Under this head, in the one-volume and seven-volume editions of 1884 and all subsequent editions, Lord Tennyson included certain poems from the volumes of 1830 and 1833 (some of which were suppressed in 1842), with others that had not appeared in any earlier authorized edition of his works. For those not printed in 1830 (or then printed, and afterwards suppressed for a time) see the prefatory notes to the poems. All those without prefatory notes (or reference in other notes) were printed in 1830 and reprinted in 1842.
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? When will the heart be aweary of beating? And mature die ?
Never, O, never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows,
The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.
Nothing will die; All things will change Thro' eternity.
"Tis the world's winter; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago; Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro',
Here and there, Till the air
And the ground
Shall be fill'd with life anew.
The world was never made; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range; For even and morn
Ever will be Thro' eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die;
All things will change.
Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow; The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat; For all things must die. All things must die.
Spring, vanity!
will come never more.
Death waits at the door.
See our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are call'd - - we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still; The voice of the bird Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill.
Low-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming;
Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines.
Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall.
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;
Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:
Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn.
Sadly the far kine loweth; the glimmering water outfloweth;
Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad
Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.
The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth,
Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.
Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even.
False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind ?
OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND
This poem, published in 1830, was suppressed for more than fifty years. In 1879 the Christian Signal,' an English journal, announced that its issue for September 6th would contain 'an early unpublished poem of over two hundred lines by Alfred Tennyson (P. L.), entitled 66 Confessions of a Sensitive Mind; " but the publication was prevented by a legal injunction. In 1884 the poem was included in the complete edition of the Laureate's works.
O GOD! my God! have mercy_now. I faint, I fall. Men say that Thou Didst die for me, for such as me,
Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, Wounding Thy soul. That even now, In this extremest misery
Of ignorance, I should require A sign! and if a bolt of fire
Would rive the slumbrous summer noon While I do pray to Thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow! Is not my human pride brought low? The boastings of my spirit still ? The joy I had in my free-will
All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? And what is left to me but Thou, And faith in Thee? Men pass me by; Christians with happy countenances And children all seem full of Thee! And women smile with saint-like glances Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd Above Thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And Thou and peace to earth were born. Good-will to me as well as all-
I one of them; my brothers they; Brothers in Christ—a world of peace And confidence, day after day;
And trust and hope till things should cease, And then one Heaven receive us all.
How sweet to have a common faith! To hold a common scorn of death! And at a burial to hear
The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er
Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!
Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee, Who lets his rosy fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes! They comfort him by night and day; They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes; He hath no care of life or death; Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart,
To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong,
That thou, if thou wert yet alive, In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still 'Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, My Lord, if so it be Thy will.'
Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod And chastisement of human pride;
'Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, 140 When I went forth in quest of truth, 'It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt at length Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs, at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The horned valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summer heats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flower'd furrow. In a time Of which he wots not, run short pains
Thro' his warm heart; and then, from whence
He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope, Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall man live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on ? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and analyze Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?' Ay me! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I idol? Let Thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremember'd, and Thy love Enlighten me. O, teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath.
O weary life! O weary death! O spirit and heart made desolate ! O damned vacillating state!
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