And if it comes [3] three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.

And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.

And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.

But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away.

And say to Robin [4] a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.

If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-- Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun-- For ever and for ever with those just souls and true-- And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home-- And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come-- To lie within the light of G.o.d, as I lie upon your breast-- And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

[Footnote 1: 1842.

But still it can't be long, mother, before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, he preaches words of peace.

Present reading 1843.]

[Footnote 2: 1842-1848.

He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin.

Now, though, etc.

1850. For show'd he me all the sin.]

[Footnote 3: 1889. Come.]

[Footnote 4: 1842. Robert. 1843. Robin restored.]

THE LOTOS-EATERS

First published in 1833, but when republished in 1842 the alterations in the way of excision, alteration, and addition were very extensive. The text of 1842 is practically the final text. This charming poem is founded on 'Odyssey', ix., 82 'seq.'

"On the tenth day we set foot on the land of the lotos-eaters who eat a flowery food. So we stepped ash.o.r.e and drew water... When we had tasted meat and drink I sent forth certain of my company to go and make search what manner of men they were who here live upon the earth by bread... Then straightway they went and mixed with the men of the lotos-eaters, and so it was that the lotos-eaters devised not death for our fellows but gave them of the lotos to taste. Now whosoever of them did eat the honey-sweet fruit of the lotos had no more wish to bring tidings nor to come back, but there he chose to abide with the lotos-eating men ever feeding on the lotos and forgetful of his homeward way. Therefore I led them back to the ships weeping and sore against their will ... lest haply any should eat of the lotos and be forgetful of returning."

(Lang and Butcher's translation.)

But in the details of his poem Tennyson has laid many other poets under contribution, notably Moschus, 'Idyll', v.; Bion, 'Idyll', v.; Spenser, 'Faerie Queen', II. vi. (description of the 'Idle Lake'), and Thomson's 'Castle of Indolence'.

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us sh.o.r.eward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; [1]

And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow [2]

From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, [3]

Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien sh.o.r.es; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the sh.o.r.e; And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.

Then some one said, "We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam".

[Footnote 1: 1883. Above the valley burned the golden moon.]

[Footnote 2: 1883. River's seaward flow.]

[Footnote 3: 1833. Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow.]

CHORIC SONG

1

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the gra.s.s, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pa.s.s; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

2

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

3

Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air.