, then their thin and feeble bands

  Along the echoing winds are roll’d;

  The bodiless tribes of other lands!

  The formless, misty sons of old!”

  And then at times their wailings rise,

  The shrilly wailings of the grave!

  And mingle with the madden’d skies,

  The rush of wind, and roar of wave.

  Heard you that sound? It was the hum

  Of the innumerable host,

  As down the northern sky they come,

  Lamenting o’er their glories lost.

  Now for a space each shadowy king,

  Who sway’d of old some mighty realm,

  Mounts on the tempest’s squally wing,

  And grimly frowns thro’ barréd helm.

  Now each dim ghost, with awful yells,

  Uprears on high his cloudy form;

  And with his feeble accent swells

  The hundred voices of the storm.

  Why leave ye thus the narrow cell,

  Ye lords of night and anarchy!

  Your robes the vapours of the dell,

  Your swords the meteors of the sky?

  Your bones are whitening on the heath;

  Your fame is in the minds of men:

  And would ye break the sleep of death,

  That ye might live to war again?

  SWITZERLAND.

  “Tous les objets de mon amour,

  Nos clairs ruisseaux,

  Nos hameaux,

  Nos coteaux,

  Nos montagnes?” — Ranz des Vâches.

  WITH Memory’s eye,

  Thou land of joy!

  I view thy cliffs once more;

  And tho’ thy plains

  Red slaughter stains,

  ‘Tis Freedom’s blessed gore.

  Thy woody dells,

  And shadowy fells,

  Exceed a monarch’s halls;

  Thy pine-clad hills,

  And gushing rills,

  And foaming water-falls.

  The Gallic foe

  Has work’d thee woe,

  But trumpet never scared thee;

  How could he think

  That thou wouldst shrink,

  With all thy rocks to guard thee?

  E’en now the Gaul,

  That wrought thy fall,.

  At his own triumph wonders;

  So long the strife

  For death and life,

  So loud our rival thunders!

  Oh! when shall Time

  Avenge the crime,

  And to our rights restore us?

  And bid the Seine

  Be choked with slain,

  And Paris quake before us?

  A GLANCE.

  LADY! you threw a glance at me,

  I knew its meaning well;

  He who has loved, and only he,

  Its mysteries can tell:

  That hieroglyphic of the brain,

  Which none but Cupid’s priests explain.

  BABYLON.

  “Come down, and sit in the dust, O virgin daughter of Babylon, sit on the ground: there is no throne.” — Isaiah xlvii i.

  Bow, daughter of Babylon, bow thee to dust!

  Thine heart shall be quell’d, and thy pride shall be crush’d:

  Weep, Babylon, weep! for thy splendour is past;

  And they come like the storm in the day of the blast.

  Howl, desolate Babylon, lost one and lone!

  And bind thee in sackcloth — for where is thy throne?

  Like a wine-press in wrath will I trample thee down,

  And rend from thy temples the pride of thy crown.

  Though thy streets be a hundred, thy gates be all brass,

  Yet thy proud ones of war shall be wither’d like grass;

  Thy gates shall be broken, thy strength be laid low,

  And thy streets shall resound to the shouts of the foe!

  Though thy chariots of power on thy battlements bound,

  And the grandeur of waters encompass thee round;

  Yet thy walls shall be shaken,’thy waters shall fail,

  Thy matrons shall shriek, and thy king shall be pale.

  The terrible day of thy fall is at hand,

  When my rage shall descend on the face of thy land;

  The lances are pointed, the keen sword is bared,

  The shields are anointed the helmets prepared.

  I call upon Cyrus! He comes from afar,

  And the armies of nations are gather’d to war:

  With the blood of thy children his path shall be red,

  And the bright sun of conquest shall blaze o’er his head!

  Thou glory of kingdoms! thy princes are drunk,

  But their lo
ins shall be loosed, and their hearts shall be sunk;

  They shall crouch to the dust, and be counted as slaves,

  At the roll of his wheels, like the rushing of waves!

  For I am the Lord, who have mightily spann’d

  The breadth of the heavens, and the sea and the land;

  And the mountains shall flow at my presence, and earth

  Shall reel to and fro in the glance of my wrath!

