Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Sees the banners of glory unroll’d,

  As he dreams of his own native plain,

  And the forms of the heroes of old.

  In the earliest ray of the morn,

  In the last rosy splendour of even,

  We view thee — thy spirit is borne

  On the murmuring zephyrs of heaven:

  Thou art in the sunbeam of noon,

  Thou art in the azure of air,

  If I pore on the sheen of the moon,

  If I search the bright stars, thou art there!

  Thou art in the rapturous eye

  Of the bard, when his visions rush o’er him;

  And like the fresh iris on high

  Are the wonders that sparkle before him.

  Thou stirrest the thunders of song,

  Those transports that brook not control;

  Thy voice is the charm of his tongue,

  Thy magic the light of his soul!

  Like the day-star that heralds the sun,

  Thou seem’st, when our young hopes are dawning;

  But ah! when the day is begun,

  Thou art gone like the star of the morning!

  Like a beam in the winter of years,

  When the joys of existence are cold,

  Thine image can dry up our tears,

  And brighten the eyes of the old!

  Tho’ dreary and dark be the night

  Of affliction that gathers around,

  There is something of heaven in thy light,

  Glad spirit! where’er thou art found:

  As calmly the sea-maid may lie

  In her pearly pavilion at rest,

  The heart-broken and friendless may fly

  To the shade of thy bower, and be blest!

  BOYHOOD.

  “Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?”

  Childe Harold.

  BOYHOOD’S blest hours! when yet unfledged and callow,

  We prove those joys we never can retain,

  In riper years with fond regret we hallow,

  Like some sweet scene we never see again.

  For youth — whate’er may be its petty woes,

  Its trivial sorrows — disappointments — fears,

  As on in haste life’s wintry current flows —

  Still claims, and still receives, its debt of tears.

  Yes! when, in grim alliance, grief and time

  Silver our heads and rob our hearts of ease,

  We gaze along the deeps of care and crime

  To the far, fading shore of youth and peace;

  Each object that we meet the more endears

  That rosy morn before a troubled day;

  That blooming dawn — that sunrise of our years —

  That sweet voluptuous vision past away!

  For by the welcome, tho’ embittering power

  Of wakeful memory, we too well behold

  That lightsome — careless — unreturning hour,

  Beyond the reach of wishes or of gold.

  And ye, whom blighted hopes or passion’s heat

  Have taught the pangs that careworn hearts dure,

  Ye will not deem the vernal rose so sweet!

  Ye will not call the driven snow so pure!

  DID NOT THY ROSEATE LIPS OUTVIE.

  “Ulla si juris tibi pejerati

  Pœna, Barine, nocuisset unquam;

  Denti si nigro fieres, vel uno

  Turpior ungui

  Crederem.” — Horace.

  Did not thy roseate lips outvie

  The gay anana’s spicy bloom;

  Had not thy breath the luxury,

  The richness of its deep perfume —

  Were not the pearls it fans more clear

  That those which grace the valved shell;

  Thy foot more airy than the deer,

  When startled from his lonely dell —

  Were not thy bosom’s stainless whiteness,

  Where angel loves their vigils keep,

  More heavenly than the dazzling brightness

  Of the cold crescent on the deep —

  Were not thine eye a star might grace

  Yon sapphire concave beaming clear,

  Or fill the vanish’d Pleiad’s place,

  And shine for aye as brightly there —

  Had not thy locks the golden glow

  That robes the gay and early east,

  Thus falling in luxuriant flow

  Around thy fair but faithless breast:

  I might have deem’d that thou wert she

  Of the Cumæan cave, who wrote

  Each fate-involving mystery

  Upon the feathery leaves that float,

  Borne thro’ the boundless waste of air,

  Wherever chance might drive along.

  But she was wrinkled — thou art fair:

  And she was old — but thou art young.

  Her years were as the sands that strew

  The fretted ocean-beach; but thou —

  Triumphant in that eye of blue,

  Beneath thy smoothly-marbled brow;

  Exulting in thy form thus moulded,

  By nature’s tenderest touch design’d;

  Proud of the fetters thou hast folded

  Around this fond deluded mind —

  Deceivest still with practised look,

  With fickle vow, and well-feign’d sigh.

  I — tell thee, that I will not brook

  Reiterated perjury!

  Alas! I feel thy deep control,

  E’en now when I would break thy chain:

  But while I seek to gain thy soul,

  Ah! say — hast thou a soul to gain?

  HUNTSMAN’S SONG.

  “Who the melodies of morn can tell?” — BEATTIE.

  OH! what is so sweet as a morning in spring,

  When the gale is all freshness, and larks, on the wing,

  In clear liquid carols their gratitude sing?

  I — rove o’er the hill as it sparkles with dew,

  And the red flush of Phoebus with ecstasy view,

  As he breaks thro’ the east o’er thy crags, Benvenue!

  And boldly I bound o’er the mountainous scene,

  Like the roe which I hunt thro’ the woodlands so green,

  Or the torrent which leaps from the height to the plain.

  The life of the hunter is chainless and gay,

  As the wing of the falcon that wins him his prey:

  No song is so glad as his blithe roundelay.

