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That shielded all her life from harm, They rise, but linger; it is late; At last must part with her to thee;

Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. Now waiting to be made a wife,

A shade falls on us like the dark Her feet, my darling, on the dead;

From little cloudlets on the grass, Their pensive tablets round her head, But sweeps away as out we pass And the most living words of life

To range the woods, to roam the park, Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,

Discussing how their courtship grew, The • Wilt thou ?' answer’d, and again And talk of others that are wed,

The • Wilt thou ?' ask'd, till out of twain And how she look'd, and what he said, Her sweet · I will’ has made you one. And back we come at fall of dew. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Again the feast, the speech, the glee, Mute symbols of a joyful morn,

The shade of passing thought the By village eyes as yet unborn.

wealth The names are sigu’d, and overhead

Of words and wit, the double health,

The crowning cup, the three-times-three, Begins the clash and clang that tells

The joy to every wandering breeze; And last the dance;— till I retire.

The blind wall rocks, and on the trees Dumb is that tower which spake so The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

loud,

And high in heaven the streaming cloud, O happy hour, and happier hours

And on the downs a rising fire: Await them. Many a merry face

Salutes them — maidens of the place, And rise, O moon, from yonder down, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. Till over down and over dale

All night the shining vapor sail O happy hour, behold the bride

And pass the silent-lighted town, With him to whom her hand I

gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, That has to-day its sumy side.

And catch at every mountain head,

And o'er the friths that branch and To-day the grave is bright for me,

spread
For them the light of life increased, Their sleeping silver thro' the bills;
Who stay to share the morning feast,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.

And touch with shade the bridal doors,

With tender gloom the roof, the wall; Let all my genial spirits advance

And breaking let the splendor fall To meet and greet a whiter sun;

To spangle all the happy shores My drooping memory will not shun The foaming grape of eastern France. By which they rest, and ocean sounds,

And, star and system rolling past, It circles round, and fancy plays,

A sonl shall draw from out the vast And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom, And strike his being into bounds,

As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days.

And, moved thro’ life of lower phase,

Result in man, be born and think, Nor count me all to blame if I

And act and love, a closer link
Conjecture of a stiller guest,

Betwixt us and the crowning race
Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look

On knowledge; under whose command But they must go, the time draws on,

Ea Earth's, and in their hand And those white-favor'd horses wait; Is Nature like an open book;

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No longer half-akin to brute,

For all we thought and loved and did,

And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit;

Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God,

Whereof the man that with me trod

This planet was a noble type

That God, which ever lives and loves,

One God, one law, one element,

And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.

MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS

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This volume, published in 1855, contained in addition to · Maud' the following poems: “The Brook,'' The Letters,' • The Daisy,' • Will,' • Lines to the Rev. F. D. Maurice' (all published for the first time); with the 'Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington ,' already printed twice (1852, 1853) in pamphlet form, and “The Charge of the Light Brigade,' reprinted from the Examiner 'of December 9, 1854 (also privately reprinted in 1855). A second edition of the volume was published in 1856, when ·Maud' was considerably enlarged.

MAUD; A MONODRAMA This poem grew out of the lines, “O, that 't were possible,' etc., printed in . The Tribute' in 1837, and now forming (with some alterations) the fourth section of Part II. of the poem. Sir John Simeon, to whom Tennyson read these lines in the earlier days of their friendship, suggested that something was needed to explain the story. On this hint the poem was founded, and the greater part of it was written under a certain cedar in Sir John's grounds at Swainston. For the additions made in 1856, and minor alterations made afterwards, see the Notes.

