Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Her course round thy banners that wanton in air;

  Yet remorse to thy grief-stricken conscience shall cling,

  And shriek o’er thy banquets in sounds of despair.

  It shall tell thee, that he who beholds from his throne

  The blood thou hast spilt and the deeds thou hast done,

  Shall mock at thy fear, and rejoice at thy groan,

  And arise in his wrath for the death of his son!

  Why blew ye, ye gales, when the murderer came?

  Why fann’d ye the fire, and why fed ye the flame?

  Why sped ye his sails o’er the ocean so blue?

  Are ye also combined for the fall of Peru?

  And thou, whom no prayers, no entreaties can bend,

  Thy crimes and thy murders to heav’n shall ascend:

  For vengeance the ghosts of our forefathers call:

  At thy threshold, Pizarro, in death shalt thou fall!

  Ay, there — even there, in the halls of thy pride,

  With the blood of thine heart shall thy portals be dyed!

  Lo! dark as the tempests that frown from the North,

  From the cloud of past time Manco Capac looks forth —

  Great Inca! to whom the gay day-star gave birth,

  Whose throne is the heav’n, and whose foot-stool the earth —

  His visage is sad as the vapours that rise

  From the desolate mountain of fire to the skies;

  But his eye flashes flame as the lightnings that streak

  Those volumes that shroud the volcano’s high peak.

  Hark! he speaks — bids us fly to our mountains, and cherish

  Bold freedom’s last spark ere for ever it perish;

  Bids us leave these wild condors to prey on each other,

  Each to bathe his fierce beak in the gore of his brother!

  This symbol we take of our godhead the Sun,

  And curse thee and thine for the deeds thou hast done.

  May the curses pursue thee of those thou hast slain,

  Of those that have fallen in war on the plain,

  When we went forth to greet ye — but foully ye threw

  Your dark shots of death on the sons of Peru.

  May the curse of the widow — the curse of the brave —

  The curse of the fatherless, cleave to thy grave!

  And the words which they spake with their last dying breath

  Embitter the pangs and the tortures of death!

  May he that assists be childless and poor,

  With famine behind him, and death at his door:

  May his nights be all sleepless, his days spent alone,

  And ne’er may he list to a voice but his own!

  Or, if he shall sleep, in his dreams may he view

  The ghost of our Inca, the fiends of Peru:

  May the flames of destruction that here he has spread

  Be tenfold return’d on his murderous head!

  SHORT EULOGIUM ON HOMER.

  IMMORTAL bard! thy warlike lay

  Demands the greenest, brightest bay,

  That ever wreathed the brow

  Of minstrel bending o’er his lyre,

  With ardent hand and soul of fire,

  Or then, or since, or now.

  A SISTER, SWEET ENDEARING NAME!

  “Why should we mourn for the blest!” — BYRON.

  A SISTER, sweet endearing name!

  Beneath this tombstone sleeps;

  A brother (who such tears could blame?)

  In pensive anguish weeps.

  I saw her when in health she wore

  A soft and matchless grace,

  And sportive pleasures wanton’d o’er

  The dimples of her face.

  I saw her when the icy wind

  Of sickness froze her bloom;

  I saw her (bitterest stroke!) consign’d

  To that cold cell — the tomb!

  Oh! when I heard the crumbling mould

  Upon her coffin fall,

  And thought within she lay so cold,

  And knew that worms would crawl

  O’er her sweet cheek’s once lovely dye,

  I shudder’d as I turn’d

  From the sad spot, and in mine eye

  The full warm tear-drop burn’d.

  Again I come — again I feel

  Reflection’s poignant sting,

  As I retrace my sister’s form,

  And back her image bring.

  Herself I cannot — from the sod

  She will not rise again;

  But this sweet thought, “She rests with God,”

  Relieves a brother’s pain.

  THE SUN GOES DOWN IN THE DARK BLUE MAIN.

  “Irreparabile tempus.” — VIRGIL.

  THE sun goes down in the dark blue main,

  To rise the brighter to-morrow;

  But oh! what charm can restore again

  Those days now consign’d to sorrow?

  The moon goes down on the calm still night,

  To rise sweeter than when she parted;

  But oh! what charm can restore the light

  Of joy to the broken-hearted?

  The blossoms depart in the wintry hour,

  To rise in vernal glory;

  But oh! what charm can restore the flower

  Of youth to the old and hoary?

  STILL, MUTE, AND MOTIONLESS SHE LIES.

  “Belle en sa fleur d’adolescence.” — Berquin.

  “Lovely in death the beauteous ruin lay.” — YOUNG.

  STILL, mute, and motionless she lies,

  The mist of death has veil’d her eyes.

  And is that bright-red lip so pale,

  Whose hue was freshen’d by a gale

  More sweet than summer e’er could bring

  To fan her flowers with balmy wing!

  Thy breath, the summer gale, is fled,

  And leaves thy lip, the flower, decay’d.

  When I was young, with fost’ring care

  I rear’d a tulip bright and fair,

  And saw its lovely leaves expand,

  The labour of my infant hand.

