 Verses 101 through 120 of in-memoriam AHH This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Klett. In-memoriam AHH by Alfred Lord Tennyson. Verses 101 through 120. 101 Unwatched the garden bow shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down unloved, That beach will gather brown, This maple burn itself away. Unloved the sunflower shining fair, Ray round with flames her disc of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming-air. Unloved by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wane Is twisting round the polar star. Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake, Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon and creek and cove. Still from the garden and the wild, A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape Grow familiar to the stranger's child. As year by year the labourer Tills his won'ted gleeb, Or lops the glades, And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills. 102 We leave the well-beloved place Where first we gazed upon the sky. The roofs that heard our earliest cry Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden walks I move, Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, Hear thy boyhood sung long Since its matten song, And heard the low love-language Of the bird in native hazel's tassel-hung. The other answers, Yea, but here thy feet have strayed In after-hours with thy lost friend among the bowers, And this have made them trebly dear. These two have striven half the day, And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game That will not yield each other way. I turn to go. My feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms. They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. 103 On that last night Before we went from out the doors Where I was bred, I dreamed a vision of the dead Which left my after-mourn content. Me thought I dwelt within a hall, And maidens with me, Distant hills from hidden summits Fed with rills, a river sliding by the wall. The hall with harp and carol rang, They sang of what is wise and good and graceful, In the centre stood a statue veiled, To which they sang, And which, though veiled, was known to me, The shape of him I loved, and love for ever. Then flew in a dove, And brought a summons from the sea. And when they learnt that I must go, They wept and wailed, but led the way to where little shallow lay At anchor in the flood below. And on by many a level mead, And shadowing bluff that made the banks, We glided winding under ranks of iris And the golden reed. And still as Vaster grew the shore, And rolled the floods in grander space, The maidens gathered strength and grace and presence Lordlier than before. And I myself, who sat apart and watched them, Waxed in every limb, I felt the thues of Anakim, The pulses of a titan's heart. As one would sing the death of war, And one would chant the history of that great race which is to be, And won the shaping of a star, Until the forward creeping tides begin to foam, And we to draw from deep to deep to where we saw A great ship lift her shining sides. The man we loved was there on deck, But thrice as large as man he bent to greet us. Off the side I went, And fell in silence on his neck. Where at those maidens with one mind Bewailed their lot, I did them wrong. We served thee here, they said, So long, and wilt thou leave us now behind? So rapt I was, they could not win an answer from my lips. But he, replying, Enter likewise ye and go with us, they entered in. And while the wind began to sweep A music out of sheet and shroud, We steered her toward a crimson cloud That land-like slept along the deep. One of four. The time draws near the birth of Christ, The moon is hid, the night is still. A single church below the hill is peeling, Folded in the mist. A single peel of bells below, That wakens at this hour of rest, A single murmur in the breast, That these are not the bells I know. Like strangers' voices hear they sound In lands where not a memory strays, Nor landmark breathes of other days, But all is new, unhallowed ground. One of five. Tonight un-gathered let us leave this laurel, Let this holly stand. We live within the stranger's land, And strangely falls our Christmas eve. Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows. There in due time the wood-bind blows, The violet comes, but we are gone. No more shall wayward grief abuse The genial hour with mask and mime, For change of place, like growth of time, Has broke the bond of dying use. Let cares that petty shadows cast, By which our lives are chiefly proved, A little spare the night I loved, And hold its solemn to the past. But let no footstep beat the floor, Nor bowl of wassal mantle warm, For who would keep an ancient form Through which the spirit breathes no more? Be neither song nor game nor feast, Nor harp be touched nor flute be blown, No dance, no motion save alone What lightens in the lucid east Of rising worlds by yonder wood. Long sleeps the summer in the seed, Run out your measured arcs, And lead the closing cycle rich in good. 106. 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 hear 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 by 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. 107 It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank behind a purple frosty bank of vapour, Leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies the blast of north and east, And ice makes daggers at the sharpened eaves, And bristles all the breaks and thorns To yawn hard crescent, As she hangs above the wood Which grinds and clangs its leafless ribs And iron horns together In the drifts that pass to darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass, Bring in great logs and let them lie To make a solid core of heat, Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things even as he were by. We keep the day, With festal cheer, with books and music, Surely we will drink to him, what ere he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. 