POETRY.
ON READING TENNYSON'S LIFE.
BUT yesterday there was a hand
That touched the harp with high command ; From first to last its faultless strain Was resolutely clear and sane; No breath unholy swept the strings ; No storm of passion soiled the springs; Even in its strongest, swiftest roll 'Twas subject still to self-control ; As through its banks it poured along No torrent, but a tide of song ; Full, liquid, deep, majestic sound, That felt its purpose, knew its bound; With stately music, sovereign tone, And sweetness, wisdom, all its own.
Who did not love him ? Tearful eyes Behold, long-watched, the curtain rise, And see, clear-limned, that all may read, His picture. 'Tis the man indeed: The soaring brow, the lofty grace, The dark-lined visionary face, That hid a nature ardent, strong, And generous, loth to think a wrong .0f any. Since the world began There breathed not truer gentleman. .
Then as we muse, with wonder filled, Of all he fired, and all he thrilled; Now singing in his lyric moods, The Ariel of our summer woods, 'Of grove, and stream, and meads, and flowers—. He loved them, they were England's, ours— How true his touch, how fine, how sweet !
Earth seemed to blossom at his feet.
Anon, in high heroic rhyme He rose, he took the wings of Time; With Homer leaving worlds of sight For inward vision, clearer light.
There, as a half-illumined moon, Part hidden, part in cloudless noon, He sang of shadows; names forgot Of Lyonesse, and Camelot ; And Arthur, and the knightly ring That gathered round the blameless King; With Launcelot of the matchless spear ; And lovely, guilty Guinevere : 'Creatures of fancy, but his art Gave them such substance, colour, heart, That, as on all his glorious dream There came a glamour and a gleam, 'The Past was living : buried hours Were with us ; they too, England's, ours.
Yet grander still he struck a note— And strung in heaven the chord he smote—
Re taught us faith, he lightened tears, He lifted veils of future years : Till, saddening in their pride of gold, And sickening of a heart grown cold, Men turned to dream ; and dreaming stood To muse of love and brotherhood ; Not come as yet, but seen afar Like advent of a later star, To light a blot in darkened skies, And close a doubt of aching eyes.
There was he loftiest : there his word Like wonder-working prophet stirred ; And, as we marked him take his stand
With lonely, shadowy, pointing hand— Beyond our Present, past our ken,—
To worlds that wait the future men ; Oar toil seemed easier, life more dear, Earth less a discord, heaven more near; And things which had been passed away In dawning of the Golden Day, Lost, as in ocean rivers die, In light of immortality.
Such was the man ; the Poet-seer, The knightly nature, both are here : And these, embalmed to far-off days, The amaranth in his crown of praise, Shall live to tell, if men forget, His greatness, rarer, lovelier yet Than all earth's laurels. This our king Of song was yet a loftier thing ; Amid a world of spot and stain His life was noble as his strain.
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