A hundred times more worth a woman's

love,

Than this, this- but I waste no words upon him:

His wickedness is like my wretchedness
Beyond all language.

609

(To Harold.) You - you see her there! Only fifteen when first you came on her, And then the sweetest flower of all the wolds,

So lovely in the promise of her May, So winsome in her grace and gaiety, So loved by all the village people here, So happy in herself and in her home Dobson (agitated). Theer, theer! ha' done. I can't abeär to see her. [Exit.

Dora. A child, and all as trustful as a child!

Five years of shame and suffering broke the heart

620

That ever made earth tremble-he, nor I

The shelter of your roof not for one mo

ment

Nothing from you!

64c

Sunk in the deepest pit of pauperism, Push'd from all doors as if we bore the

plague,

Smitten with fever in the open field,
Laid famine-stricken at the gates of
Death

Nothing from you!

Forgave

ever

But she there her last word and I forgive you. If you

Forgive yourself, you are even lower and

baser

Than even I can well believe you. Go! [He lies at her feet. Curtain falls.

1. SELECTIONS FROM POEMS

BY TWO BROTHERS'

In 1893 the present Lord Tennyson pubished 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 volume, 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.

6

MEMORY

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 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:

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!

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.

THE EXILE'S HARP

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, forsaken,

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
Shall 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 the roses are twining

Thy chords with their bright blossoms glowing and red:

Though the lapse of one day see their freshness declining,

Yet bloom for one day when thy ninstrel has filed!

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!

'WHY SHOULD WE WEEP FOR THOSE WHO DIE?'

I doubt whether this poem is rightly attributed to Alfred.

'Quamobrem, si dolorum finem mors affert, si securioris et melioris initium vitæ: si futura mala avertit -cur eam tantopere accusare, ex qua potius consolationem et lætitiam haurire fas esset?'- CICERO.

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.

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?

REMORSE

The complex interlacing of the rhymes is peculiar to Alfred. Compare 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 aching eyes.