108 I will not shut me from my kind, And lest I stiffen into stone, I will not eat my heart alone, Nor feed with sighs of passing wind. What prophet lies in barren faith And vacant yearning, So with might to scale the heavens' highest height, Or dive below the wells of death? What find I in the highest place, But mine own phantom chanting hymns? And on the depths of death There swims the reflex of a human face? I'll rather take what fruit May be of sorrow under human skies. Tis held sorrow makes us wise Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 109 Art affluence in discursive talk From household fountains never dry. The critic clearness of an eye That saw through all the muses' walk. Seraphic intellect and force To seize and throw the doubts of man, Impassioned logic which outran The hear in its fiery course. High nature, amorous of the good, But touched with no ascetic gloom, And passion pure and snowy bloom Through all the years of April blood. A love of freedom rarely felt, Of freedom in herringo's seat of England, Not the school-boy heat, The blind hysterics of the kelt. And madhood fused with female grace In such a sort, The child would twine a trustful hand, Unasked in thine, And find his comfort in thy face. All these have been, And thee mine eyes have looked on. If they looked in vain, My shame is greater who remain, For let thy wisdom make me wise. 1010 Thy converse drew us with delight, The men of wrath and riper years, The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal hearted hung, The proud was half disarmed of pride, Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his double tongue. The stern were mild when thou were't by, The flippant put himself to school, And heard thee, and the brazen fool Was softened, and he knew not why. While I, thy nearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine, And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art. Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. 111 The churl in spirit, up or down, Along the scale of ranks, Through all to him who grasps a golden ball, By blood a king, at heart a clown. The churl in spirit, how ere he veil His wants and forms for fashion's sake, Will let his coltish nature break At seasons through the gilded pale, For who can always act? But he, to whom a thousand memories call, Not being less but more than all, The gentleness he seemed to be, Best seemed the thing he was, And joined each office of the social hour To noble manners, As the flower and native growth of noble mind. Nor ever narrowness, nor spite, Or villain fancy fleeting by, Drew in the expression of an eye Where God and nature met in light. And thus he bore without abuse, The grand old name of gentleman, Defamed by every charlatan, And soiled with all ignoble use. 112 High wisdom holds my wisdom less, That I, who gaze with temperate eyes On glorious insufficiencies, Satellite by narrower perfectness. But thou, at fillest all the room Of all my love, What reason why I seem to cast A careless eye on souls, The lesser lords of doom? For what word, thou? Some novel power sprang up for ever at a touch, And hope could never hope too much In watching thee from hour to hour, Large elements in order brought, And tracks of calm from tempest-made, And world-wide fluctuations swayed In vassal tides that followed thought. 113 Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee Which not alone had guided me, But served the seasons that may rise? For can I doubt, Who knew thee keen in intellect, With force and skill to strive To fashion to fulfil? I doubt not what thou wouldst have been. A life in civic action warm, A soul on highest mission sent, A potent voice of parliament, A pillar steadfast in the storm. Should licensed boldness gather force, Becoming when the time has birth, A lever to uplift the earth, And roll it in another course, With thousand shocks that come and go, With agonies, with energies, With overthrowings, and with cries, And undulations to and fro. 114 Who loves not knowledge? Who shall rail against her beauty? May she mix with men and prosper? Who shall fix her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire. She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half grown as yet, a child, and vain, She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild palace from the brain of demons? Fiery heart to burst all barriers In her onward race for power. Let her know her place. She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain, And guide her footsteps, Moving side by side with wisdom like the younger child. For she is earthly of the mind, But wisdom heavenly of the soul. O friend, who cameest to thy goal So early leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power and knowledge, But by year and hour, in reverence and in charity. 115 Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burjans every maze of quick about the flowering squares, And thick by ashen roots the violets blow. Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drowned in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song. Now dance the lights on lawn and lee, The flocks are whiter down the veil, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea. Where now the seamew pipes or dives In yonder greening gleam, And fly the happy birds That change their sky to build and brood That live their lives from land to land, And in my breast spring wakens too, And my regret becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. 116 Is it then regret for buried time That keenlier in sweet April wakes, And meets the year, And gives and takes the colours of the crescent prime? Not all. The songs, the stirring air, The life reorient out of dust, Cry through the sense to heart and trust In that which made the world so fair. Not all regret. The face will shine upon me While I muse alone, And that dear voice I once have known Still speak to me of me and mine. Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead, Less yearning for the friendship fled Than some strong bond which is to be. 117 O days and hours, your work is this To hold me from my proper place, A little while from his embrace For fuller gain of after-bliss. That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet, And unto meeting when we meet Delight a hundredfold a crew, For every grain of sand that runs And every span of shade that steals, And every kiss of toothed wheels And all the courses of the suns. 118 Contemplate all this work of time The giant labouring in his youth, Nor dreams of human love and truth As dying nature's earth and lime, But trust that those we call the dead Are breathers of an ampleer day, For ever nobler ends. They say the solid earth Whereon we tread in tracts of fluent heat began, And grew to seeming random forms The seeming prey of cyclic storms, Till at the last arose the man, Who throwed and branched from climb to climb