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In 1893 the present Lord Tennyson pubLished a facsimile reprint of the 'Poems by Two Brothers,' in which his uncle, Mr. Frederick Tennyson, had appended the initials of the authors to their contributions to the vol. ume, so far as he remembered them. He was not certain of the authorship of every poem. Some he signs · A. T. (?)' or 'C. T. (?),' and some 'A. T. or C. T.' I give here all that are probably Alfred's, with some about which (see prefatory notes) I have my doubts. I follow the spelling and pointing of the reprint except in the few instances mentioned in the Notes.

Memory! why, oh why,

This fond heart consuming, Shew me years gone by,

When those hopes were blooming? Hopes which now are parted,

Hopes which then I priz'd,
Which this world, cold-hearted,

Ne'er has realiz'd ?
I knew not then its strife,

I knew not then its rancour;
In every rose of life,

Alas! there lurks a canker.

Round every palm-tree, springing

With bright fruit in the waste, A mournful asp is clinging,

Which sours it to our taste.


O'er every fountain, pouring

Its waters thro' the wild, Which man imbibes, adoring,

And deems it undefild,

It is interesting to compare this poem with the · Ode to Memory' published in 1830. Like several others of Alfred's it is longer than any of Charles's.

The poison-shrubs are dropping

Their dark dews day by day; And Care is hourly lopping

Our greenest boughs away!

* The memory is perpetually looking back when we have nothing present to entertain us : it is like those repositories in animals that are filled with stores of food, on which they may ruminate when their present pasture fails.' – ADDISON.

MEMORY! dear enchanter!

Why bring back to view Dreams of youth, which banter

All that c'er was true ?

Why present before me

Thoughts of years gone by, Which, like shadows o'er me,

Dim in distance fly ? Days of youth, now shaded

By twilight of long years, Flowers of youth, now faded,

Though bathed in sorrow's tears: 'Thoughts of youth, which waken

Mournful feelings now, Fruits which time hath shaken

From off their parent bough:

Ah! these are thoughts that grieve me

Then, when others rest. Memory ! why deceive me

By thy visions blest ? Why lift the veil, dividing

The brilliant courts of spring -
Where gilded shapes are gliding

In fairy colouring —
From age's frosty mansion,

So cheerless and so chill ?
Why bid the bleak expansion

of past life meet us still ? Where's now that peace of mind

O'er youth's pure bosom stealing So sweet and so refin'd,

So exquisite a feeling ? Where's now the heart exulting

In pleasure's buoyant sense,

And gaiety, resulting

From conscious innocence ?

All, all have past and fled,

And ieft me lorn and lonely; All those dear hopes are dead,

Remembrance wakes them only!

Oh ! Harp of my fathers !

No more in the hall,
The souls of the chieftains

Thy strains shall enthral:
One sweep will I give thee,

And wake thy bold swell ; Then, thou friend of my bosom,

For ever farewell !



I stand like some lone tower

Of former days remaining, Within whose place of power

The midnight owl is plaining; Like oak-tree old and grey,

Whose trunk with age is failing, Thro' whose dark boughs for aye

The winter winds are wailing. Thus, Memory, thus thy light

O'er this worn soul is gleaming, Like some far fire at night

Along the dun deep streaming.

I doubt whether this poem is rightly attributed to Alfred.

• Quamobrem, si dolorum finem mors affert, si secu. rioris et melioris initium vitæ : si futura mala avertit

cur eam tantopere accusare, ex qua potins console tionem et lætitiam haurire fas esset ?' - CICE#O. Why should we weep for those who die?

They fall – their dust returns to dust; Their souls shall live eternally

Within the mansions of the just. They die to live - they sink to rise,

They leave this wretched mortal shore ; But brighter suns and bluer skies

Shall smile on them for evermore.



I will hang thee, my Harp, by the side of the

fountain, On the whispering branch of the lone-waving

willow: Above thee shall rush the hoarse gale of the

mountain, Below thee shall tumble the dark breaking

billow. The winds shall blow by thee, abandon'd, for

saken, The wild gales alone shall arouse thy sad

strain ; For where is the heart or the hand to awaken The sounds of thy soul-soothing sweetness again? Oh ! Harp of my fathers !

