Tennyson and His Friends Part 17

Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, sublime; Our Shakespeare's bland and universal eye Dwells pleased, through twice a hundred years, on thee.

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE

Come, when no graver cares employ, G.o.dfather, come and see your boy: Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you;

Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;

Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a n.o.ble down.

You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine:

For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter, stand; And further on, the h.o.a.ry Channel Tumbles a billow on chalk and sand;

Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep, And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:

Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to G.o.d;

How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is h.o.a.r with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here, For those are few we hold as dear; Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year.

_January, 1854._

TO SIR JOHN SIMEON

IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON

Nightingales warbled without, Within was weeping for thee: Shadows of three dead men Walk'd in the walks with me, Shadows of three dead men[28] and thou wast one of the three.

Nightingales sang in his woods: The Master was far away: Nightingales warbled and sang Of a pa.s.sion that lasts but a day; Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay.

Two dead men have I known In courtesy like to thee: Two dead men have I loved With a love that ever will be: Three dead men have I loved and thou art last of the three.

TO EDWARD LEAR, ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer gla.s.s, The long divine Penean pa.s.s, The vast Akrokeraunian walls,

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turn'd the page, And track'd you still on cla.s.sic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd--here and there alone The broad-limb'd G.o.ds at random thrown By fountain-urns;--and Naiads oar'd

A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom

From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea.

TO THE MASTER OF BALLIOL

(PROFESSOR JOWETT)

I

Dear Master in our cla.s.sic town, You, loved by all the younger gown There at Balliol, Lay your Plato for one minute down,

II

And read a Grecian tale re-told,[29]

Which, cast in later Grecian mould, Quintus Calaber Somewhat lazily handled of old;

III

And on this white midwinter day-- For have the far-off hymns of May, All her melodies, All her harmonies echo'd away?--

IV

To-day, before you turn again To thoughts that lift the soul of men, Hear my cataract's Downward thunder in hollow and glen,

V

Till, led by dream and vague desire, The woman, gliding toward the pyre, Find her warrior Stark and dark in his funeral fire.

TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL

O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know The limits of resistance, and the bounds Determining concession; still be bold Not only to slight praise but suffer scorn; And be thy heart a fortress to maintain The day against the moment, and the year Against the day; thy voice, a music heard Thro' all the yells and counter-yells of feud And faction, and thy will, a power to make This ever-changing world of circ.u.mstance, In changing, chime with never-changing Law.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DRIVE AT FARRINGFORD, SHOWING ON THE LEFT THE "WELLINGTONIA" PLANTED BY GARIBALDI. From a drawing by W. Bis...o...b.. Gardner.]

TO GIFFORD PALGRAVE[30]

I