  But winter came — its varied dye

  Each morn grew fainter to mine eye;

  Till, with’ring, it was bright no more,

  Nor bloom’d as it was wont before:

  And gazing there in boyish grief,

  Upon the dull and alter’d leaf,

  “Alas! sweet flower,” I cried in vain,

  “Would I could bid thee blush again!”

  So now, “Return, thou crimson dye,

  To Celia’s lip!” I wildly cry;

  And steal upon my hopeless view,

  And flush it with reviving hue,

  Soft as the early vermeil given

  To the dim paleness of the heaven

  When slowly gaining on the sight,

  It breaks upon the cheerless white.

  It is an idle wish — a dream —

  I may not see the glazed eye beam;

  I may not warm the damps of death,

  Or link again the scatter’d wreath;

  Array in leaves the wintry scene,

  Or make parch’d Afric’s deserts green;

  Replace the rose-bud on the tree.

  Or breathe the breath of life in thee.

  OH! NEVER MAY FROWNS AND DISSENSION MOLEST.

  “Ipse meique

  Ante Larem proprium.” — HORACE.

  OH! never may frowns and dissension molest

  The pleasure I find at the social hearth;

  A pleasure the dearest — the purest — the best

  Of all that are found or enjoy’d on the earth!

  For who could e’er traverse this valley of tears,

  Without the dear comforts of friendship and home;

  And bear all the dark disappointments and fears,

  Which chill most of our joys and annihilate some?

  Vain, bootless pursuers of honour and fame!


  ‘Tis idle to tell ye, what soon ye must prove —

  That honour’s a bauble, and glory a name,

  When put in the balance with friendship and love.

  For when by fruition their pleasure is gone,

  We think of them no more — they but charm for a while;

  When the objects of love and affection are flown,

  With pleasure we cling to their memory still!

  ON A DEAD ENEMY.

  “Non odi mortuum.” — Cicero.

  I CAME in haste with cursing breath,

  And heart of hardest steel;

  But when I saw thee cold in death,

  I felt as man should feel.

  For when I look upon that face,

  That cold, unheeding, frigid brow,

  Where neither rage nor fear has place,

  By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!

  LINES.

  “Cur pendet tacita fistula cum lyra?” — HORACE.

  WHENCE is it, friend, that thine enchanting lyre

  Of wizard charm, should thus in silence lie?

  Ah! why not boldly sweep its chords of fire,

  And rouse to life its latent harmony?

  Thy fancy, fresh, exuberant, boundless, wild,

  Like the rich herbage of thy Plata’s shore,

  By Song’s resistless witchery beguiled

  Would then transport us, since it charm’d before!

  For if thy vivid thoughts possess’d a spell,

  Which chain’d our ears, and fix’d attention’s gaze,

  As at the social board we heard thee tell

  Of Chili’s woods and Orellana’s maze —

  How will they, deck’d in Song’s enlivening grace,

  Demand our praise, with added beauties told;

  How in thy potent language shall we trace

  Those thoughts more vigorous and those words more bold!

  THE DUKE OF ALVA’S OBSERVATION ON KINGS.

  KINGS, when to private audience they descend,

  And make the baffled courtier their prey,

  Do use an orange, as they treat a friend —

  Extract the juice, and cast the rind away.

  When thou art favour’d by thy sovereign’s eye,

  Let not his glance thine inmost thoughts discover;

  Or he will scan thee through, and lay thee by,

  Like some old book which he has read all over.

  AH! YES, THE LIP MAY FAINTLY SMILE.

  AH! yes, the lip may faintly smile,

  The eye may sparkle for a while;

  But never from that wither’d heart

  The consciousness of ill shall part!

  That glance, that smile of passing light,

  Are as the rainbow of the night;

  But seldom seen, it dares to bloom

  Upon the bosom of the gloom.

  Its tints are sad and coldly pale,

  Dim-glimmering thro’ their misty veil;

  Unlike the ardent hues which play

  Along the flowery bow of day.

  The moonbeams sink in dark-robed shades.

  Too soon the airy vision fades;

  And double night returns, to shroud

  The volumes of the showery cloud.

  THOU CAMEST TO THY BOWER, MY LOVE.

  “Virgo egregia forma.” — TERENCE.

  THOU CAMest to thy bower, my love, across the musky grove,

  To fan thy blooming charms within the coolness of the shade;

  Thy locks were like a midnight cloud with silver moonbeams wove,

  And o’er thy face the varying tints of youthful passion play’d.

  Thy breath was like the sandal-wood that casts a rich perfume,

  Thy blue eyes mock’d the lotos in the noonday of his bloom;

  Thy cheeks were like the beamy flush that gilds the breaking day,

  And in th’ ambrosia of thy smiles the god of rapture lay.

  Fair as the cairba-stone art thou, that stone of dazzling white,

  Ere yet unholy fingers changed its milk-white hue to night;

  And lovelier than the loveliest glance from Even’s placid star,

  And brighter than the sea of gold, the gorgeous Himsagar.

  In high Mohammed’s boundless heaven Al Cawthor’s stream may play,

  The fount of youth may sparkling gush beneath the western ray;

  And Tasnim’s wave in crystal cups may glow with musk and wine,

  But oh! their lustre could not match one beauteous tear of thine!

