736 



TENNYSON, ALFRED. 



Among the others are : 



and, 



Oh, yet we trust that somehow good 

 Will be the final goal of ill ; 



There lives more aith in honest doubt, 

 Believe me, than in half the creeds ; 



and, 



I do but sing, because I must, 

 And pipe but as the linnets sing ; 



and the passage beginning, 



Ring out, wild bells ! 



The apology is gracefully set forth in these 

 lines : 



I sometimes hold it half a sin 



To put in words the grief I feel ; 



For words, like Nature, half reveal 

 And half conceal the Soul within. 



But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 

 A use in measured language lies ; 

 The sad mechanic exercise, 



Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 



In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 

 Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 

 But that large grief which these enfold 



Is given in outline and no more. 



After which the poet is at liberty to discuss any 

 subject that is either directly or remotely con- 

 nected with the topic, and he produces many 

 picturesque passages as this : 



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 you 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 f all ; 

 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. 



The poem was a favorite with President Gar- 

 field, who especially admired this passage, which 

 was much quoted in connection with the eulogies 

 upon him : 



Dost thou look back on what hath been, 



As some divinely gifted man, 



Whose life in low estate began 

 And on a simple village green ; 



Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 

 And grasps the skirts of happy chance, 

 And breasts the blows of circumstance, 



And grapples with his evil star ; 



Who makes by force his merit known, 

 And lives to clutch the golden keys, 

 To mould a mighty state's decrees, 



And shape the whisper of the throne ; 



And moving up from high to higher, 

 Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 

 The pillar of a people's hope, 



The centre of a world's desire ; 



' Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, 



When all his active powers are still, 

 A distant dearness in the hill, 

 A secret sweetness in the stream, 



The limit of his narrower fate, 

 While yet beside its vocal springs 

 He play'd at counsellors and kings, 



With one that was his earliest mate ; 



Who ploughs with pain his native lea 

 And reaps the labor of his hands, 

 Or in the furrow musing stands : 



" Does my old friend remember me ? " 



In 1855 appeared " Maud, and Other Poems." 

 To many lovers of Tennyson's poetry this was a 

 disappointment ; it is hard to say why. It was 

 interesting as a story, more dramatic and intense 

 in action than any other of his, and more sus- 

 tained. It had admirers as vehement as its 

 critics. On the beauty of one portion that be- 

 ginning , " Come into the garden, Maud," there 

 was no dispute. 



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 Tight, 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, 



"Forever and ever, mine." 



And the soul of the rose went into my blood, 



As the music clash'd in the hall ; 

 As 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. . 



