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Tema: Alfred Tennyson ~ Alfred Tenison  (Pročitano 28990 puta)
26. Feb 2006, 00:13:42
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Variety is the spice of life

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To The Queen


  Revered, beloved--O you that hold
  A nobler office upon earth
  Than arms, or power of brain, or birth
  Could give the warrior kings of old,

  Victoria,--since your Royal grace
  To one of less desert allows
  This laurel greener from the brows
  Of him that utter'd nothing base;

  And should your greatness, and the care
  That yokes with empire, yield you time
  To make demand of modern rhyme
  If aught of ancient worth be there;

  Then--while a sweeter music wakes,
  And thro' wild March the throstle calls,
  Where all about your palace-walls
  The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes--

  Take, Madam, this poor book of song;
  For tho' the faults were thick as dust
  In vacant chambers, I could trust
  Your kindness. May you rule us long.

  And leave us rulers of your blood
  As noble till the latest day!
  May children of our children say,
  "She wrought her people lasting good;

  "Her court was pure; her life serene;
  God gave her peace; her land reposed;
  A thousand claims to reverence closed
  In her as Mother, Wife and Queen;

  "And statesmen at her council met
  Who knew the seasons, when to take
  Occasion by the hand, and make
  The bounds of freedom wider yet

  "By shaping some august decree,
  Which kept her throne unshaken still,
  Broad-based upon her people's will,
  And compass'd by the inviolate sea."

  March, 1851.
« Poslednja izmena: 26. Feb 2006, 15:42:25 od Ace_Ventura »
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Claribel

A Melody


1

  Where Claribel low-lieth
  The breezes pause and die,
  Letting the rose-leaves fall:
  But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
  Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
  With an ancient melody
  Of an inward agony,
  Where Claribel low-lieth.

2

  At eve the beetle boometh
  Athwart the thicket lone:
  At noon the wild bee hummeth
  About the moss'd headstone:
  At midnight the moon cometh,
  And looketh down alone.
  Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
  The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
  The callow throstle lispeth,
  The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
  The babbling runnel crispeth,
  The hollow grot replieth
  Where Claribel low-lieth.
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Lilian


1

  Airy, fairy Lilian,
  Flitting, fairy Lilian,
  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 Lilian.


2

  When my passion seeks
  Pleasance in love-sighs
  She, looking thro' and thro' me
  Thoroughly to undo me,
  Smiling, never speaks:
  So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple,
  From beneath her gather'd wimple
  Glancing with black-beaded eyes,
  Till the lightning laughters dimple
  The baby-roses in her cheeks;
  Then away she flies.


3

  Prythee weep, May Lilian!
  Gaiety without eclipse
  Wearieth me, May Lilian:
  Thro' my very heart it thrilleth
  When from crimson-threaded lips
  Silver-treble laughter trilleth:
  Prythee weep, May Lilian.


4

  Praying all I can,
  If prayers will not hush thee,
  Airy Lilian,
  Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,
  Fairy Lilian.
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  Mariana


  With blackest moss the flower-plots
  Were thickly crusted, one and all:
  The rusted nails fell from the knots
  That held the peach to the garden-wall.
  The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
  Unlifted was the clinking latch;
  Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
  Upon the lonely moated grange.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  Her tears fell with the dews at even;
  Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
  She could not look on the sweet heaven,
  Either at morn or eventide.
  After the flitting of the bats,
  When thickest dark did trance the sky,
  She drew her casement-curtain by,
  And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  Upon the middle of the night,
  Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
  The cock sung out an hour ere light:
  From the dark fen the oxen's low
  Came to her: without hope of change,
  In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
  Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
  About the lonely moated grange.
  She only said, "The day is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  About a stone-cast from the wall
  A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
  And o'er it many, round and small,
  The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
  Hard by a poplar shook alway,
  All silver-green with gnarled bark:
  For leagues no other tree did mark
  The level waste, the rounding gray.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  And ever when the moon was low,
  And the shrill winds were up and away,
  In the white curtain, to and fro,
  She saw the gusty shadow sway.
  But when the moon was very low,
  And wild winds bound within their cell,
  The shadow of the poplar fell
  Upon her bed, across her brow.
  She only said, "The night is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  All day within the dreamy house,
  The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
  The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
  Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
  Or from the crevice peer'd about.
  Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
  Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
  Old voices called her from without.
  She only said, "My life is dreary,
  He cometh not," she said;
  She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
  I would that I were dead!"