  Your proud domes of cedar on earth shall be thrown,

  And the rank grass shall wave o’er the lonely hearth-stone;

  And your sons and your sires and your daughters shall bleed

  By the barbarous hands of the murdering Mede!

  I will sweep ye away in destruction and death,

  As the whirlwind that scatters the chaff with its breath;

  And the fanes of your gods shall be sprinkled with gore,

  And the course of your stream shall be heard of no more!

  There the wandering Arab shall ne’er pitch his tent,

  But the beasts of the desert shall wail and lament;

  In their desolate houses the dragons shall lie,

  And the satyrs shall dance, and the bittern shall cry!

  OH! WERE THIS HEART OF HARDEST STEEL.

  “Vultus nimium lubricus aspici.” — HORACE.

  OH! were this heart of hardest steel,

  That steel should yield to thee;

  And tho’ naught else could make it feel,

  ‘Twould melt thy form to see:

  That eye, that cheek, that lip, possess

  Such fascinating loveliness!

  The first may claim whatever praise

  By amorous bard is paid;

  In the dark lightning of its rays

  I view thy soul portray’d:

  And in that soul what light must be,

  When it imparts so bounteously!

  Thy cheek, e’en in its humblest bloom,

  Like rich carnation glows;

  But when the mantling blushes come,

  How fades the brightest rose!

  Dead the fine hues, the beauty dead,

  And coarse the velvet of its head.

  Th’ anemone’s deep crimson dye

  Beams on thy lip’s red charm;

  Thy voice is more than harmony,

  Thy breath as sweet as balm:

  But still more balmy would it be,

  Would it but waft one sigh for me.

  To gaze on thee is ecstasy,

  Is ecstasy — but pain:

  Such is thy lip, thy cheek, thine eye,

  I gaze, and gaze again:

  Oh! might those three bright features bear

  For me a kiss — a blush — a tear!

  THE SLIGHTED LOVER.

  “Spes animi credula mutui.” — HORACE.

  I LOVED a woman, and too fondly thought

  The vows she made were constant and sincere;

  But now, alas! in agony am taught,

  That she is faithless — I no longer dear!

  Why was I frenzied when her bright black eye,

  With ray pernicious, flash’d upon my gaze?

  Why did I burn with feverish ecstasy,

  Stung with her scorn, and ravish’d with her praise?

  Would that her loveliness of form and mind

  Had only kindled friendship’s calmer glow!

  Then had I been more tranquil and resign’d,

  And her neglect had never touch’d me so.

  But with such peerless charms before his sight,

  Who would not own resistless Love’s control?

  Feel the deep thrilling of intense delight,

  And lose at once the balance of his soul?

  Such was my fate — one sole enchanting hope,

  One darling object from all else I chose:

  That hope is gone — its blighted blossoms droop;

  And where shall hopeless passion find repose?

  CEASE, RAILER, CEASE! UNTHINKING MAN.

  “Cur in amicorum vitiis tam cernis acutum,

  Quam aut aquila, aut serpens Epidaurius?” — HORACE.

  CEASE, railer, cease! unthinking man,

  Is every virtue found in thee?

  How plain another’s faults we scan,

  Our own how faintly do we see!

  So one who roves o’er marshy ground

  When evening fogs the scene obscure,

  Sees vapour hang on all things round,

  And falsely deems his station pure!

  ANACREONTIC.

  “Insanire juvat.” — Horace.

  LET others of wealth and emolument dream,

  At profits exult, and at losses repine;

  Far different my object, far different my theme —

  Warm love and frank friendship, and roses and wine!

  Let other dull clods, without fancy or fire,

  Give my dear friend of Teos a mere poet’s due;

  Discarding his morals, his fancy admire,

  I deem him a bard, and a moralist too.

  Ye sober, ye specious, ye sage, ye discreet!

  Your joys in perspective I never could brook;

  With rapture I seize on whatever is sweet,

  Real, positive, present — no further I look.

  I will not be fetter’d by maxims or duties;

  The cold charm of ethics I wholly despise:

  My hours glide along amid bottles and beauties —

  There’s nothing to match with old crust and bright eyes!

  vary my cups as his fashions the dandy,

  And one day the creatures of gin haunt my brain;

  And the next I depute the same office to brandy;

  And so on, and so on, and the same round again!

