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?

How pleasant was the ever-varying light

Beneath that emerald coverture of boughs! 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 earliest 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

gone;

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 flung.

I sought, I saw, I heard but thee:
For what to love was victory?

Thine on the earth, and on the throne,
And in the grave, am I;

And, dying, still I am thine own,
Thy bleeding Antony.

How shall my spirit joy to hear
That thou art ever true!
Nay-weep not dry that burning tear,
That bathes thine eyes' dark hue.
Shades of my fathers! lo! I come;
I hear your voices from the tomb!

'I WANDER IN DARKNESS AND SORROW'

stanza.

Note the repetition in the last lines of each Alfred was more given to these regularities of form than his brother. He also tries his hand at a greater variety of stanzas and arrangements of rhymes.

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.

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!

OLD Sword! tho' dim and rusted
Be now thy sheeny blade,
Thy glitt'ring edge encrusted
With cankers Time hath made;

Yet once around thee swell'd the cry
Of triumph's fierce delight,
The shoutings of the victory,
The thunders of the fight!

Tho' age hath past upon thee
With still corroding breath,
Yet once stream'd redly on thee
The purpling tide of death:

What time amid the war of foes
The dastard's cheek grew pale,
As through the feudal field arose
The ringing of the mail.

Old Sword! what arm hath wielded
Thy richly gleaming brand,

'Mid lordly forms who shielded
The maidens of their land?

And who hath clov'n his foes in wrath
With thy puissant fire,

And scatter'd in his perilous path
The victims of his ire?

Old Sword! whose fingers clasp'd thee Around thy carved hilt?

And with that hand which grasp'd thee
What heroes' blood was spilt;

When fearlessly, with open hearts,
And lance to lance oppos'd,
Beneath the shade of barbed darts
The dark-ey'd warriors clos'd?

Old Sword! I would not burnish
Thy venerable rust,

Nor sweep away the tarnish
Of darkness and of dust!

Lie there, in slow and still decay,
Unfam'd in olden rhyme,

The relic of a former day,
A wreck of ancient time!

'WE MEET NO MORE'

The present Lord Tennyson agrees with me that this is incorrectly assigned to Alfred.

WE meet no more- the die is cast,
The chain is broke that tied us,

THOU land of the Lily! thy gay flowers are blooming

In joy on thine hills, but they bloom not for

me;

For a dark gulf of woe, all my fond hopes entombing,

Has roll'd its black waves 'twixt this lono heart and thee.

The far-distant hills, and the groves of my childhood,

Now stream in the light of the sun's setting

ray;

And the tall-waving palms of my own native wildwood

In the blue haze of distance are melting away.

I see thee, Bassorah! in splendour retiring, Where thy waves and thy walls in their ma jesty meet;

I see the bright glory thy pinnacles firing, And the broad vassal river that rolls at thy feet.

I see thee but faintly-thy tall towers are beaming

On the dusky horizon so far and so blue; And minaret and mosque in the distance are gleaming,

While the coast of the stranger expands on my view.

Farewell to the days which so smoothly have glided

With the maiden whose look was like Cama's young glance,

And the sheen of whose eyes was the load-star which guided

My course on this earth thro' the storms of mischance!

THE VALE OF BONES

'Albis informem- ossibus agrum.'- HORACE.

ALONG yon vapour-mantled sky
The dark-red moon is riding high;
At times her beams in beauty break
Upon the broad and silv'ry lake;

At times more bright they clearly fall
On some white castle's ruin'd wall;
At times her partial splendour shines
Upon the grove of deep-black pines,
Through which the dreary night-breeze moans,
Above this Vale of scatter'd bones.

The low, dull gale can scarcely stir The branches of that black'ning fir, Which betwixt me and heav'n flings wid Its shadowy boughs on either side, And o'er yon granite rock uprears Its giant form of many years. And the shrill owlet's desolate wail Comes to mine ear along the gale, As, list'ning to its lengthen'd tones, I dimly pace the Vale of Bones.

