The half-blown moon is limned against the west, OCTOBER SNOW. THE east glowed like a blush rose fair, At noon a gust of feathered rain The green grass took a daintier shade As day declined the storm waxed brave; IN THE DELPHIC CHAMBER. As when the buds of oak and maple swell, We look for early glimpse of emerald spray Thick-set with blooms, and signs begin to tell Of daisied valleys bringing in the May, So the fresh youth, the laugh, the dewy eye, The pride of mothers and of nature, bring The promise of rare manhood by and by, Whose fragrance of kind words and deeds shall swing Like censers o'er the brown, dry fields of life. Into new pastures in the realm of thought, And vineyards where the wine of wisdom grows, Bend your young feet; for never deeds are wrought Worthy a man, save as his whole face glows With highest reach of knowledge in his sphere; With purpose grand, and utmost exercise Of gift with which his God endowed him. Here Pluck the full ears of learning, for the prize Of truth in jewels overturn the soil With shares thrice tempered by a pliant will To mould to greatness all the petty toil With book and pen, and fashion good from ill. To buy, and sell, and gain; to write a book; To build a house, or sail upon the sea; To play the master's music, or to cook; To be well skilled in all the arts that be Were poor attainment, if above it all No sense of human brotherhood held sway As pilot of the craft. The words that fall Like gracious raindrops on an April day Drop from the sky for you; the faithful tears Which water other lives, nor guerdon ask, Shall bring full harvest in the sunless years Where God is light and love the only task. ON THE BEACH. A SOFT September twilight draped the sea; Along the dim horizon swept a sail That vanished soon; a flock of gulls flew by Catching my transient notice; ceased the moan Of rushing wave one instant, while a trail Of moonlight quivered o'er it; then the sky Was blank; the sea and I held tryst alone. ETUDE. My love sings like the mavis Her eyes are star-time sapphires I think the brook's low laughter Brims them too. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Her ears like ocean shell pinks Brightly blush; She hears the choirs of cloudland At eve's hush. Her tresses fling defiance To the sun; She's blossom, bird and fairy Blent in one. Her lips, like trim carnations I've pressed, in love's emotion, Her hand is like a leaf-touch, Enchains me, when I feel it Her soul is like the Alpine Her steel-true heart is to me My love's the contemplation I lay all gifts before her;— WHEN COMES THE CROWN? THE morn breaks gloriously; refreshed with sleep, The field is treeless; briers line the way His bruised and wearied limbs, and all the spheres Break into silent singing; angels bend Anear to see him by the Father crowned; "Thus shall it be to him who wrought with tears And loved and prayed and trusted to the end." RETROSPECT. The yesterdays are risen All ruthless from their tomb, And rob the young to-morrow Of all its hopeful bloom. -Routine. A ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 29 LFRED TENNYSON, England's beloved poet laureate, and one of the sweetest singers the world has ever known, passed peacefully away, full of years and honors, to unknown. realms, early in the morning of October 6th, 1892. The announcement of such a sad event could not help being received by all who speak the English tongue with a deep sense of personal loss, for he was not only a poet's poet, but he was also the people's poet, pleasing, alike, all tastes, and appealing as he did, to the better nature and sympathies of the masses. He was born in 1809, the same year in which Oliver Wendell Holmes and Gladstone first entered this world, at Somersby, in Lincolnshire, England. His father was the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL. D., a man of noble birth and fine character, while his mother was a sweet, gentle woman, possessing great imaginative powers and much ability. His home was picturesquely situated and abounded with beauty mingled with the utmost refinement. It was partly there and partly at the village school that Tennyson received his early education, and at this early period in his life he showed signs of possessing a strong poetic vein, writing verses on a slate for pleasure and recreation. He loved the sea passionately and when its inspiration was upon him he poured out verse after verse. But it was not until 1827 that any of his efforts appeared in print, and then it was in the form of a small volume, of which almost nothing has been preserved, and which was entitled: "Poems by Two Brothers." In 1828 Alfred joined his two brothers at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he gained the distinction of carrying off the Chancellor's medal for a poem in blank verse on "Timbuctoo," in which one can trace the impress of his rare genius, that was by degrees developing. His first volume of poems known by, "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical," appeared in 1832, and it was severely criticized as being weak and immature; but, ten years hence, when he had completely revised the former volume, to which had been added many new poems, he gained for himself a position of absolute supremacy which has never since grown less, but has steadily increased. While at Cambridge he formed an acquaintance with Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the eminent historian, which afterwards ripened into a strong and exceedingly warm friendship, and at whose death, Tennyson wrote a tribute of affection to his memory, the world renowned "In Memoriam." In 1847 Tennyson wrote "The Princess, A Medley," which was written in rather a novel style, being a combination of an epic and a series of lyrics. On the death of Wordsworth, Tennyson succeeded him as poet laureate, in which capacity he wrote many praiseworthy poems commemorating great events of national interest. Not long after this, "Maud, and Other Poems," appeared, but they lacked the enthusiastic admiration that was wont to be showered upon his efforts; however, "The Idylls of the King," which appeared a few years later more than compensated, in every way, for any deficiency on the part of the other. It is difficult to over-estimate the value of Tennyson's works, and it is not an easy matter to criticize them dispassionately, as one is apt to become enamored with their beauties. His verse exemplifies the ornate in poetry; nothing can excel the delicate chiselling, the chaste coloring, and the exquisite polish of his lines and stanzas, and there is such a delicious blending of sound and sense pervading the whole. He was much beloved by a circle of intimate friends, among the number are included Carlyle and Gladstone-but for the most part, he lived a quiet and retiring life, always shrinking from the public gaze, and bearing his honors and wealth as simply and as sweetly as he had done his poverty and neglect, without the least suspicion of vanity. He was the first commoner who was ever raised to the House of Lords for literary eminence alone, being neither a politician nor a statesman. The cordial relationship which existed between Tennyson and the United States was greatly strengthened by his attachment with Longfellow. After his marriage with Emily Sellwood, a niece of Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic voyager, he resided for some time at a romantic spot in the Isle of Wight, where he and his family spent many of the happiest years of their lives. The following is the description given by Carlyle to Emerson, of the poet: "One of the finest looking men in the world. A great shock of rough, dusty dark hair; bright, laughing hazel eyes; massive, aquiline face; most massive, yet most delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian looking; clothes cynically loose, free and easy; smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical metallicfit for loud laughter and piercing wail and all that may be between; speech and speculation free and plenteous; I do not meet, in these late decades, such company over a pipe." E. M. K. LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired; The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hudred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh! your sweet eyes, your low replies; A great enchantress you may be, But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door; You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere; You pine among your halls and towers; The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said; Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Into the valley of Death Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Boldly they rode and well, Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, All the world wonder'd. Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not, Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Volley'd and thunder'd; When can their glory fade? THE SISTERS. We were two daughters of one race; The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell, Therefore revenge became me well. O, the Earl was fair to see! She died; she went to burning flame; O, the Earl was fair to see! I made a feast; I bade him come; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, O, the Earl was fair to see! 31 |