734 



TENNYSON, ALFRED. 



Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. 

 What is it I can have done to merit this ? 

 I am a sinner viler than you all. 

 It may be I have wrought some miracles, 

 And cured some halt and maim'd ; but what of 



that? 



It may be, no one, even among the saints, 

 May match his pains with mine ; but what of that ? 

 Yet do not rise : for you may look on me, 

 And in your looking you may kneel to God. 

 Speak ! is there any of you halt or maim'd ? 

 I think you know I have some power with Heaven 

 From my long penance : let him speak his wish. 



Yes, I can heal him. Power goes forth from me. 



Is that the angel there 



That holds a crown ? Come, blessed brother, come. 



I know thy glittering face. I waited long ; 



My brows are ready. What ! deny it now ? 



Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. 

 Christ ! 



'T is gone : 't is here again ; the crown ! the 

 crown ! 



So now 't is fitted on and grows to me, 



And from it melt the dews of Paradise, 



Sweet ! sweet ! spikenard, and balm, and frank- 

 incense. 



" Ulysses." a monologue, is one of the noblest 

 of all poems, both in thought and in expression. 

 It can hardly be divided without doing it vio- 

 lence ; but two passages are all that we have 

 room for here : 



I am a part of all that I have met ; 



Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 



Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades 



Forever and forever when I move. 



How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 



To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 



As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life 



Were all too little, and of one to me 



Little remains : but every hour is saved 



From that eternal silence, something more, 



A bringer of new things ; and vile it were 



For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 



And this gray spirit yearning in desire 



To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, 



Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 



Mj r mariners, 

 Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought 



with me 



That ever with a frolic welcome took 

 The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 

 Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old ; 

 Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 



Death closes all : but something ere the end, 

 Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 

 Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. 

 The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 

 The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs : the 



deep 



Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 

 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 

 Push off, and sitting well in order srnite 

 The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds 

 To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 

 Of all the western stars, until I die. 



Some of Tennyson's admirers consider " Locks- 

 ley Hall" his best poem, and it is likely to re- 

 main forever one of his most popular. The 

 spirit of the age, the forces of invention and 

 civilization, and the poetry of the whole round 

 world seem to run all through it in a rhythmic 

 braid, as shown notably in these passages : 



Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that 



earlier page. 

 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous 



Mother-Age ! 



Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before 



the strife, 

 When I heard my days before me, and the tumult 



of my life ; 



Yearning for the large excitement that the coming 



years would yield, 

 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his 



father's field, 



And at night along the dusky highway near and 



nearer drawn, 

 Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a 



dreary dawn ; 



And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before 



him then, 

 Underneath the light he looks at, in among the 



throngs of men ; 



Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping 



something new : 

 That which they have done but earnest of the 



things that they shall do : 



For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 



see, 

 Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder 



that would be ; 



Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of 



magic sails, 

 Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with 



costly bales; 



Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there 



rain'd a ghastly dew 

 From the nations' airy navies grappling in the 



central blue ; 



Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind 



rushing warm, 

 With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' 



the thunder-storm ; 



Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the 



battle-flags were furl'd 

 In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the 



world. 



There the common sense of most shall hold a fret- 

 ful realm in awe, 



And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in univer- 

 sal law. 



Ah, for some retreat 



Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began 

 to beat ; 



Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil- 



starr'd ; 

 I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's 



ward. 



Or to burst all links of habit there to wander far 



away. 

 On from island unto island at the gateways of the 



day. 



Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and 



happy skies, 

 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, 



knots of Paradise. 



Never comes the trader, never floats an European 



flag, 

 Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the 



trailer from the crag ; 