  The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
  The slow clock ticking, and the sound,
  Which to the wooing wind aloof
  The poplar made, did all confound
  Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
  When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
  Athwart the chambers, and the day
  Was sloping toward his western bower.
  Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
  He will not come," she said;
  She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
  O God, that I were dead!".
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Variety is the spice of life

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To----



1

  Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn,
  Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain
  The knots that tangle human creeds,
  The wounding cords that bind and strain
  The heart until it bleeds,
  Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn
  Roof not a glance so keen as thine:
  If aught of prophecy be mine,
  Thou wilt not live in vain.


2

  Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;
  Falsehood shall bear her plaited brow:
  Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
  With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
  Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords
  Can do away that ancient lie;
  A gentler death shall Falsehood die,
  Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.


3

  Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,
  Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,
  Thy kingly intellect shall feed,
  Until she be an athlete bold,
  And weary with a finger's touch
  Those writhed limbs of lightning speed;
  Like that strange angel which of old,
  Until the breaking of the light,
  Wrestled with wandering Israel,
  Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,
  And heaven's mazed signs stood still
  In the dim tract of Penuel.
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Madeline



1

Thou art not steep'd in golden languors,
No tranced summer calm is thine,
Ever varying Madeline.
Thro'  light and shadow thou dost range,
Sudden glances, sweet and strange,
Delicious spites and darling angers,
And airy  forms of flitting change.


2

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
Who may know?
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,
Ever varying Madeline.
Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,
Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.
All the mystery is thine;
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.


3

A subtle, sudden flame,
By veering passion fann'd,
About thee breaks and dances
When I would kiss thy hand,
The flush of anger'd shame
O'erflows thy calmer glances,
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden curved frown:
But when I turn away,
Thou, willing me to stay,
Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;
But, looking fixedly the while,
All my bounding heart entanglest
In a golden-netted smile;
Then in madness and in bliss,
If my lips should dare to kiss
Thy taper fingers amorously,
Again thou blushest angerly;
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown.
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Song.--The Owl




1

  When cats run home and light is come,
  And dew is cold upon the ground,
  And the far-off stream is dumb,
  And the whirring sail goes round,
  And the whirring sail goes round;
  Alone and warming his five wits,
  The white owl in the belfry sits.


2

  When merry milkmaids click the latch,
  And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
  And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
  Twice or thrice his roundelay,
  Twice or thrice his roundelay;
  Alone and warming his five wits,
  The white owl in the belfry sits.
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Second Song

To The Same.




1

  Thy tuwhits are lull'd I wot,
  Thy tuwhoos of yesternight,
  Which upon the dark afloat,
  So took echo with delight,
  So took echo with delight,
  That her voice untuneful grown,
  Wears all day a fainter tone.


2

  I would mock thy chaunt anew;
  But I cannot mimick it;
  Not a whit of thy tuwhoo,
  Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
  Thee to woo to thy tuwhit,
  With a lengthen'd loud halloo,
  Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o.
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Recollections Of The Arabian Nights