Thy chords shall decay,
One by one with the strings

Shail thy notes fade away;
Till the fiercest of tempests

Around thee may yell,
And not waken one sound

Of thy desolate shell !
Yet, oh! yet, ere I go, will I fling a wreath

round thee, With the richest of flowers in the green valley

springing; Those that see shall remember the hand that

hath crown'd thee, When, wither'd and dead, to thee still they

are clinging. There ! now I have wreath'd thee

are twining Thy chords with their bright blossoms glow

ing and red : Though the lapse of one day see their freshness

declining, Yet bloom for one day when thy ninstrel has

fed !

Why should we sorrow for the dead ?

Our life on earth is but a span ;
They tread the path that all must tread,

They die the common death of man.
The noblest songster of the gale

Must cease, when Winter's frowns appear; The reddest rose is wan and pale,

When Autumn tints the changing year. The fairest flower on earth must fade,

The brightest hopes on earth must die: Why should we mourn that man was made

To droop on earth, but dwell on high? The soul, th' eternal soul, must reign

In worlds devoid of pain and strife; Then why should mortal man complain

Of death, which leads to happier life?


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The complex interlacing of the rhymes is peculiar to Alfred. Conipare 'Persia,' . The Fall of Jerusalem,' Time,' etc.

' - sudant tacita præcordia culpa.' - JUVENAL Oh! 't is a fearful thing to glance

Back on the gloom of mis-spent years: What shadowy forms of guilt advance,

And fill me with a thousand fears! The vices of my life arise,

Pourtray'd in shapes, alas ! too true;

And not one beam of hope breaks through, To cheer my old and aebing eyes.

How shall I brook to hear each crime,
Here veil'd by secrecy and time,
Read out from thine eternal book ?
How shall I stand before thy throne,

While earth shall like a furnace burn? How shall I bear the with’ring look

Of men and angels, who will turn Their dreadful gaze on me alone ?


* Tantum ævi longinqua valet mutare vetustas!' VIRGIL

T' illume my night of wretchedness,
My age of anguish and distress.
If I am damn'd, why find I not
Some comfort in this earthly spot ?
But no ! this world and that to come
Are both to me one scene of gloom !
Lest ought of solace I should see,

Or lose the thoughts of what I do,
Remorse, with soul-felt agony,

Holds up the mirror to my view.
And I was cursed from my birth,
A reptile made to creep on earth,
An hopeless outcast, born to die
A living death eternally!
With too much conscience to have rest,
Too little to be ever blest,
To yon vast world of endless woe,

Unlighted by the cheerful day,
My soul shall wing her weary way;

To those dread depths where aye the same, Throughout the waste of darkness, glow

The glimmerings of the boundless flame. And yet I cannot here below Take my full cup of guilt, as some, And laugh away my doom to come. I would I 'd been all-heartless! then I might have sinn'd like other men; But all this side the grave is fear, A wilderness so dank and drear, That never wholesome plant would spring;

And all behind - I dare not think!
I would not risk th' imagining

From the full view my spirits shrink;
And starting backwards, yet I cling
To life, whose every hour to me
Hath been increase of misery.
But yet I cling to it, for well

I know the pangs that rack me now
Are trifles, to the endless hell

That waits me, when my burning brow
And my wrung eyes shall hope in vain
For one small drop to cool the pain,
The fury of that madd’ning flame

That then shall scorch my writhing frame !
Fiends! who have goaded me to ill!
Distracting fiends, who goad me still !
If e'er I work'd a sinful deed,

Ye know how bitter was the draught;
Ye know my inmost soul would bleed,

And ye have look'd at me and laugh'd,
Triumphing that I could not free
My spirit from your slavery!
Yet is there that in me which says,

Should these old feet their course retread
From out the portal of my days,

That I should lead the life I've led: My agony, my torturing shame, My guilt, my errors all the same! Oh, God! that thou wouldst grant that ne'er

My soul its clay-cold bed forsake,

That I might sleep, and never wake Unto the thrill of conscious fear;

For when the trumpet's piercing cry
Shall burst upon my slumb'ring ear,

And countless seraphs throng the sky,
How shall I cast my shroud away,
And come into the blaze of day?