  TO ——

  AND shall we say the rose is sweet,

  Nor grant that claim to thee,

  In whom the loveliest virtues meet

  In social harmony?

  And shall we call the lily pure,

  Nor grant that claim to thee,

  Whose taintless, spotless soul is, sure,

  The shrine of purity?

  And shall we say the sun is bright,

  Nor grant that claim to thee,

  Whose form and mind with equal light

  Both beam so radiantly?

  THE PASSIONS.

  “You have passions in your heart — scorpions; they sleep now — beware how you awaken them! they will sting you even to death!”

  —— Mysteries of Udolpho, vol iii.

  BEWARE, beware, ere thou takest

  The draught of misery!

  Beware, beware, ere thou wakest

  The scorpions that sleep in thee!

  The woes which thou canst not number,

  As yet are wrapt in sleep;

  Yet oh! yet they slumber,

  But their slumbers are not deep.

  Yet oh! yet while the rancour

  Of hate has no place in thee,

  While thy buoyant soul has an anchor

  In youth’s bright tranquil sea:

  Yet oh! yet while the blossom

  Of hope is blooming fair,

  While the beam of bliss lights thy bosom —

  Oh! rouse not the serpent there!

  For bitter thy tears will trickle

  ‘Neath misery’s heavy load,

  When the world has put in its sickle

  To the crop which fancy sow’d.

  When the world has rent the cable

  That bound thee to the shore,

  And launch’d thee weak and unable

  To bear the billow’s roar;

  Then the slightest touch will waken

  Those pangs that will always grieve thee,

  And thy soul will be fiercely shaken

  With storms that will never leave thee!

  So beware, beware, ere thou takest

  The draught of misery!

  Beware, beware, ere thou wakest

  The scorpions that sleep in thee!

  THE HIGH-PRIEST TO ALEXANDER.

  “Derrame en todo el orbe de la tierra

  Las armas, el furor, y nueva guerra.”

  La Araucana, Canto xvi.

  Go forth, thou man of force!

  The world is all thine own;

  Before thy dreadful course

  Shall totter every throne.

  Let India’s jewels glow

  Upon thy diadem:

  Go, forth to conquest go,

  But spare Jerusalem.

  For the God of gods, which liveth

  Through all eternity,

  ‘Tis He alone which giveth

  And taketh victory:

  ‘Tis He the bow that blasteth,

  And breaketh the proud one’s quiver

  And the Lord of armies resteth

  In His Holy of Holies for ever!

  For God is Salem’s spear,

  And God is Salem’s sword;

  What mortal man shall dare

  To combat with the Lord?

  Every knee shall bow

  Before His awful sight;

  Every thought sink low

  Before the Lord of might.

  For the God of gods, which liveth

  Through al
l eternity,

  ‘Tis He alone which giveth

  And taketh victory:

  ‘Tis He the bow that blasteth,

  And breaketh the proud one’s quiver;

  And the Lord of armies resteth

  In His Holy of Holies for ever!

  THE DEW, WITH WHICH THE EARLY MEAD IS DREST.

  “Spes nunquam implenda.” — LUCRETIUS.

  THE dew, with which the early mead is drest,

  Which fell by night inaudible and soft,

  Mocks the foil’d eye that would its hues arrest,

  That glance and change so quickly and so oft.

  So in this fruitless sublunary waste,

  This trance of life, this unsubstantial show,

  Each hope we grasp at flies, to be replaced

  By one as fair and as fallacious too.

  His limbs encased in aromatic wax,

  The jocund bee hies home his hoard to fill:

  On human joys there lies the heavy tax

  Of hope unrealized, and beck’ning still.

  But why with earth’s vile fuel should we feed

  Those hopes which Heaven, and Heaven alone, should claim?

  Why should we lean upon a broken reed,

  Or chase a meteor’s evanescent flame?

  0 — man! relinquish Passion’s baleful joys,

  And bend at Virtue’s bright unsullied shrine;

  Oh! learn her chaste and hallow’d glow to prize,

  Pure — unalloy’d — ineffable — divine!

  ON THE MOONLIGHT SHINING UPON A FRIEND’S GRAVE.

  SHOW not, O moon! with pure and liquid beam,

  That mournful spot, where Memory fears to tread;

  Glance on the grove, or quiver in the stream,

  Or tip the hills — but shine not on the dead:

  It wounds the lonely hearts that still survive,

  And after buried friends are doom’d to live.

  A CONTRAST.

  DOST ask why Laura’s soul is riv’n

  By pangs her prudence can’t command?

  To one who heeds not she has giv’n

  Her heart, alas! without her hand.

  But Chloe claims our sympathy,

  To wealth a martyr and a slave;

  For when the knot she dared to tie,

  Her hand without her heart she gave.

  EPIGRAM.

  A SAINT by soldiers fetter’d lay;

  An angel took his bonds away.

  An angel put the chains on me;

  And ‘tis a soldier sets me free.

  THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

  “It cannot die, it cannot stay,

  But leaves its darken’d dust behind.” — BYRON.

  I DIE — my limbs with icy feeling

  Bespeak that Death is near;