The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 80

That hitherto I had defied And had rejected G.o.d--that grace Would drop from his o'erbr.i.m.m.i.n.g love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray--that G.o.d would move And strike the hard hard rock, and thence, Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!

I think that pride hath now no place Nor sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broadimbased beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?

Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland mere?

Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexed pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other? I am too forlorn, Too shaken: my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

"Yet" said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunned freshness of my strength, When I went forth in quest of truth, "It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length, Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows, And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summerheats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Through his warm heart; and then, from whence He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies.

Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on?

Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and a.n.a.lyse Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?" Ay me! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my G.o.d, Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremembered, and thy love Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharpheaded worm begins In the gross blackness underneath.

O weary life! O weary death!

O spirit and heart made desolate!

O d.a.m.ned vacillating state!

THE BURIAL OF LOVE

His eyes in eclipse, Pale cold his lips, The light of his hopes unfed, Mute his tongue, His bow unstrung With the tears he hath shed, Backward drooping his graceful head,

Love is dead; His last arrow is sped; He hath not another dart; Go--carry him to his dark deathbed; Bury him in the cold, cold heart-- Love is dead.

Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn, And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?

Shall hollowhearted apathy, The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles, For ever write In the withered light Of the tearless eye, An epitaph that all may spy?

No! sooner she herself shall die.

For her the showers shall not fall, Nor the round sun that shineth to all; Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green gra.s.s shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, Till Love have his full revenge.

TO--

Sainted Juliet! dearest name!

If to love be life alone, Divinest Juliet, I love thee, and live; and yet Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice Offered to G.o.ds upon an altarthrone; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.

SONG

I

I' the glooming light Of middle night So cold and white, Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave; Beside her are laid Her mattock and spade, For she hath half delved her own deep grave.

Alone she is there: The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose; Her shoulders are bare; Her tears are mixed with the bearded dews.

II

Death standeth by; She will not die; With glazed eye She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep; Ever alone She maketh her moan: She cannot speak; she can only weep; For she will not hope.

The thick snow falls on her flake by flake, The dull wave mourns down the slope, The world will not change, and her heart will not break.

SONG

The lintwhite and the throstlec.o.c.k Have voices sweet and clear; All in the bloomed May.

They from the blosmy brere Call to the fleeting year, If that he would them hear And stay. Alas! that one so beautiful Should have so dull an ear.

II

Fair year, fair year, thy children call, But thou art deaf as death; All in the bloomed May.

When thy light perisheth That from thee issueth, Our life evanisheth: Oh! stay.

Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb Should have so sweet a breath!

III

Fair year, with brows of royal love Thou comest, as a king, All in the bloomed May.

Thy golden largess fling, And longer hear us sing; Though thou art fleet of wing, Yet stay. Alas! that eyes so full of light Should be so wandering!

IV

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen In rings of gold yronne, [1]

All in the bloomed May, We pri'thee pa.s.s not on; If thou dost leave the sun, Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay.

Thou art the fairest of thy feres, We pri'thee pa.s.s not on.

[Footnote 1: His crispe hair in ringis was yronne.--Chaucer, _Knight's Tale._ (Tennyson's note.)]