Than this, this-but I waste no words To make, to make What then? Dora. What did you hope to make? Harold. 'T were best to make an end of my lost life. O Dora, Dora! 631 CROSSING THE BAR This poem first appeared in the 'Demeter' volume of 1889, but is placed here in accordance with Lord Tennyson's request that it might be put at the end of all editions of his poems. See the Memoir,' vol. ii. p. 367. SUNSET and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, When that which drew from out the bound. less deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and The flood may bear me far, APPENDIX 1. SELECTIONS FROM 'POEMS BY TWO BROTHERS' 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 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. 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 present before me 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 Memory! why, oh why, This fond heart consuming, Shew me years gone by, When those hopes were blooming? Hopes which now are parted, I knew not then its strife, 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 The poison-shrubs are dropping Our greenest boughs away! Ah! these are thoughts that grieve me Why lift the veil, dividing From age's frosty mansion, So cheerless and so chill? Where 's now that peace of mind So exquisite a feeling? Where 's now the heart exulting And gaiety, resulting From conscious innocence? All, all have past and fled, I stand like some lone tower 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! 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 the roses 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 fied! Oh! Harp of my fathers! '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? Within the mansions of the just. They die to live-they sink to rise, Shall smile on them for evermore. Why should we sorrow for the dead? The noblest songster of the gale When Autumn tints the changing year. The fairest flower on earth must fade, The soul, th' eternal soul, must reign REMORSE The The complex interlacing of the rhymes is peculiar to Alfred. Compare Persia,' Fall of Jerusalem,' 'Time,' etc. '— sudant tacita præcordia culpa, ' — JUVENAL Pourtray'd in shapes, alas! too true; 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, Too little to be ever blest, 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 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; And ye have look'd at me and laugh'd, 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, 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; |