  His eyes in soft arbours the Moslem may close,

  And Fayoum’s rich odours may breathe from the rose,

  To scent his bright harem and lull his repose:

  Th’ Italian may vaunt of his sweet harmony,

  And mingle soft sound of voluptuous glee;

  But the lark’s airy music is sweeter to me.

  Then happy the man who upsprings with the morn,

  But not from a couch of effeminate lawn,

  And slings o’er his shoulder his loud bugle-horn!

  PERSIA.

  “The flower and choice

  Of many provinces from bound to bound.” — Milton.

  LAND of bright eye and lofty brow!

  Whose every gale is balmy breath

  Of incense from some sunny flower,

  Which on tall hill or valley low,

  In clustering maze or circling wreath,

  Sheds perfume; or in blooming bower

  Of Schiraz or of Ispahan,

  In bower untrod by foot of man,

  Clasps round the green and fragrant stem

  Of lotos, fair and fresh and blue,

  And crowns it with a diadem

  Of blossoms, ever young and new;

  Oh! lives there yet within thy soul

  Aught of the fire of him who led

  Thy troops, and bade thy thunder roll

  O’er lone Assyria’s crownless head?

  I tell thee, had that conqueror red

  From Thymbri
a’s plain beheld thy fall,

  When stormy Macedonia swept

  Thine honours from thee one and all,

  He would have wail’d, he would have wept,

  That thy proud spirit should have bow’d

  To Alexander, doubly proud.

  Oh, Iran! Iran! had he known

  The downfall of his mighty throne,

  Or had he seen that fatal night,

  When the young king of Macedon

  In madness led his veterans on,

  And Thais held the funeral light,

  Around that noble pile which rose

  Irradiant with the pomp of gold,

  In high Persepolis of old,

  Encompass’d with its frenzied foes;

  He would have groan’d, he would have spread

  The dust upon his laurell’d head,

  To view the setting of that star,

  Which beam’d so gorgeously and far

  O’er Anatolia and the fane

  Of Belus, and Caister’s plain,

  And Sardis, and the glittering sands

  Of bright Pactolus, and the lands

  Where Croesus held his rich domain:

  On fair Diarbeck’s land of spice,

  Adiabene’s plains of rice,

  Where down th’ Euphrates, swift and strong,

  The shield-like kuphars bound along;

  And sad Cunaxa’s field, where, mixing

  With host to adverse host opposed,

  ‘Mid clashing shield and spear transfixing,

  The rival brothers sternly closed.

  And further east, where, broadly roll’d,

  Old Indus pours his stream of gold;

  And there where, tumbling deep and hoarse,

  Blue Ganga leaves her vaccine source;

  Loveliest of all the lovely streams

  That meet immortal Titan’s beams,

  And smile upon their fruitful way

  Beneath his golden Orient ray:

  And southward to Cilicia’s shore,

  Where Cydnus meets the billows’ roar,

  And where the Syrian gates divide

  The meeting realms on either side;

  E’en to the land of Nile, whose crops

  Bloom rich beneath his bounteous swell,

  To hot Syene’s wondrous well,

  Nigh to the long-lived Æthiops.

  And northward far to Trebizonde,

  Renown’d for kings of chivalry,

  Near where old Hyssus, rolling from the strand,

  Disgorges in the Euxine Sea —

  The Euxine, falsely named, which whelms

  The mariner in the heaving tide,

  To high Sinope’s distant realms,

  Whence cynics rail’d at human pride.

  EGYPT.

  “Egypt’s palmy groves,

  Her grots, and Sepulchres of kings.”

  Moore’s Laila Rookh.

  The sombre pencil of the dim-gray dawn

  Draws a faint sketch of Egypt to mine eye,

  As yet uncolour’d by the brilliant morn,

  And her gay orb careering up the sky.

  And see! at last he comes in radiant pride,

  Life in his eye, and glory in his ray;

  No veiling mists his growing splendour hide,

  And hang their gloom around his golden way.

  The flowery region brightens in his smile,

  Her lap of blossoms freights the passing gale,

  That robs the odours of each balmy isle,

  Each fragrant field and aromatic vale.

  But the first glitter of his rising beam

  Falls on the broad-based pyramids sublime,

  As proud to show us with his earliest gleam

  Those vast and hoary enemies of Time.

  E’en History’s self, whose certain scrutiny

  Few eras in the list of Time beguile,

  Pauses, and scans them with astonish’d eye,

  As unfamiliar with their aged pile.

  Awful, august, magnificent, they tower

  Amid the waste of shifting sands around;

  The lapse of year and month and day and hour,

  Alike unfelt, perform th’ unwearied round.

  How often hath yon day-god’s burning light,

  From the clear sapphire of his stainless heaven,

  Bathed their high peaks in noontide brilliance bright,

  Gilded at morn, and purpled them at even!

  THE DRUID’S PROPHECIES.

  MONA! with flame thine oaks are streaming,

  Those sacred oaks we rear’d on high:

  Lo! Mona, lo! the swords are gleaming

  Adown thine hills confusedly.

