Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson: From 'In Memoriam' (Arthur Henry Hallam, MDCCCXXXIII)
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From 'In Memoriam' (Arthur Henry Hallam, MDCCCXXXIII)



FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore
         Sailest the placid ocean-plains
         With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn
         In vain; a favourable speed
         Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex
         Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
         As our pure love, thro' early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above;
         Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
         Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see
         Till all my widow'd race be run;
         Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.


I hear the noise about thy keel;
         I hear the bell struck in the night;
         I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
         And travell'd men from foreign lands;
         And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams:
         This look of quiet flatters thus
         Our home-bred fancies: O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,
         That takes the sunshine and the rains,
         Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells
         Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
         And hands so often clasp'd in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.


Calm is the morn without a sound,
         Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
         And only thro' the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
         And on these dews that drench the furze,
         And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain
         That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
         And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:

Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
         These leaves that redden to the fall;
         And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
         And waves that sway themselves in rest,
         And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.


To-night the winds begin to rise
         And roar from yonder dropping day:
         The last red leaf is whirl'd away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd,
         The cattle huddled on the lea;
         And wildly dash'd on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver
         That all thy motions gently pass
         Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;
         And but for fear it is not so,
         The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,
         And onward drags a labouring breast,
         And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.


Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze
         Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer
         Was as the whisper of an air
To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move
         Thro' circles of the bounding sky,
         Week after week: the days go by:
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam
         My blessing, like a line of light,
         Is on the waters day and night,
And like a beacon guards thee home.

So may whatever tempest mars
         Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;
         And balmy drops in summer dark
Slide from the bosom of the stars.

So kind an office hath been done,
         Such precious relics brought by thee;
         The dust of him I shall not see
Till all my widow'd race be run.


Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,
         Or breaking into song by fits,
         Alone, alone, to where he sits,
The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,
         I wander, often falling lame,
         And looking back to whence I came,
Or on to where the pathway leads;

And crying, How changed from where it ran
         Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb;
         But all the lavish hills would hum
The murmur of a happy Pan:

When each by turns was guide to each,
         And Fancy light from Fancy caught,
         And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;

And all we met was fair and good,
         And all was good that Time could bring,
         And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood;

And many an old philosophy
         On Argive heights divinely sang,
         And round us all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady.


How fares it with the happy dead?
         For here the man is more and more;
         But he forgets the days before
God shut the doorways of his head.

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint,
         And yet perhaps the hoarding sense
         Gives out at times (he knows not whence)
A little flash, a mystic hint;

And in the long harmonious years
         (If Death so taste Lethean springs)
         May some dim touch of earthly things
Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

If such a dreamy touch should fall,
         O turn thee round, resolve the doubt;
         My guardian angel will speak out
In that high place, and tell thee all.


The wish, that of the living whole
         No life may fail beyond the grave,
         Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife,
         That Nature lends such evil dreams?
         So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere
         Her secret meaning in her deeds,
         And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,
         And falling with my weight of cares
         Upon the great world's altar-stairs
That slope thro' darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
         And gather dust and chaff, and call
         To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.


'So careful of the type?' but no.
         From scarped cliff and quarried stone
         She cries, 'A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.

Thou makest thine appeal to me:
         I bring to life, I bring to death:
         The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more.' And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,
         Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
         Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed
         And love Creation's final law--
         Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed--

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
         Who battled for the True, the Just,
         Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal'd within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream,
         A discord. Dragons of the prime,
         That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail!
         O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
         What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.


Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
         The tender blossom flutter down;
         Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair,
         Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
         And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
         The brook shall babble down the plain,
         At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
         And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
         Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild
         A fresh association blow,
         And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills
         His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
         And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.


Now fades the last long streak of snow,
         Now burgeons every maze of quick
         About the flowering squares, and thick
By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,
         The distance takes a lovelier hue,
         And drown'd in yonder living blue
The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
         The flocks are whiter down the vale,
         And milkier every milky sail
On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
         In yonder greening gleam, and fly
         The happy birds, that change their sky
To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast
         Spring wakens too; and my regret
         Becomes an April violet,
And buds and blossoms like the rest.


Love is and was my Lord and King,
         And in his presence I attend
         To hear the tidings of my friend,
Which every hour his couriers bring.

Love is and was my King and Lord,
         And will be, tho' as yet I keep
         Within his court on earth, and sleep
Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel
         Who moves about from place to place,
         And whispers to the worlds of space,
In the deep night, that all is well.

COME into the garden, Maud,
         For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
         I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
         And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
         And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
         On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
         To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard
         The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
         To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
         And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, 'There is but one
         With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
         She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
         And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
         The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
         In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
         For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
         'For ever and ever, mine.'

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
         As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
         For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
         Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
         That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
         In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
         And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
         One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
         As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
         Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
         They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
         Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
         Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
         To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear
         From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
         She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
         And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
         And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
         Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
         Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
         Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
         And blossom in purple and red.

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