  When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free
  In the silken sail of infancy,
  The tide of time flow'd back with me,
  The forward-flowing tide of time;
  And many a sheeny summer-morn,
  Adown the Tigris I was borne,
  By Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold,
  High-walled gardens green and old;
  True Mussulman was I and sworn,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Anight my shallop, rustling thro'
  The low and bloomed foliage, drove
  The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove
  The citron-shadows in the blue:
  By garden porches on the brim,
  The costly doors flung open wide,
  Gold glittering thro' lamplight dim,
  And broider'd sofas on each side:
  In sooth it was a goodly time,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Often, where clear-stemm'd platans guard
  The outlet, did I turn away
  The boat-head down a broad canal
  From the main river sluiced, where all
  The sloping of the moon-lit sward
  Was damask-work, and deep inlay
  Of braided blooms unmown, which crept
  Adown to where the waters slept.
  A goodly place, a goodly time,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  A motion from the river won
  Ridged the smooth level, bearing on
  My shallop thro' the star-strown calm,
  Until another night in night
  I enter'd, from the clearer light,
  Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm,
  Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb
  Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome
  Of hollow boughs.--A goodly time,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Still onward; and the clear canal
  Is rounded to as clear a lake.
  From the green rivage many a fall
  Of diamond rillets musical,
  Thro' little crystal arches low
  Down from the central fountain's flow
  Fall'n silver-chiming, seem'd to shake
  The sparkling flints beneath the prow.
  A goodly place, a goodly time,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Above thro'  many a bowery turn
  A walk with vary-colour'd shells
  Wander'd engrain'd. On either side
  All round about the fragrant marge
  From fluted vase, and brazen urn
  In order, eastern flowers large,
  Some dropping low their crimson bells
  Half-closed, and others studded wide
  With disks and tiars, fed the time
  With odour in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Far off, and where the lemon-grove
  In closest coverture upsprung,
  The living airs of middle night
  Died round the bulbul as he sung;
  Not he: but something which possess'd
  The darkness of the world, delight,
  Life, anguish, death, immortal love,
  Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd.
  Apart from place, withholding time,
  But flattering the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Black the garden-bowers and grots
  Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged
  Above, unwoo'd of summer wind:
  A sudden splendour from behind
  Flush'd all the leaves with rich gold-green,
  And, flowing rapidly between
  Their interspaces, counterchanged
  The level lake with diamond-plots
  Of dark and bright. A lovely time,
  For it was in the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead,
  Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
  Grew darker from that under-flame:
  So, leaping lightly from the boat,
  With silver anchor left afloat,
  In marvel whence that glory came
  Upon me, as in sleep I sank
  In cool soft turf upon the bank,
  Entranced with that place and time,
  So worthy of the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.


  Thence thro' the garden I was drawn--
  A realm of pleasance, many a mound,
  And many a shadow-chequer'd lawn
  Full of the city's stilly sound,
  And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round
  The stately cedar, tamarisks,
  Thick rosaries of scented thorn,
  Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks
  Graven with emblems of the time,
  In honour of the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  With dazed vision unawares
  From the long alley's latticed shade
  Emerged, I came upon the great
  Pavilion of the Caliphat.
  Right to the carven cedarn doors,
  Flung inward over spangled floors,
  Broad-based flights of marble stairs
  Ran up with golden balustrade,
  After the fashion of the time,
  And humour of the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  The fourscore windows all alight
  As with the quintessence of flame,
  A million tapers flaring bright
  From twisted silvers look'd  to shame
  The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
  Upon the mooned domes aloof
  In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
  Hundreds of crescents on the roof
  Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,
  To celebrate the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Then stole I up, and trancedly
  Gazed on the Persian girl alone,
  Serene with argent-lidded eyes
  Amorous, and lashes like to rays
  Of darkness, and a brow of pearl
  Tressed with redolent ebony,
  In many a dark delicious curl,
  Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone;
  The sweetest lady of the time,
  Well worthy of the golden prime
  Of good Haroun Alraschid.

  Six columns, three on either side,
  Pure silver, underpropt a rich
  Throne of the massive ore, from which
  Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold,
  Engarlanded and diaper'd
  With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold.
  Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd
  With merriment of kingly pride,
  Sole star of all that place and time,
  I saw him--in his golden prime,
  The good Haroun Alraschid!
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Ode To Memory



1

  Thou who stealest fire,
  From the fountains of the past,
  To glorify the present; oh, haste,
  Visit my low desire!
  Strengthen me, enlighten me!
  I faint in this obscurity,
  Thou dewy dawn of memory.


