A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the

wheat;

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopped as he hunted the fly,
The snake slipped under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on
his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey; And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,

For he sings of what the world will be When the years have died away." 1842.

LYRICS 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, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no

niore.

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 ir dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd 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 remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd

On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all re

gret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no

more!

༢༡

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying south,

Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

O, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,

That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,

And dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light

Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

O, were I thou that she might take me in,

And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died!

Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,

Delaying as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O, tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown;

Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.

O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North,

And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,

Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,

And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
O, we fell out, I know not why,
And kiss'd 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,
O, there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

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.

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, dy. ing, dying.

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands.

STRONG Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:

Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him: thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine,

The highest, holiest manhood, thou. Our wills are ours, we know not how ; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;

They have their day and cease to be; They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know, For knowledge is of things we see ; And yet we trust it comes from thee, A beam in darkness: let it grow.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;

We mock thee when we do not fear: But help thy foolish ones to bear; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me,

What seem'd my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

1 Arthur Henry Hallam, Tennyson's closest friend, and betrothed to Tennyson's sister Emily, died at Vienna, September 15, 1833. See the Life of Tennyson, I., 49-55, 75-83, 104-108; and 295-887.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold

Is given in outline and no more.

It must be particularly noticed that this introductory poem was among the last written of those which make up In Memoriam. The early parts begin with No. II. or No. III.

On the development of thought and feeling in the poem as a whole, which is fully shown in the parts here given, see Thomas Davidson's Prolegomena to In Memoriam, Alfred Gatty's Key to In Memoriam, and J. F. Genung's In Memoriam. See also the special Bibliography, p. 460.