The Works of Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN Guinevere.

Her face was evermore unseen,

And fixt upon the far sea-line; But each man murmur'd, 'O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine.'

IX.

And now we lost her, now she gleam'd
Like Fancy made of golden air,
Now nearer to the prow she seem'd

Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst

133

SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN

GUINEVERE.

A FRAGMENT.

LIKE Souls that balance joy and pain,
With tears and smiles from heaven again
The maiden Spring upon the plain
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.

In crystal vapour everywhere

Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,

sea,

And now, the bloodless point reversed,

She bore the blade of Liberty.

And only one among us-him

We pleased not-he was seldom pleased: He saw not far: his eyes were dim:

But ours he swore were all diseased. 'A ship of fools,' he shriek'd in spite, A ship of fools,' he sneer'd and wept. And overboard one stormy night

He cast his body, and on we swept.

XI.

And never sail of ours was furl'd,

Nor anchor dropt at eve or morn; We lov'd the glories of the world,

But laws of nature were our scorn. For blasts would rise and rave and cease, But whence were those that drove the

sail

Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, And to and thro' the counter gale?

XII.

Again to colder climes we came,

For still we follow'd where she led : Now mate is blind and captain lame,

And half the crew are sick or dead, But, blind or lame or sick or sound,

We follow that which flies before : We know the merry world is round, And we may sail for evermore.

And far, in forest-deeps unseen,
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green

From draughts of balmy air.

Sometimes the linnet piped his song:
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong:
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong:

By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut-buds began
To spread into the perfect fan,

Above the teeming ground.

Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.

She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Closed in a golden ring.

Now on some twisted ivy-net,
Now by some tinkling rivulet,
In mosses mixt with violet
Her cream-white mule his pastern set :
And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains
Than she whose elfin prancer springs
By night to eery warblings,

When all the glimmering moorland rings
With jingling bridle-reins.

134

A FAREWELL-THE BEGGAR MAID-THE EAGLE.

As she fled fast thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid : She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd

The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.

A FAREWELL.

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver :
No more by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,

A rivulet then a river :

No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,

And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

HER arms across her breast she laid;
She was more fair than words can say:
Bare-footed came the beggar maid

Before the king Cophetua.

In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way ; 'It is no wonder,' said the lords,

'She is more beautiful than day? As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen : One praised her ancles, one her eyes,

One her dark hair and lovesome mien.

So sweet a face, such angel grace,

In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath :

"This beggar maid shall be my queen!'

THE EAGLE.

FRAGMENT.

HE clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

MOVE eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve,

O, happy planet, eastward go; Till over thy dark shoulder glow

Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below. Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night.

COME not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst

not save.

There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest : Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,

And I desire to rest.

Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie :

Go by, go by.

THE LETTERS.

STILL on the tower stood the vane,

And you, whom once I lov'd so well,

Thro' you, my life will be accurst.'

I spoke with heart, and heat and force,
I shook her breast with vague alarms-

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, Like torrents from a mountain source

I peer'd athwart the chancel pane

And saw the altar cold and bare. A clog of lead was round my feet,

A band of pain across my brow; 'Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.'

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I HAD a vision when the night was late:
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.
He rode a horse with wings, that would
have flown,

But that his heavy rider kept him down.
And from the palace came a child of sin,
And took him by the curls, and led him in,
Where sat a company with heated eyes,
Expecting when a fountain should arise:
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips-
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and

capes-
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid
shapes,

By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes

II.

Then methought I heard a mellow sound,
Gathering up from all the lower ground;
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled
Low voluptuous music winding trembled,

'Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell-Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd,

And women's slander is the worst,

Panted hand in hand with faces pale,

year,

Swung themselves, and in low tones Came floating on for many a month and replied; Till the fountain spouted, showering wide | Unheeded : and I thought I would have Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail; spoken,

late:

Then the music touch'd the gates and died; And warn'd that madman ere it grew too
Rose again from where it seem'd to fail,
Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale; But, as in dreams, I could not.
Till thronging in and in, to where they

waited,

As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated;

Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound,
Caught the sparkles, and in circles,
Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes,
Flung the torrent rainbow round:
Then they started from their places,
Moved with violence, changed in hue,
Caught each other with wild grimaces,
Half-invisible to the view,
Wheeling with precipitate paces
To the melody, till they flew,
Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces,
Twisted hard in fierce embraces,
Like to Furies, like to Graces,
Dash'd together in blinding dew:
Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony,
The nerve-dissolving melody
Flutter'd headlong from the sky.

broken,

Mine was

'Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin!

Here is custom come your way; Take my brute, and lead him in,

Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 'Bitter barmaid, waning fast!

See that sheets are on my bed;
What! the flower of life is past :
It is long before you wed.
'Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour,
At the Dragon on the heath!
Let us have a quiet hour,

Let us hob-and-nob with Death.

'I am old, but let me drink;
Bring me spices, bring me wine;
I remember, when I think,

That my youth was half divine. 'Wine is good for shrivell'd lips,

When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, And the leaf is stamp'd in clay.

Sit thee down, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : What care I for any name?

What for order or degree?

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