2

  Come not as thou camest of late,
  Flinging the gloom of yesternight
  On the white day; but robed in soften'd light
  Of orient state.
  Whilome thou camest with the morning mist,
  Even as a maid, whose stately brow
  The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss'd,
  When she, as thou,
  Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight
  Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots
  Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits,
  Which in wintertide shall star
  The black earth with brilliance rare.


3

  Whilome thou camest with the morning mist.
  And with the evening cloud,
  Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast,
  (Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind
  Never grow sere,
  When rooted in the garden of the mind,
  Because they are the earliest of the year).
  Nor was the night thy shroud.
  In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest
  Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope.
  The eddying of her garments caught from thee
  The light of thy great presence; and the cope
  Of the half-attain'd futurity,
  Though deep not fathomless,
  Was cloven with the million stars which tremble
  O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy.
  Small thought was there of life's distress;
  For sure she deem'd no mist of earth could dull
  Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful:
  Sure she was nigher to heaven's spheres,
  Listening the lordly music flowing from
  The illimitable years.
  O strengthen me, enlighten me!
  I faint in this obscurity,
  Thou dewy dawn of memory.


4

  Come forth I charge thee, arise,
  Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes!
  Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines
  Unto mine inner eye,
  Divinest Memory!
  Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall
  Which ever sounds and shines
  A pillar of white light upon the wall
  Of purple cliffs, aloof descried:
  Come from the woods that belt the grey hill-side,
  The seven elms, the poplars four
  That stand beside my father's door,
  And chiefly from the brook that loves
  To purl o'er matted cress and ribbed sand,
  Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves,
  Drawing into his narrow earthen urn,
  In every elbow and turn,
  The filter'd tribute of the rough woodland.
  O! hither lead thy feet!
  Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat
  Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds,
  Upon the ridged wolds,
  When the first matin-song hath waken'd  loud
  Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
  What time the amber morn
  Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud.


5

  Large dowries doth the raptured eye
  To the young spirit present
  When first she is wed;
  And like a bride of old
  In triumph led,
  With music and sweet showers
  Of festal flowers,
  Unto the dwelling she must sway.
  Well hast thou done, great artist Memory,
  In setting round thy first experiment
  With royal frame-work of wrought gold;
  Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay,
  And foremost in thy various gallery
  Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls
  Upon the storied walls;
  For the discovery
  And newness of thine art so pleased thee,
  That all which thou hast drawn of fairest
  Or boldest since, but lightly weighs
  With thee unto the love thou bearest
  The first-born of thy genius.
  Artist-like,
  Ever retiring thou dost gaze
  On the prime labour of thine early days:
  No matter what the sketch might be;
  Whether the high field on the bushless Pike,
  Or even a sand-built ridge
  Of heaped hills that mound the sea,
  Overblown with murmurs harsh,
  Or even a lowly cottage whence we see
  Stretch'd wide and wild the waste enormous marsh,
  Where from the frequent bridge,
  Like emblems of infinity,
  The trenched waters run from sky to sky;
  Or a garden bower'd close
  With plaited alleys of the trailing rose,
  Long alleys falling down to twilight grots,
  Or opening upon level plots
  Of crowned lilies, standing near
  Purple-spiked lavender:
  Whither in after life retired
  From brawling storms,
  From weary wind,
  With youthful fancy reinspired,
  We may hold converse with all forms
  Of the many-sided mind,
  And those whom passion hath not blinded,
  Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded.
  My friend, with you  to live alone,
  Were how much better than to own
  A crown, a sceptre, and a throne!
  O strengthen, enlighten me!
  I faint in this obscurity,
  Thou dewy dawn of memory.
IP sačuvana
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