TENNYSON, .\U-'I:KD. 



731 





I. ;indcr ! go not yet. 

 The pleasant stars have set : 

 <>. ijn not. tr> not yet, 

 or I will follow thee! 



The next volume appeared in 1882. Among 

 its now thrice-familiar contents are, "The Lady 

 nf Shalott," Tennyson's first study for the versi- 

 tu-aiion of the Arthurian legends, now especially 

 i led with his name. Its series of pictures 

 in flowing measure made it at once a favorite. 

 "Tin- Miller's Daughter" was his first story- 

 poem, of which the beauty lay chiefly in the 

 songs included in it. The most charming of 

 these is : 



Love that hath us in the net, 

 Can he pass, and we forget? 

 Many suns arise and set. 

 Many a chance the years be- 



gct . 



Love thegift is Love the debt. 

 Even so. 



Love is hurt with jarandfret. 

 Love is made a vague regret. 

 Eyes with idle tears are wet. 

 Idle habit links us yet. 

 What is love ? for we forget : 

 Ah, no ! no! 



Out of the expression 

 " idle tears " grew one of the 

 loveliest of his lyrics. The 

 volume contained ' '(Enone," 

 the first of the poems on 

 classic themes ; " The Pal- 

 ace of Art," "Lady Clara 

 Vere de Vere." "The May 

 guern," "The Lotos-Eat- 

 ers," " A Dream of Fair 

 Women," "The Death of 

 the Old Year," and several 

 fragments without name. 

 "The Lotos-Eaters" is the 

 perfection of melody from 

 the first line to the last. 

 It is doubtful if the English 

 language is capable of being 

 woven into more exquisite 

 drapery for thought than that which clothes the 

 pleasant fancy of the C'horic Song in this poem : 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 

 Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

 Or night-dews on still waters between walls 

 Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ; 

 Mu-ir that uen tiler on the spirit lie.-. 

 Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes: 

 Music that brings sweet sleep down from the bliss- 

 ful skies. 



Here are runl mosses deep, 



And thro' the moss the Ivies creep, 

 And iu the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 

 And from the craggy ledge the poppy hanirs in 

 sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 



And utterly consumed with sharp distiv . 



While all things else have rest from weariness 



All thiuirs have rest : why should we toil alone, 



We only toil, who are the first of things, 



And make perpetual moan, 



Still from one sorrow to another thrown : 



Nor ever fold our wings, 



And cease from wandering. 



Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm : 



Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, 



" There is no joy but calm ! " 



Why should we only toll, the roof and crown of 

 things ? 



Lo ! In the middle of the wood, 



The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 



With winds upon the branch, and there 



Grows green and broad, and takes no cure, 



Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 



Niuht.lv dew-fed ; and turning yellow 



Falls, and floats adown the air. 



Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light, 



The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 



Drops in a silent autumn night. 



All its allotted length of days, 



The flower ripens in its place, 



TENNYSON'S FAVOKITK AKBOK, AT FAKINUKOBD. 



Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 

 Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 



Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 

 Vaulted o'er the dark-bine sea. 

 Death is the end of life ; ah, \\liy 

 Should life all labor be 

 Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, 

 And in a littlt while our lips are dumb. 

 Let us alone. What is it that will last ? 

 All things are taken from us, and become 

 Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. 

 Let us alone. What pleasure can we have 

 To war with evil ? Is there any peace 

 In ever climbing up the climbing wave ? 

 All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave 

 In silence ; ripen, fall and cease : 

 Give us long rest or death, dark death. <>r dream- 

 ful ease. 



How sweet it were, hearing the do nwanl Mn-am. 



With half-shut eyes ever to seem 



Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 



To dream and dream, like yonder amber litrht. 



Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height ; 



To hear each other's whisper'd speech ; 



Eiitinir the Lotos day by day, 



To watch the crisping ripples on the beach. 



And tender curving lines of creamy spray ; 