  I’m a flighty young spark — but I deem myself blest,

  And as happy a soul as my clerical brother;

  Tho’ the wish of a moment’s first half’s dispossest

  Of its sway o’er my mind, by the wish of the other.

  And thou who this wild mode of living despisest,

  Sententious and grave, of thy apophthegms boast,

  Cry shame of my nostrums; but I know who’s wisest,

  Makes the best use of life, and enjoys it the most.

  IN WINTER’S DULL AND CHEERLESS REIGN.

  “Deme supercilio nubem.” — HORACE.

  IN winter’s dull and cheerless reign,

  What flower could ever glow?

  Beneath the ice of thy disdain,

  What song could ever flow?

  Restore thy smile! — beneath its ray

  The flower of verse shall rise;

  And all the ice that froze my lay

  Be melted by thine eyes!

  SUNDAY MOBS.

  THO’ we at times amid the mob may find

  A beauteous face, with many a charm combined:

  Yet still it wants the signature of mind.

  On such a face no fine expression dwells,

  That eye no inborn dignity reveals;

  Tho’ bright its jetty orb as all may see,

  The glance is vacant — has no charms for me.

  When Sunday’s sun is sinking in the west,

  Our streets all swarm with numbers gayly drest;

  Prank’d out in ribbons, and in silks array’d,

  To catch the eyes of passing sons of trade.

  Then giggling milliners swim pertly by,

  Obliquely glancing with a roguish eye;

  With short and airy gait they trip along,

  And vulgar volubility of tongue;

  Their minds well pictured in their every tread,

  And that slight backward tossing of the head:

  But no idea, ‘faith, that harbours there,

  Is independent of a stomacher.

  Their metaphors from gowns and caps are sought,

  And stays incorporate with every thought:

  And if in passing them I can but spare

  A moment’s glance — far better t
hrown elsewhere —

  They deem my admiration caught, nor wist

  They turn it on an ancient fabulist,

  Who aptly pictured, in the jackdaw’s theft,

  These pert aspirers of their wits bereft.

  To these, as well as any under heaven,

  A well-formed set of features may be given:

  But where’s the halo? where’s the spell divine?

  And the sweet, modest, captivating mien?

  “Those tenderer tints that shun the careless eye,”

  Where are they? — far from these low groups they fly:

  Yes, far indeed! — for here you cannot trace

  The flash of intellect along the face;

  No vermeil blush e’er spreads its lovely dye,

  Herald of genuine sensibility.

  These extras, e’en in beauty’s absence, a charm;

  But when combined with beauty, how they warm!

  These are the charms that will not be withstood,

  Sure signs of generous birth and gentle blood.

  There is a something I cannot describe,

  Beyond th’ all-gaining influence of a bribe,

  Which stamps the lady in the meanest rout,

  And by its sure criterion marks her out;

  Pervades each feature, thro’ each action flows,

  And lends a charm to every thing she does;

  Which not the weeds of Irus could disguise,

  And soon detected wheresoe’er it lies.

  PHRENOLOGY.

  “Quorsum haec tam putida tendunt? “ — HORACE.

  A CURIOUS sect’s in vogue, who deem the soul

  Of man is legible upon his poll:

  Give them a squint r t yonder doctor’s pate,

  And they’ll soon tell you why he dines on plate:

  Ask why yon bustling statesman, who for years

  Has pour’d his speeches in the senate’s ears,

  Tho’ always in a politician’s sweat,

  Has hardly grasp’d the seals of office yet?

  The problem gravels me — the man’s possest

  Of talents — this his many schemes attest.

  The drawback, what? — they tell me, looking big,

  “His skull was never moulded for intrigue.”

  Whene’er a culprit has consign’d his breath,

  And proved the Scripture adage — death for death,

  With peering eyes the zealous throng appear,

  To see if murder juts behind his ear.

  So far ‘tis barely plausible — but stay!

  I — ne’er can muster brass enough to say

  That a rude lump, or bunch too prominent,

  Is a bad symbol of a vicious bent.

  But when the sages strike another key,

  Consorting things that never will agree,