Or the sound Of stones.

So till 1851, when "a sound of rocks" was subst.i.tuted.]

[Footnote 44: 1833. "Dying the death I die?" Present reading subst.i.tuted in 1842.]

[Footnote 45: Because intellectual and aesthetic pleasures are 'abused' and their purpose and scope mistaken, there is no reason why they should not be enjoyed. See the allegory in 'In Memoriam', ciii., stanzas 12-13.]

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Though this is placed among the poems published in 1833 it first appeared in print in 1842. The subsequent alterations were very slight, and after 1848 none at all were made.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms.

A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the pa.s.sions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you.

Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, And slew him with your n.o.ble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife [1]

Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only n.o.ble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands?

Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yoeman go.

[Footnote 1: 1842 and 1843. "The gardener Adam and his wife." In 1845 it was altered to the present text.]

THE MAY QUEEN

The first two parts were first published in 1833.

The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald's phrase, it is all Lincolnshire inland, as 'Locksley Hall' is seaboard.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad [1] New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you [2] do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin [3] leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother--what is that to me?

There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-gra.s.s, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pa.s.s; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

[Footnote 1: 1833. "Blythe" for "glad".]

[Footnote 2: 1883. Ye.]

[Footnote 3: 1842. Robert. This is a curious ill.u.s.tration of Tennyson's scrupulousness about trifles: in 1833 it was "Robin," in 1842 "Robert,"

then in 1843 and afterwards he returned to "Robin".]