In Memoriam
Alfred Tennyson




I. through XX.

XXI.through XLI

XLI through LX.

LXI through LXXX.

LXXXI through C.

CI through CXX.

CXXI through CXXXI.

Poets' Corner Scripting
© 2000, 2020 S.L. Spanoudis and
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Transcribed for Poets' Corner
March 2000 by S.L.Spanoudis

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Alfred Tennyson

[Arthur Hugh Hallam]

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson


      Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun
      And ready, thou, to die with him,
      Thou watchest all things ever dim
      And dimmer, and a glory done:

      The team is loosen'd from the wain,
      The boat is drawn upon the shore;
      Thou listenest to the closing door,
      And life is darken'd in the brain.

      Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night,
      By thee the world's great work is heard
      Beginning, and the wakeful bird;
      Behind thee comes the greater light:

      The market boat is on the stream,
      And voices hail it from the brink;
      Thou hear'st the village hammer clink,
      And see'st the moving of the team.

      Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name
      For what is one, the first, the last,
      Thou, like my present and my past,
      Thy place is changed; thou art the same.


      Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then,
      While I rose up against my doom,
      And yearn'd to burst the folded gloom,
      To bare the eternal Heavens again,

      To feel once more, in placid awe,
      The strong imagination roll
      A sphere of stars about my soul,
      In all her motion one with law;

      If thou wert with me, and the grave
      Divide us not, be with me now,
      And enter in at breast and brow,
      Till all my blood, a fuller wave,

      Be quicken'd with a livelier breath,
      And like an inconsiderate boy,
      As in the former flash of joy,
      I slip the thoughts of life and death;

      And all the breeze of Fancy blows,
      And every dew-drop paints a bow,
      The wizard lightnings deeply glow,
      And every thought breaks out a rose.


      There rolls the deep where grew the tree.
      O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
      There where the long street roars, hath been
      The stillness of the central sea.

      The hills are shadows, and they flow
      From form to form, and nothing stands;
      They melt like mist, the solid lands,
      Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

      But in my spirit will I dwell,
      And dream my dream, and hold it true;
      For tho' my lips may breathe adieu,
      I cannot think the thing farewell.


      That which we dare invoke to bless;
      Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt;
      He, They, One, All; within, without;
      The Power in darkness whom we guess;

      I found Him not in world or sun,
      Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;
      Nor thro' the questions men may try,
      The petty cobwebs we have spun:

      If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep,
      I heard a voice 'believe no more'
      And heard an ever-breaking shore
      That tumbled in the Godless deep;

      A warmth within the breast would melt
      The freezing reason's colder part,
      And like a man in wrath the heart
      Stood up and answer'd 'I have felt.'

      No, like a child in doubt and fear:
      But that blind clamour made me wise;
      Then was I as a child that cries,
      But, crying, knows his father near;

      And what I am beheld again
      What is, and no man understands;
      And out of darkness came the hands
      That reach thro' nature, moulding men.


      Whatever I have said or sung,
      Some bitter notes my harp would give,
      Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live
      A contradiction on the tongue,

      Yet Hope had never lost her youth;
      She did but look through dimmer eyes;
      Or Love but play'd with gracious lies,
      Because he felt so fix'd in truth:

      And if the song were full of care,
      He breathed the spirit of the song;
      And if the words were sweet and strong
      He set his royal signet there;

      Abiding with me till I sail
      To seek thee on the mystic deeps,
      And this electric force, that keeps
      A thousand pulses dancing, fail.


      Love is and was my Lord and King,
      And in his presence I attend
      To hear the tidings of my friend,
      Which every hour his couriers bring.

      Love is and was my King and Lord,
      And will be, tho' as yet I keep
      Within his court on earth, and sleep
      Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

      And hear at times a sentinel
      Who moves about from place to place,
      And whispers to the worlds of space,
      In the deep night, that all is well.


      And all is well, tho' faith and form
      Be sunder'd in the night of fear;
      Well roars the storm to those that hear
      A deeper voice across the storm,

      Proclaiming social truth shall spread,
      And justice, ev'n tho' thrice again
      The red fool-fury of the Seine
      Should pile her barricades with dead.

      But ill for him that wears a crown,
      And him, the lazar, in his rags:
      They tremble, the sustaining crags;
      The spires of ice are toppled down,

      And molten up, and roar in flood;
      The fortress crashes from on high,
      The brute earth lightens to the sky,
      And the great Ĉon sinks in blood,

      And compass'd by the fires of Hell;
      While thou, dear spirit, happy star,
      O'erlook'st the tumult from afar,
      And smilest, knowing all is well.


      The love that rose on stronger wings,
      Unpalsied when he met with Death,
      Is comrade of the lesser faith
      That sees the course of human things.

      No doubt vast eddies in the flood
      Of onward time shall yet be made,
      And throned races may degrade;
      Yet O ye mysteries of good,

      Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,
      If all your office had to do
      With old results that look like new;
      If this were all your mission here,

      To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,
      To fool the crowd with glorious lies,
      To cleave a creed in sects and cries,
      To change the bearing of a word,

      To shift an arbitrary power,
      To cramp the student at his desk,
      To make old bareness picturesque
      And tuft with grass a feudal tower;

      Why then my scorn might well descend
      On you and yours. I see in part
      That all, as in some piece of art,
      Is toil coöperant to an end.


      Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
      So far, so near in woe and weal;
      O loved the most, when most I feel
      There is a lower and a higher;

      Known and unknown; human, divine;
      Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
      Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
      Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;

      Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
      Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
      Behold, I dream a dream of good,
      And mingle all the world with thee.


      Thy voice is on the rolling air;
      I hear thee where the waters run;
      Thou standest in the rising sun,
      And in the setting thou art fair.

      What art thou then? I cannot guess;
      But tho' I seem in star and flower
      To feel thee some diffusive power,
      I do not therefore love thee less:

      My love involves the love before;
      My love is vaster passion now;
      Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,
      I seem to love thee more and more.

      Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
      I have thee still, and I rejoice;
      I prosper, circled with thy voice;
      I shall not lose thee tho' I die.


      O living will that shalt endure
      When all that seems shall suffer shock,
      Rise in the spiritual rock,
      Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure,

      That we may lift from out of dust
      A voice as unto him that hears,
      A cry above the conquer'd years
      To one that with us works, and trust,

      With faith that comes of self-control,
      The truths that never can be proved
      Until we close with all we loved,
      And all we flow from, soul in soul.


      O true and tried, so well and long,
      Demand not thou a marriage lay;
      In that it is thy marriage day
      Is music more than any song.

      Nor have I felt so much of bliss
      Since first he told me that he loved
      A daughter of our house; nor proved
      Since that dark day a day like this;

      Tho' I since then have number'd o'er
      Some thrice three years: they went and came,
      Remade the blood and changed the frame,
      And yet is love not less, but more;

      No longer caring to embalm
      In dying songs a dead regret,
      But like a statue solid-set,
      And moulded in colossal calm.

      Regret is dead, but love is more
      Than in the summers that are flown,
      For I myself with these have grown
      To something greater than before;

      Which makes appear the songs I made
      As echoes out of weaker times,
      As half but idle brawling rhymes,
      The sport of random sun and shade.

      But where is she, the bridal flower,
      That must he made a wife ere noon?
      She enters, glowing like the moon
      Of Eden on its bridal bower:

      On me she bends her blissful eyes
      And then on thee; they meet thy look
      And brighten like the star that shook
      Betwixt the palms of paradise.

      O when her life was yet in bud,
      He too foretold the perfect rose.
      For thee she grew, for thee she grows
      For ever, and as fair as good.

      And thou art worthy; full of power;
      As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
      Consistent; wearing all that weight
      Of learning lightly like a flower.

      But now set out: the noon is near,
      And I must give away the bride;
      She fears not, or with thee beside
      And me behind her, will not fear.

      For I that danced her on my knee,
      That watch'd her on her nurse's arm,
      That shielded all her life from harm
      At last must part with her to thee;

      Now waiting to be made a wife,
      Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
      Their pensive tablets round her head,
      And the most living words of life

      Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
      The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and again
      The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of twain
      Her sweet 'I will' has made you one.

      Now sign your names, which shall be read,
      Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
      By village eyes as yet unborn;
      The names are sign'd, and overhead

      Begins the clash and clang that tells
      The joy to every wandering breeze;
      The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
      The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

      O happy hour, and happier hours
      Await them. Many a merry face
      Salutes them-maidens of the place,
      That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

      O happy hour, behold the bride
      With him to whom her hand I gave.
      They leave the porch, they pass the grave
      That has to-day its sunny side.

      To-day the grave is bright for me,
      For them the light of life increased,
      Who stay to share the morning feast,
      Who rest to-night beside the sea.

      Let all my genial spirits advance
      To meet and greet a whiter sun;
      My drooping memory will not shun
      The foaming grape of eastern France.

      It circles round, and fancy plays,
      And hearts are warm'd and faces bloom,
      As drinking health to bride and groom
      We wish them store of happy days.

      Nor count me all to blame if I
      Conjecture of a stiller guest,
      Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
      And, tho' in silence, wishing joy.

      But they must go, the time draws on,
      And those white-favour'd horses wait;
      They rise, but linger; it is late;
      Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

      A shade falls on us like the dark
      >From little cloudlets on the grass,
      But sweeps away as out we pass
      To range the woods, to roam the park,

      Discussing how their courtship grew,
      And talk of others that are wed,
      And how she look'd, and what he said,
      And back we come at fall of dew.

      Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
      The shade of passing thought, the wealth
      Of words and wit, the double health,
      The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

      And last the dance;-till I retire:
      Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
      And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
      And on the downs a rising fire:

      And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
      Till over down and over dale
      All night the shining vapour sail
      And pass the silent-lighted town,

      The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
      And catch at every mountain head,
      And o'er the friths that branch and spread
      Their sleeping silver thro' the hills;

      And touch with shade the bridal doors,
      With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
      And breaking let the splendour fall
      To spangle all the happy shores

      By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
      And, star and system rolling past,
      A soul shall draw from out the vast
      And strike his being into bounds,

      And, moved thro' life of lower phase,
      Result in man, be born and think,
      And act and love, a closer link
      Betwixt us and the crowning race

      Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
      On knowledge; under whose command
      Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand
      Is Nature like an open book;

      No longer half-akin to brute,
      For all we thought and loved and did,
      And hoped, and suffer'd, is but seed
      Of what in them is flower and fruit;

      Whereof the man, that with me trod
      This planet, was a noble type
      Appearing ere the times were ripe,
      That friend of mine who lives in God,

      That God, which ever lives and loves,
      One God, one law, one element,
      And one far-off divine event,
      To which the whole creation moves.

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