. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. of perfect deeds,More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds thesheaf,Or builds the house, or digs the grave,And those wild eyes that watch thewaveIn roarings round the coral reef. Urania speaks with darkend brow :4 Thou pratest here where thou art least;This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. 1 Go down beside thy native rill,On thy Parnassus set thy feet,And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill/ And my Melpomene replies,A touch of shame upon her cheek : I am not
. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. of perfect deeds,More strong than all poetic thought; Which he may read that binds thesheaf,Or builds the house, or digs the grave,And those wild eyes that watch thewaveIn roarings round the coral reef. Urania speaks with darkend brow :4 Thou pratest here where thou art least;This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou. 1 Go down beside thy native rill,On thy Parnassus set thy feet,And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill/ And my Melpomene replies,A touch of shame upon her cheek : I am not worthy even to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries ; 1 For I am but an earthly Muse,And owning but a little artTo lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues ; But brooding on the dear one dead,And all he said of things divine, —And dear to me as sacred wine To dying lips is all he said, — I murmurd, as I came along,Of comfort cld^d in truth loiterd in the masters field, And darkend sanctities with song/ IN MEMORIAM 229. Streams that swift or slowDraw down ^Eonian hills xxxvurWith weary steps I loiter on,Tho always under alterd skiesThe purple from the distance dies,My prospect and horizon gone. No joy the blowing season gives,The herald melodies of spring,But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives. If any care for what is hereSurvive in spirits renderd free,Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear. XXXIX Old warder of these buried bones,And answering now my random strokeWith fruitful cloud and livingsmoke,Dark yew, that graspest at the stones And dippest toward the dreamlesshead,To thee too comes the golden hourWhen flower is feeling after flower ; But Sorrow, — fixt upon the dead, And darkening the dark graves ofmen, —What whisperd from her lying lips?Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,And passes into gloom again. Could we forget the widowd hourAnd look on Spirits breathed away,As on a maiden
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