Dark Valley! still the same art thou, Unchang'd thy mountain's cloudy brow; Still from yon cliffs, that part asunder, Falls down the torrent's echoing thunder; Still from this mound of reeds and rushes With bubbling sound the fountain gushes; Thence, winding thro' the whisp'ring ranks Of sedges on the willowy banks, Still brawling, chafes the rugged stones That strew this dismal Vale of Bones.

Unchang'd art thou! no storm hath rent
Thy rude and rocky battlement;
Thy rioting mountains sternly pil'd,
The screen of nature, wide and wild:
But who were they, whose bones bestrew
The heather, cold with midnight dew,
Upon whose slowly-rotting clay
The raven long hath ceas'd to prey,
But, mould'ring in the moon-light air,

Their wan, white skulls show bleak and bare?
And, aye, the dreary night-breeze moans
Above them in this Vale of Bones!

I knew them all - a gallant band, The glory of their native land, And on each lordly brow elate Sate valour and contempt of fate, Fierceness of youth, and scorn of foe, And pride to render blow for blow. In the strong war's tumultuous crash.

How darkly did their keen eyes flash!
How fearlessly each arm was rais'd!
How dazzlingly each broad-sword blaz'd!
Though now the dreary night-breeze moans
Above them in this Vale of Bones.

What lapse of time shall sweep away
The memory of that gallant day,
When on to battle proudly going,
Your plumage to the wild winds blowing,
Your tartans far behind ye flowing,

Your pennons rais'd, your clarions sounding,
Fiercely your steeds beneath ye bounding,
Ye mix'd the strife of warring foes
In fiery shock and deadly close?
What stampings in the madd'ning strife,
What thrusts, what stabs, with brand and knife,
What desp'rate strokes for death or life,
Were there! What cries, what thrilling groans,
Re-echo'd thro' the Vale of Bones!

Thou peaceful Vale, whose mountains lonely, Sound to the torrent's chiding only, Or wild-goat's cry from rocky ledge, Or bull-frog from the rustling sedge, Or eagle from her airy cairn, Or screaming of the startled hernHow did thy million echoes waken Amid thy caverns deeply shaken! How with the red dew o'er thee rain'd Thine emerald turf was darkly stain'd! How did each innocent flower, that sprung Thy greenly-tangl'd glades among, Blush with the big and purple drops That dribbled from the leafy copse! I pac'd the valley, when the yell Of triumph's voice had ceas'd to swell: When battle's brazen throat no more Rais'd its annihilating roar. There lay ye on each other pil'd, Your brows with noble dust defil'd;1 There, by the loudly-gushing water, Lay man and horse in mingled slaughter. Then wept I not, thrice gallant band; For though no more each dauntless hand The thunder of the combat hurl'd, Yet still with pride your lips were curl'd; And e'en in death's o'erwhelming shade Your fingers linger'd round the blade! I deem'd, when gazing proudly there Upon the fix'd and haughty air That mark'd each warrior's bloodless face, Ye would not change the narrow space Which each cold form of breathless clay Then cover'd, as on earth ye lay, For realms, for sceptres, or for thrones I dream'd not on this Vale of Bones!

But years have thrown their veil between.
And alter'd is that lonely scene;

And dreadful emblems of thy might,
Stern Dissolution! meet my sight:
The eyeless socket, dark and dull,
The hideous grinning of the skull,
Are sights which Memory disowns,
Thou melancholy Vale of Bones!

1. Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.'

HOR.

Were not the pearls it fans more clear Than 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:

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?

PERSIA

One of the most notable of these juvenile poems. The familiarity with Persian history and geography is remarkable in one so young; and proper names are managed with much skill.

'The flower and choice
Of many provinces from bound to bound.'

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,

MILTON.

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

Ought 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 Thymbria'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 Caïster'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,2 Adiabene's plains of rice,

Where down th' Euphrates, swift and strong,