T'illume my night of wretchedness, Or lose the thoughts of what I do, Holds up the mirror to my view. With too much conscience to have rest, To yon vast world of endless woe, 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, That never wholesome plant would spring; I would not risk th' imagining From the full view my spirits shrink; I know the pangs that rack me now That waits me, when my burning brow Ye know how bitter was the draught; And ye have look'd at me and laugh'd, Should these old feet their course retread That I should lead the life I've led: My agony, my torturing shame, Oh, God! that thou wouldst grant that ne'er For when the trumpet's piercing cry And countless seraphs throng the sky, 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; And I have mov'd within thy sphere, Then when the shriekings of the dying The thunder of the brazen prows O'er Actium's ocean rung; I sought, I saw, I heard but thee: Thine on the earth, and on the throne, And, dying, still I am thine own, How shall my spirit joy to hear '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, The bleak river's desolate moan. The mountain's lone echoes repeat: I wander in darkness and sorrow, I heed not the blasts that sweep o'er me, I hail the wild sound of their raving, In this waste of existence, for solace, Those eyes that glanc'd love unto mine, OLD Sword! tho' dim and rusted Yet once around thee swell'd the cry Tho' age hath past upon thee What time amid the war of foes Old Sword! what arm hath wielded 'Mid lordly forms who shielded And who hath clov'n his foes in wrath And scatter'd in his perilous path Old Sword! whose fingers clasp'd thee Around thy carved hilt? And with that hand which grasp'd thee When fearlessly, with open hearts, Old Sword! I would not burnish Nor sweep away the tarnish Lie there, in slow and still decay, The relic of a former day, '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, 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 At times more bright they clearly fall 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 Their wan, white skulls show bleak and bare? 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! What lapse of time shall sweep away Your pennons rais'd, your clarions sounding, 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 dreadful emblems of thy might, 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, Were not thine eye a star might grace Had not thy locks the golden glow Around thy fair but faithless breast: Alas! I feel thy deep control, 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 LAND of bright eye and lofty brow! MILTON. In clustering maze or circling wreath, In bower untrod by foot of man, Ought of the fire of him who led Thine honours from thee one and all, 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, To view the setting of that star, 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, |