THERE was a long, low, rushy dell, emboss'd With knolls of grass and clumps of copsewood

green; Mid-way a wandering burn the valley crossd, And streak'd with silvery line the wood-land

scene; High hills on either side to heaven upsprung,

Y-clad with groves of undulating pine, Upon whose heads the hoary vapours hung, And far — far off the heights were seen to

shine In clear relief against the sapphire sky, And many a blue stream wander'd thro' the

shade Of those dark groves that clomb the mountains

high, And glistening 'neath each lone entangled

glade, At length with brawling accent loudly fell Within the limpid brook that wound along the


How pleasant was the ever-varying light

Beneath that emerald coverture of bonghs ! How often, at th' approach of dewy night, Have those tall pine-trees heard the lover's

vows! How many a name was carv'd upon the trunk

Of each old hollow willow-tree, that stoop'd To lave its branches in the brook, and drunk Its freshening dew! How many a cypress

droop'd From those fair banks, where bloom'd the ear

liest flowers, Which the young year from her abounding

horn Scatters profuse within her secret bowers ! What rapturous gales from that wild dell

were borne ! And, floating on the rich spring breezes, flung Their incense o'er that wave on whose bright

banks they sprung! Long years had past, and there again I came, But man's rude hand had sorely scath'd the

dell; And though the cloud-capped mountains, still

the same, Uprear'd each heaven-invading pinnacle; Yet were the charms of that lone valley fled, And the grey - winding of the stream was



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The brook, once murmuring o'er its pebbly

bed, Now deeply -- straightly — noiselessly went Slow turn’d the sluggish wheel beneath its

force, Where clattering mills disturb'd the solitude: Where was the prattling of its former course ? Its shelving, sedgy sides y-crown'd with

wood ? The willow trunks were fell’d, the names eras'd From one broad shattered pine, which still its

station grac'd. Remnant of all its brethren, there it stood, Braving the storms that swept the cliffs

above, Where once, throughout th' impenetrable wood,

Were heard the plainings of the pensive dove. But man had bid th' eternal forests bow

That bloom'd upon the earth-imbedded base Of the strong mountain, and perchance they

Upon the billows were the dwelling-place Of their destroyers, and bore terror round The trembling earth: — ah ! lovelier, had they

still Whisper'd unto the breezes with low sound,

And greenly flourish'd on their native hill, And flinging their proud arms in state on high, Spread out beneath the sun their glorious can

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O, CLEOPATRA ! fare thee well,

We two can meet no more;
This breaking heart alone can tell

The love to thee I bore.
But wear not thou the conqueror's chain

Upon thy race and thee;
And though we ne'er can meet again,

Yet still be true to me:
For I for thee have lost a throne,
To wear the crown of love alone.

I WANDER in darkness and sorrow,

Unfriended, and cold, and alone, As dismally gurgles beside me

The bleak river's desolate moan. The rise of the volleying thunder

The mountain's lone echoes repeat: The roar of the wind is around me,

The leaves of the year at my feet. I wander in darkness and sorrow,

Uncheer'd by the moon's placid ray; Not a friend that I lov'd but is dead,

Not a hope but has faded away! Oh! when shall I rest in the tomb,

Wrapt about with the chill winding sheet ? For the roar of the wind is around me,

The leaves of the year at my feet.
I heed not the blasts that sweep o'er me,

I blame not the tempests of night;
They are not the foes who have banish'd

The visions of youthful delight:
I hail the wild sound of their raving,

Their merciless presence I greet;
Though the roar of the wind be around me,

The leaves of the year at my feet.

Fair daughter of a regal line !

To thraldom bow not tame;
My every wish on earth was thine,

My every hope the same.
And I have mov'd within thy sphere,

And liv'd within thy light;
And oh ! thou wert to me so dear,

I breath'd but in thy sight !
A subject world I lost for thee,
For thou wert all my world to me!
Then when the shriekings of the dying

Were heard along the wave.
Soul of my soul! I saw thee flying;

I follow'd thee, to save.
The thunder of the brazen prows

O'er Actium's ocean rung;
Fame's garland faded from my brows,

Her wreath away I fiung.
I sought, I saw, I heard but thee:
For what to love was victory?

In this waste of existence, for solace,

On whom shall my lone spirit call ? Shall I fly to the friends of my bosom?

My God! I have buried them all!
They are dead, they are gone, they are cold,

My embraces no longer they meet;
Let the roar of the wind be around me,

The leaves of the year at my feet!
Those eyes that glanc d love unto mine,

With motionless slumbers are prest; Those hearts which once throbb'd but for me,

Are chill as the earth where they rest.
Then around on my wan wither'd form

Let the pitiless hurricanes beat;
Let the roar of the wind be around me,

The leaves of the year at my feet !

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