  Hark! Mona, hark! the chargers’ neighing!

  The clang of arms and helmets bright!

  The crash of steel, the dreadful braying

  Of trumpets thro’ the madd’ning fight!

  Exalt your torches, raise your voices;

  Your thread is spun — your day is brief;

  Yea! howl for sorrow! Rome rejoices,

  But Mona — Mona bends in grief!

  But woe to Rome, though now she raises

  Yon eagles of her haughty power;

  Though now her sun of conquest blazes,

  Yet soon shall come her darkening hour!

  Woe, woe to him who sits in glory,

  Enthroned on thine hills of pride!

  Can he not see the poignard gory

  With his best heart’s-blood deeply dyed?

  Ah! what avails his gilded palace,

  Whose wings the seven-hill’d town enfold?

  The costly bath, the crystal chalice?

  The pomp of gems, the glare of gold?

  See where, by heartless anguish driven,

  Crownless he creeps ‘mid circling thorns;

  Around him flash the bolts of heaven,

  And angry earth before him yawns.

  Then, from his pinnacle of splendour,

  The feeble king, with locks of gray,

  Shall fall, and sovereign Rome shall render

  Her sceptre to the usurper’s sway.

  Who comes with sounds of mirth and gladness,

  Triumphing o’er the prostrate dead?

  Ay, me! thy mirth shall change to sadness,

  When Vengeance strikes thy guilty head.

  Above thy noonday feast suspended,

  High hangs in air a naked sword:

  Thy days are gone, thy joys are ended,

  The cup, the song, the festal board.

  Then shall the eagle’s shadowy pinion

  Be spread beneath the eastern skies;

  And dazzling far with wide dominion,

  Five brilliant stars shall brightly rise.

  Then, coward king! the helpless agéd

  Shall bow beneath thy dastard blow;

  But reckless hands and hearts, enragéd,

  By double fate shall lay thee low.

  And two, with death-wounds deeply mangled,

  Low on their parent earth shall lie;

  Fond wretches! ah! too soon entangled

  Within the snares of royalty.

  Then comes that mighty one victorious

  In triumph o’er this earthly ball,

  Exulting in his conquests glorious —

  Ah! glorious to his country’s fall!

  But thou shalt see the Romans flying,

  O Albyn! with yon dauntless ranks;

  And thou shalt view the Romans dying,

  Blue Carun! on thy mossy banks.

  But lo! what dreadful visions o’er me

  Are bursting on this aged eye!

  What length of bloody train before me

  In slow succession passes by!

  Thy hapless monarchs fall together,

  Like leaves in winter’s stormy ire;

  Some by the sword, and some shall wither

  By lightning’s flame and fever’s fire.

  They come! they leave their frozen regions,r />
  Where Scandinavia’s wilds extend;

  And Rome, though girt with dazzling legions,

  Beneath their blasting power shall bend.

  Woe, woe to Rome! though tall and ample

  She rears her domes of high renown;

  Yet fiery Goths shall fiercely trample

  The grandeur of her temples down!

  She sinks to dust; and who shall pity

  Her dark despair and hopeless groans?

  There is a wailing in her city —

  Her babes are dash’d against the stones!

  Then, Mona! then, though wan and blighted

  Thy hopes be now by Sorrow’s dearth,

  Then all thy wrongs shall be requited —

  The Queen of Nations bows to earth!

  LINES.

  The eye must catch the point that shows,

  The pensile dew-drop’s twinkling gleam,

  Where on the trembling blade it glows,

  Or hueless hangs the liquid gem.

  Thus do some minds unmark’d appear

  By aught that’s generous or divine,

  Unless we view them in the sphere

  Where with their fullest light they shine.

  Occasion — circumstance — give birth

  To charms that else unheeded lie,

  And call the latent virtues forth

  To break upon the wond’ring eye.

  E’en he your censure has enroll’d

  So rashly with the cold and dull,

  Waits but occasion to unfold

  An ardour and a force of soul.

  Go then, impetuous youth, deny

  The presence of the orb of day,

  Because November’s cloudy sky

  Transmits not his resplendent ray.

  Time, and the passing throng of things,

  Full well the mould of minds betray,

  And each a clearer prospect brings: —

  Suspend thy judgment for a day.

  SWISS SONG.

  I LOVE St. Gothard’s head of snows,

  That shoots into the sky,

  Where, yet unform’d, in grim repose

  Ten thousand avalanches lie.

  I love Lucerne’s transparent lake,

  And Jura’s hills of pride,

  Whence infant rivers, gushing, break

  With small and scanty tide.

  And thou, Mont Blanc! thou mighty pile

  Of crags and ice and snow;

  The Gallic foes in wonder smile

  That we should love thee so!

  But we were nurst within thy breast,

  And taught to brave thy storms:

  Thy tutorage was well confest

  Against the Frank in arms —

  The Frank who basely, proudly came

  To rend us from our home,

  With flashing steel and wasting flame. —

  How could he, dare he come?

  THE EXPEDITION OF NADIR SHAH INTO HINDOSTAN.