The earlier critics of the poem failed to recognize its dramatic character. They ascribed to the author the thoughts and sentiments which he puts into the mouth of the morbid young man who is the dramatis persona; for, as in recent editions it has been designated, the poem is a 'monodrama,' and, in that respect, unique. Tennyson, when reading it to Mr. Knowles, said (as in substance he said when reading it to me): “ It should be called “ Maud, or the Madness." It is slightly akin to “ Hamlet." No other poem (a monotone with plenty of change and no weariness) has been made into a drama where successive phases of passion in one person take the place of successive persons.' At the end of · Maud'he declared, I've always said that “Maud ” and Guine

were the finest things I've written.' To Dr. Van Dyke, who in the first edition of * The Poetry of Tennyson ’ had called ' Maud a 'splendid failure,' he said: “I want to read this to you because I want you to feel what the poem means. It is dramatic; it is the story of a man who has a morbid nature, with a touch

of inherited insanity, and very selfish. The poem is to show what love does for him. The war is only an episode. You must remember that it is not I myself speaking. It is this man with the strain of madness in his blood, and the memory of a great trouble and wrong that has put him out with the world.'

I felt, when I heard the poet read 'Maud,' that it was the best possible commentary on the poem. I had not misunderstood it, as Dr. Van Dyke did at first, but the reading made me see heights and depths in it of which I had had no conception before. Especially was I amazed, as my friend was, at the intensity with which the poet had felt, and the tenacity with which he had pursued, the moral meaning of the poem. It was love, but not love in itself alone, as an emotion, an inward experience, a selfish possession, that he was revealing. It was love as a vital force, love as a part of life, love as an infuence, influence which rescues the soul from the prison, or the madhouse, of self, and leads it into the larger, saner existence. This was the theme of Maud.” And the poet's voice brought it out, and rang the changes on it, so that it was unmistakable and unforgettable, the history of a man saved from selfish despair by a pure love.' For his last reading of the poem, see the ‘Memoir,' vol. i. page 395.

The motto of “Maud' might well have been the lines from Locksley Hall' which the poet was fond of copying when friends asked for his autograph: Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the

- nay, the

chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, tre ing, past in music

gut of sight.

vere

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While another is cheating the sick of a few

last gasps, as he sits To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crim- Workmen up at the Hall ! — they are comson lights.

ing back from abroad; The dark old place will be gilt by the touch

of a millionaire. When a Mammonite mother kills her babe have heard, I know not whence, of the for a burial fee,

singular beauty of Maud; And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of play'd with the girl when a child; she children's bones,

promised then to be fair. Is it peace or war ? better, war! loud war

by land and by sea, War with a thousand battles, and shaking Maud, with her venturous climbings and a hundred thrones!

tumbles and childish escapes, Maud, the delight of the village, the ring

ing joy of the Hall,

Maud, with her sweet purse-mouth when For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder

my father dangled the grapes, round by the hill,

Maud, the beloved of my mother, the And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the

moon-faced darling of all, – three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced, snub-nosed rogue

would leap from his counter and till, What is she now? My dreams are bad. And strike, if he could, were it but with his

She may bring me a curse. cheating yardwand, home.

No, there is fatter game on the moor; she

will let me alone.

Thanks; for the fiend best knows whether What! am I raging alone as my father woman or man be the worse. raged in his mood ?

I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil Must I too creep to the hollow and dash may pipe to his own.

self down and die Rather than hold by the law that I made,

II nevermore to brood On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a

Long have I sigh'd for a calm; God grant wretched swindler's lie ?

I may find it at last !
It will never be broken by Maud; she has

neither savor nor salt, Would there be sorrow for me? there was But a cold and clear-cut face, as I founá love in the passionate shriek,

when her carriage past, Love for the silent thing that had made Perfectly beautiful; let it be granted her; false baste to the grave

where is the fault? Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought All that I saw - for her eyes were downhe would rise and speak

cast, not to be seen And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly he used to rave.

null, Dead perfection, no more; nothing more,

if it had not been I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour's sick of the moor and the main.

defect of the rose, Why should I stay ? can a sweeter chance Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ever come to me here ?

ripe, too full, 0, baving the nerves of motion as well as Or the least little delicate aquiline curve the nerves of pain,

in a sensitive nose, Were it not wise if I fled from the place From which I escaped heart-free, with the and the pit and the fear ?

least little touch of spleen.

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