 CHAPTER I I COME FROM haunts of coot and hern, I make sudden sally, and sparkle out among the fern to bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, or slip between the ridges. By twenty thorps, a little town, and half a hundred bridges. I chatter over stony ways, and little sharps and trebles. I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret, by many a field and fallow, and many a fairy foreland set, with willow weed and mellow. And here and there a foamy lake, upon me as I travel, with many a silvery water-break above the golden gravel, and draw them all along, and flow to join the brimming river, for men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever. CHAPTER II Song from Maud See what a lovely shell, small and pure as a pearl, lying close to my foot. Frail, but a work divine, made so fairly well, with delicate spire and whirl, how exquisitely minute, a miracle of design. What is it? A learned man could give it a clumsy name? Let him name it who can. The beauty would be the same. The tiny cell is forlorn, void of the little living will, that made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push, when he was uncurled, a golden foot, or a fairy horn, through his dim water world? Slight to be crushed with a tap, of my fingernail on the sand. Small, but a work divine, frail, but a force to withstand, year upon year, the shock of cataract seas that snap the three-decker's oaken spine, a thwart the ledges of rock, here on the Breton Strand. CHAPTER III Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, thy tribute wave deliver. No more by thee my steps shall be for ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lee, a rivulet than a river. Nowhere by thee my steps shall be for ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, and here thine aspen shiver, and here by thee will hum the bee, for ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, a thousand moons will quiver. But not by thee my steps shall be for ever and for ever. CHAPTER IV SONG FROM MOD Come into the garden, mod, for the black bat night has flown. Come into the garden, mod, I am here at the gate alone, and the wood-bind spices are wafted abroad, and the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, and the planet of love is on high, beginning to faint and the light that she loves on a bed of daffodil sky, to faint and the light of the sun she loves to faint in his light and to die. There has fallen a splendid tear from the passion flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear. She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, she is near, she is near, and the white rose weeps. She is late, the lark spur listens, I hear, I hear, and the lily whispers, I wait. She is coming, my own, my sweet, were it ever so area tread. My heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed. My dust would hear her and beat, had I lain for a century dead, would start and tremble under her feet, and blossom in purple and red. CHAPTER V. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK, on thy cold grey stones, O sea, and I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, that he shouts with his sister at play. O well for the sailor lat, that he sings in his boat, on the bay, and the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill. But O for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK, at the foot of thy crags, O sea, but the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back to me. CHAPTER VI. Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands. Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the cords with might. Smote the cord of self, that trembling, passed in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copes' ring, and her whisper thronged my pulses with the fullness of the spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shower-hearted, O my Amy, mine no more, O the dreary, dreary moorland, O the barren, barren shore. CHAPTER VI. SONG FROM MAUD. Go not happy day from the shining fields. Go not happy day till the maiden yields. Rosie is the west, Rosie is the south, roses are her cheeks, and a rose her mouth. When the happy, yes, falters from her lips. Pass and blush the news over glowing ships, over blowing seas, over seas at rest. Pass the happy news, blush it through the west, till the red man dance by his red cedar tree and the red man's babe leap beyond the sea. Blush from west to east, blush from east to west, till the west is east. Blush it through the west, Rosie is the west, Rosie is the south, roses are her cheeks, and a rose her mouth. CHAPTER VIII. SONG FROM THE PRINCESS. Sweet and low, sweet and low, wind of the western sea, low, low, breathe and blow, wind of the western sea, over the rolling waters go, come from the dying moon and blow, blow him again to me, while my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, father will come to thee soon, rest, rest on mother's breast, father will come to thee soon, father will come to his babe in the nest, silver sails all out of the west, under the silver moon. Sleep my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. END OF CHAPTER VIII. CHAPTER IX. LILLIAN. ARI. FARY. LILLIAN. FLITTING. FARY. LILLIAN. When I ask her if she love me, claps her tiny hands above me, laughing all she can. She'll not tell me if she love me, cruel little Lillian. When my passion seeks pleasant in love sighs, she, looking through and through me, thoroughly to undo me, smiling, never speaks, so innocent arch, so cunning simple, from beneath her gathered wimple, glancing with black beaded eyes, till the lightning laughter dimple, the baby roses in her cheeks, then away she flies. Pry thee weep, may Lillian. Gayety without eclipse, wearyeth me, may Lillian. Through my very heart it thrilleth, when from crimson-threaded lips, silver treble laughter trilleth. Pry thee weep, may Lillian. Praying all I can, if prayers will not hush thee, airy Lillian, like a rose leaf, I will crush thee, fairy Lillian. CHAPTER X RING OUT WILD BELLS. Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, the flying cloud, the frosty light, the year is dying in the night. Ring out wild bells and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new. Ring happy bells across the snow. The year is going, let him go. Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that here we see no more. Ring out the feud of rich and poor, ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, and ancient forms of party strife. Ring in the nobler modes of life, with sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, the faithless coldness of the times. Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, but ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, the civic slander and the spite. Ring in the love of truth and right, ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, ring out the narrowing lust of gold. Ring out the thousand wars of old, ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free. The larger heart, the kindlier hand. Ring out the darkness of the land, ring in the Christ that is to be. End of chapter 10 CHAPTER 11. FROM THE PRINCESS TEARS. IDLE TEARS. I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair rise in the heart and gather to the eyes and looking on the happy autumn fields and thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail that brings our friends up from the underworld. Sad as the last which reddens over one that sinks with all we love below the verge. So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange, as in dark summer dawns the earliest pipe of half-awakened birds to dying ears, when unto dying eyes the casement slowly grows a glimmering square. So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remembered kisses after death, and sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others. Miss love, deep as first love, and wild with all regret. O death in life, the days that are no more. CHAPTER 12. SONG. FROM THE PRINCESS. The splendor falls on castle walls and snowy summits old in story. The long light shakes across the lakes, and the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle, answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, o hear, how thin and clear, and thinner, clearer, farther going. O sweet and far from cliff and scar, the horns of Elfland faintly blowing. Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying. Blow, bugle, answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, they faint on hill or field or river. Our echoes roll from soul to soul, and grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, and answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. END OF CHAPTER XII. CHAPTER XIII. FROM ENIC ARTON. The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns and winding glades high up like ways to heaven. The slender cocos drooping, crown of plumes, the lightning flash of insect and of bird, the luster of the long convalvuluses, that coiled around the stately stems, and ran even to the limit of the land, the glows and glories of the broad belt of the world, all these he saw. But what he fain had seen he could not see, the kindly human face, nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard the myriad shriek of wheeling ocean fowl, the league long roller thundering on the reef, the moving whisper of huge trees that branched, and blossomed in the zenith, for the sweep of some prespicious rivulet to the wave, as down the shore he ranged, or all day long sat often in the seaward gazing gorge, a shipwrecked sailor waiting for a sail. No sail from day to day, but every day the sunrise broken into scarlet shafts, among the palms and ferns and precipices, the blaze upon the waters to the east, the blaze upon his island over head, the blaze upon the waters to the west, then the great stars that globed themselves in heaven, the hollower bellowing ocean, and again the scarlet shafts of sunrise, but no sail. End of Chapter 13, Chapter 14 from Enoch Arden. But Enoch yearned to see her face again, if I might look on her sweet face again and know that she is happy, so the thought haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth at evening, when the dull November day was growing duller twilight, to the hill, there he sat down gazing on all below. There did a thousand memories roll upon him, unspeakable for sadness. By and by the ruddy square of comfortable light, for blazing from the rear of Philip's house, allured him, as the beacon blaze allures the bird of passage, till he madly strikes against it, and beats out his weary life. For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, the latest house to landward, but behind, with one small gate that opened on the waist, flourished a little garden square and walled, and in it throwed an ancient evergreen, a yew-tree, and all round it ran a walk of shingle, and a walk divided it. But Enoch shunned at the middle walk, and stole up by the wall, behind the yew, and thence that which he better might have shunned, if griefs like his have worse or better. Enoch saw. Chapter 15 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, and to the valley of death rode the six hundred. Forward the light brigade, was there a man dismayed? But though the soldier knew, some one had blundered. There's not to make reply, there's not to reason why, there's but to do and die. Into the valley of death rode the six hundred. Cannon to left of them, cannon to right of them, cannon in front of them, volleyed and thundered, stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode and well into the jaws of death, into the mouth of hell rode the six hundred. Flashed all their sabers bare, flashed as they turned in air, sabering the gunners there, charging an army, while all the world wondered, plunged in the batteries smoke, right through the line they broke, Cossack and Russian reeled from the sabers' stroke, shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not, not the six hundred. Cannon to left of them, cannon to right of them, cannon behind them, volleyed and thundered, stormed at with shot and shell, while horse and hero fell, they that had fought so well came through the jaws of death, back from the mouth of hell, all that was left of them, left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made. Honor the light brigade. All six hundred. CHAPTER 16 FROM THE MAY QUEEN You must wake and call me early. Call me early, mother dear. Tomorrow will be the happiest time of all the glad new year. Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day. For I'm to be queen of the may, mother, I'm to be queen of the may. As many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine. There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Carolyn, but none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say. So I'm to be queen of the may, mother, I'm to be queen of the may. END OF CHAPTER 16 CHAPTER 17 SONG FROM THE PRINCESS As through the land at Eve we went, and plucked the ripened ears. We fell out, my wife and I. Oh, we fell out, I know not why, and kissed again with tears. And blessings on the falling out, that all the more endears, when we fall out with those we love and kiss again with tears. For when we came, where lies the child, we lost in other years. There above the little grave. Oh, there above the little grave, we kissed again with tears. END OF CHAPTER 17 CHAPTER 18 FROM HEROLD TOASTIC What for Norway, then? He looks for land among us, he and his. Herold. Seven feet of English land, or something more, seeing he is a giant. Toastic. That is noble. That sounds of Godwin. Herold. Come thou back and be once more a son of Godwin. Toastic turns away. Oh, brother. Brother. Oh, Herold. Laying his hand on Toastic's shoulder. Nay, then. Come thou back to us. Toastic. After a pause turning to him. Never shall any man say that I, that Toastic, conjured the mightier Herold from the north to do the battle for me here in England. Then left him for the meaner, thee. Thou hast no passion for the house of Godwin. Thou hast but cared to make thyself a king. Thou hast sold me for a cry. Thou gavest thy voice against me in the council. I hate thee, and despise thee, and defy thee. Farewell for ever. Exit. Herold. Onto Stamford Bridge. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19. From the Revenge. And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer sea. But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship the whole night long their high-built galleons came. Ship after ship the whole night long with her battle thunder and flame. Ship after ship the whole night long drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk, and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more. Not of battles was ever a battle like this in the world before. And the night went down, and the sun smiled out, far over the summer sea. And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring, but they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting. So they watched what the end would be, and we had not fought them in vain. And in perilous plight were we, seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, and half of the rest of us maimed for life in the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife. And the sick men down in the hold were most of them, stark and cold, and the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent, and the masts and the rigging were lying over the side. End of Chapter 19. And also the end of Beauties of Tennyson.