ΤΟ

HENRY LUSHINGTON

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED

BY HIS FRIEND

A. TENNYSON.

THE PRINCESS:

A MEDLEY.

PROLOGUE.

SIR WALTER VIVIAN all a summer's day
Gave his broad lawns until the set of sun
Up to the people: thither flock'd at noon
His tenants, wife and child, and thither half
The neighbouring borough with their Institute
Of which he was the patron. I was there
From college, visiting the son,-the son
A Walter too,—with others of our set,

Five others: we were seven at Vivian-place.

And me that morning Walter show'd the house,

B

Greek, set with busts: from vases in the hall

Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their names,
Grew side by side; and on the pavement lay

Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park,
Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time;
And on the tables every clime and age
Jumbled together; celts and calumets,

Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans
Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries,

Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere,
The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs
From the isles of palm: and higher on the walls,
Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer,
His own forefathers' arms and armour hung.

And 'this' he said ' was Hugh's at Agincourt;
And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon:
A good knight he! we keep a chronicle

With all about him '—which he brought, and I

Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights

Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings
Who laid about them at their wills and died;
And mixt with these, a lady, one that arm'd
Her own fair head, and sallying thro' the gate,
Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls.

And, I all rapt in this, 'Come out,' he said, 'To the Abbey: there is Aunt Elizabeth And sister Lilia with the rest.' We went

(I kept the book and had my finger in it)

Down thro' the park: strange was the sight to me; For all the sloping pasture murmur'd sown

With happy faces and with holiday.

There moved the multitude, a thousand heads :

The patient leaders of their Institute

Taught them with facts. One rear'd a font of stone

And drew, from butts of water on the slope,

The fountain of the moment, playing now

A twisted snake, and now a rain of pearls,

Or steep-up spout whereon the gilded ball