From Chaucer to Tennyson Part 24

Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From G.o.d, who is our home.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy: Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy.

The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day....

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benedictions: not, indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast-- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy.

Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us. .h.i.ther; Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the sh.o.r.e, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

LUCY.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye: Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland la.s.s!

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pa.s.s!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending, I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; I listened, motionless and still, And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

SKATING AT NIGHT.

[From the _Prelude_.]

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, And not a voice was idle; with the din Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy crag Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars Eastward were sparking clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed Upon the gla.s.sy plain; and oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either side Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at once Have I, reclining back upon my heels, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled With visible motion her diurnal round!

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS.

[From _The Ancient Mariner_.]

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky, I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, And now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

THE LOVE OF ALL CREATURES.

[From the same.]

O wedding guest, this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea: So lonely 'twas that G.o.d himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company.

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men and babes and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou wedding guest; He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear G.o.d who loveth us, He made and loveth all.

ESTRANGEMENT OF FRIENDS.

[From _Christabel_.]

Alas! they had been friends in youth But whispering tongues can poison truth, And constancy lives in realms above, And life is th.o.r.n.y and youth is vain, And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain.

And thus it fared, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline.

Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother; But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining.

They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs that had been rent asunder: A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder Can wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once has been.

WALTER SCOTT.