The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more. Or, crowned with attributes of woe-like glories, Move his course, and show that life is not as idle oar, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipped in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly the reeling fawn, The sensual feast, move upward, Working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. Doors, where my heart was used to beat so quickly, Not as one that weeps, I come once more. The city sleeps. I smell the meadow in the street, I hear a chirp of birds, I see betwixt the black fronts long withdrawn, A light blue lane of early dawn, And think of early days, and thee, And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, And bright the friendship of thine eye, And in my thoughts with scarce sigh I take the pressure of thine hand. One-twenty. I trust I have not wasted breath. I think we are not holy brain, Magnetic mockeries, Not in vain like Paul with beasts I fought with death. Not only cunning casts in clay, Let science prove we are, and then what matters Science unto men, at least to me. I would not stay. Let him, the wiser man, who springs hereafter, Up from childhood shape his action like the greater ape, But I was born to other things. End of verses 101 through 120. Verses 121 through 131 of In Memoriam A H H. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Elizabeth Clett. In Memoriam A H H. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Verses 121 through 131. 121. Sad, Hesper, or the buried son, And ready, thou, to die with him, Thou watchest all things ever dim, And dimmer, and a glory done. The team is loosened from the wane, The boat is drawn upon the shore, Thou listnest to the closing door, And life is darkened 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 hearest the village hammer-clink, And seeest the moving of the team. Sweet Hesper Phosphor, double name for what is won, The first, the last, Thou, like my present and my past, Thy place is changed, Thou art the same. 22. O, wasst thou with me, dearest, then, While I rose up against my doom, And yearned to burst the folded gloom, To bear 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 quickened 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. 1. 23. There rolls the deep where grew the tree, O earth, what changes hast thou seen? There were 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 though my lips may breathe a dew, I cannot think the thing farewell. 1. 24. 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 through the questions men may try, The petty cobwebs we have spun. If air when faith had fallen 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 mount the freezing reasons colder part, And like a man in wrath the heart stood up and answered, 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 through nature, moulding man. 1. 25. Whatever I have said or sung, Some bitter notes my harp would give, Yea, though there often seemed to live a contradiction of the tongue, That hope had never lost her youth. She did but look through dimmer eyes, Or love but played with gracious lies, Because he felt so fixed 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 sailed To seek the amomistic deeps, And this electric force that keeps a thousand pulses dancing, fail. 1. 26. 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, though as yet I keep within his court on earth, And sleep encompassed 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. 1. 27. And all is well, Though faith and form be sundered in the night of fear, Well roars the storm to those that hear a deeper voice across the storm, Gaming social truth shall spread, And justice, even though thrice again the red fool fury of the saint 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 aeon sinks in blood, And compassed by the fires of hell, While thou, dear spirit, happy star, Or looks to the tumult from afar, And smilest, knowing all is well. 1. 28. The love that rose on stronger wings, Unpulsed when he met with death, His 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 thrown at races may degrade. Yet oh 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 she the 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 bairness picturesque, And tuft with grass a futile 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 co-operant to an end. 1. 29. Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, So far, so near in woe and wheel, Oh, 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 can't 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. 1. 30. 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 though 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, Though mixed 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, though I die. 1. 31. O living will, that shalt endure, When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow through 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 conquered years To one that with us works and trusts, 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. 2. O tried and true, 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. Though I since then Have numbered 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 be 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 watched 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 And breathed in her ear, The ring is on, the wilts-thou answered, And again the wilts-thou asked, 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 mourn, By village eyes as yet unborn, The names are signed, 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. Oh 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. Oh 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. Today 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 warmed and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom When 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 though in silence wishing joy. But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favoured 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 looked, 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 spakes 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 vapor sail, and past 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 through 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 through 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 suffered, 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. End of In Memoriam, A-H-H, by Alfred Lord Tennyson.