But thou, while kingdoms overset,
Or lapse from hand to hand,
Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet
Thine acorn in the land.

May never saw dismember thee,
Nor wielded axe disjoint,
That art the fairest-spoken tree
From here to Lizard-point.

O rock upon thy towery top
All throats that gurgle sweet!
All starry culmination drop

Balm-dews to bathe thy feet!

All grass of silky feather grow—
And while he sinks or swells

The full south-breeze around thee blow
The sound of minster bells.

The fat earth feed thy branchy root,
That under deeply strikes!

The northern morning o'er thee shoot
High up, in silver spikes!

Nor ever lightning char thy grain,
But, rolling as in sleep,

Low thunders bring the mellow rain,
That makes thee broad and deep!

And hear me swear a solemn oath,

That only by thy side

Will I to Olive plight my troth,
And gain her for my bride.

And when my marriage morn may fall,

She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball

In wreath about her hair.

And I will work in prose and rhyme,
And praise thee more in both
Than bard has honour'd beech or lime,
Or that Thessalian growth,1

In which the swarthy ringdove sat,
And mystic sentence spoke;
And more than England honours that,
Thy famous brother-oak,

Wherein the younger Charles abode
Till all the paths were dim,
And far below the Roundhead rode,
And humm'd a surly hymn.

LOVE AND DUTY

Published first in 1842.

Whether this beautiful poem is autobiographical and has reference to the compulsory separation of Tennyson and Miss Emily Sellwood, afterwards his wife, in 1840, it is impossible for this editor to say, as Lord Tennyson in his Lift of his father is silent on the subject.

Of love that never found his earthly close,

What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?

Or all the same as if he had not been?

Not so.

Shall Error in the round of time

Still father Truth? O shall the braggart shout 2
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law
System and empire? Sin itself be found
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun?
And only he, this wonder, dead, become
Mere highway dust? or year by year alone

1 A reference to the oracular oaks of Dodona which was, of course, in Epirus, but the Ancients believed, no doubt erroneously, that there was another Dodona in Thessaly. See the article "Dodona" in Smith's Dict. of Greek and Roman Geography.

2 As this passage is a little obscure, it may not be superfluous to point out that "shout" is a substantive.

Sit brooding in the ruins of a life,
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself!
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,
The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days,
The long mechanic pacings to and fro,
The set gray life, and apathetic end.
But am I not the nobler thro' thy love?
O three times less unworthy! likewise thou
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years.
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.

Will some one say, then why not ill for good?
Why took ye not your pastime? To that man
My work shall answer, since I knew the right
And did it; for a man is not as God,
But then most Godlike being most a man.

—So let me think 'tis well for thee and me—
Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine

Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow
To feel it! For how hard it seemed to me,

When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell
One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,

Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full-tuned,—hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd
Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul!

For love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—
O this world's curse—beloved but hated—came
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride,"
She push'd me from thee.

1 The distinction between "knowledge" and "wisdom" is a favourite one with Tennyson. See In Memoriam, cxiv.; Locksley Hall, 141, and for the same distinction see Cowper, Task, vi., 88-99.

1

If the sense is hard

To alien ears, I did not speak to these—
No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:
Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once? It could not but be well.
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,1
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,
And all good things from evil, brought the night
In which we sat together and alone,

And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart,
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears
As flow but once a life.

The trance gave way
To those caresses, when a hundred times
In that last kiss, which never was the last,
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.
Then follow'd counsel, comfort and the words
That make a man feel strong in speaking truth;
Till now the dark was worn, and overhead
The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd

In that brief night; the summer night, that paused
Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung
Love-charm'd to listen: all the wheels of Time
Spun round in station, but the end had come.

O then like those, who clench - their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose,

There closing like an individual life—
In one blind cry of passion and of pain,
Like bitter accusation ev'n to death,

Caught up the whole of love and utter'd it,
And bade adieu for ever.

lave—yet live—

Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all

Life needs for life is possible to will—

Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended by

My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts

Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou

For calmer hours to Memory's darkest hold,1
If not to be forgotten—not at once—
Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams,
O might it come like one that looks content,
With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth,
And point thee forward to a distant light,
Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart
And leave thee frëee, till thou wake refresh'd,
Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown
Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow of pearl
Far furrowing into light the mounded rack,
Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.

2

THE GOLDEN YEAR

This poem was first published in the fourth edition of the poems 1846. No alterations were made in it after 1851. The poem had a message for the time at which it was written. The country was in a very troubled state. The contest between the Protectionists and Free-traders was at its acutest stage. The Maynooth endowment and the "godless colleges" had brought into prominence questions of the gravest moment in religion and education, while the Corn Bill and the Coercion Bill had inflamed the passions of party politicians almost to madness. Tennyson, his son tells us, entered heartily into these questions, believing that the remedies for these distempers lay in the spread of education, a more catholic spirit in the press, a partial adoption of Free Trade principles, and union as far as possible among the different sections of Christianity.

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote:
It was last summer on a tour in Wales:

Old James was with me: we that day had been

Up Snowdon; and I wish'd for Leonard there,

1 Pathos, in the Greek sense, "suffering".

All editions up to and including 1850 have a small "s" and a small "m" for Shadow and Memory, and read thus:—

Too sadly for their peace, so put it back.
For calmer hours in memory's darkest hold,
If unforgotten! should it cross thy dreams,
So might it come, etc.

2 Cf. Princess, iii. :—

Morn in the white wake of the morning star
Came furrowing all the orient into gold,

and with both cf. Greene, Orlando Furioso, i., a :—

Seest thou not Lycaon's son ?

The hardy plough-swain unto mighty Jove
Hath trac'd his silver furrows in the heaven,

which in its turn is borrowed from Ariosto, Orl. Fur., xx., Ixxxii. :—

Apena avea Licaonia prole

Per li solchi del ciel volto L' aratro.