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Alfred Lord Tennyson - OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII (Entire)
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These two have striven half the day, 
    And each prefers his separate claim, 
    Poor rivals in a losing game, 
That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go: my feet are set 
    To leave the pleasant fields and farms; 
    They mix in one another’s arms 
To one pure image of regret. 

  

CIII. 
 
On that last night before we went 
    From out the doors where I was bred, 
    I dream’d a vision of the dead, 
Which left my after-morn content. 
Methought I dwelt within a hall, 
    And maidens with me: distant hills 
    From hidden summits fed with rills 
A river sliding by the wall. 

The hall with harp and carol rang. 
    They sang of what is wise and good 
    And graceful. In the centre stood 
A statue veil’d, to which they sang; 

And which, tho’ veil’d, was known to me, 
    The shape of him I loved, and love 
    For ever: then flew in a dove 
And brought a summons from the sea: 

And when they learnt that I must go 
    They wept and wail’d, but led the way 
    To where a little shallop lay 
At anchor in the flood below; 

And on by many a level mead, 
    And shadowing bluff that made the banks, 
    We glided winding under ranks 
Of iris, and the golden reed; 

And still as vaster grew the shore 
    And roll’d the floods in grander space, 
    The maidens gather’d strength and grace 
And presence, lordlier than before; 

And I myself, who sat apart 
    And watch’d them, wax’d in every limb; 
    I felt the thews of Anakim, 
The pulses of a Titan’s heart; 

As one would sing the death of war, 
    And one would chant the history 
    Of that great race, which is to be, 
And one the shaping of a star; 

Until the forward-creeping tides 
    Began to foam, and we to draw 
    From deep to deep, to where we saw 
A great ship lift her shining sides. 

The man we loved was there on deck, 
    But thrice as large as man he bent 
    To greet us. Up the side I went, 
And fell in silence on his neck: 

Whereat those maidens with one mind 
    Bewail’d their lot; I did them wrong: 
    ‘We served thee here’ they said, ‘so long, 
And wilt thou leave us now behind?’ 

So rapt I was, they could not win 
    An answer from my lips, but he 
    Replying, ‘Enter likewise ye 
And go with us:’ they enter’d in. 

And while the wind began to sweep 
    A music out of sheet and shroud, 
    We steer’d her toward a crimson cloud 
That landlike slept along the deep. 

  

CIV. 
 
The time draws near the birth of Christ; 
    The moon is hid, the night is still; 
    A single church below the hill 
Is pealing, folded in the mist. 
A single peal of bells below, 
    That wakens at this hour of rest 
    A single murmur in the breast, 
That these are not the bells I know. 

Like strangers’ voices here they sound, 
    In lands where not a memory strays, 
    Nor landmark breathes of other days, 
But all is new unhallow’d ground. 

  

CV. 
 
To-night ungather’d let us leave 
    This laurel, let this holly stand: 
    We live within the stranger’s land, 
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve. 
Our father’s dust is left alone 
    And silent under other snows: 
    There in due time the woodbine blows, 
The violet comes, but we are gone. 

No more shall wayward grief abuse 
    The genial hour with mask and mime; 
    For change of place, like growth of time, 
Has broke the bond of dying use. 

Let cares that petty shadows cast, 
    By which our lives are chiefly proved, 
    A little spare the night I loved, 
And hold it solemn to the past. 

But let no footstep beat the floor, 
    Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm; 
    For who would keep an ancient form 
Thro’ which the spirit breathes no more? 

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast; 
    Nor harp be touch’d, nor flute be blown; 
    No dance, no motion, save alone 
What lightens in the lucid east 

Of rising worlds by yonder wood. 
    Long sleeps the summer in the seed; 
    Run out your measured arcs, and lead 
The closing cycle rich in good. 

  

CVI. 
 
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
    The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
    The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
    Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
    The year is going, let him go; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
    For those that here we see no more; 
    Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
    And ancient forms of party strife; 
    Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
    The faithless coldness of the times; 
    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
    The civic slander and the spite; 
    Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 
    Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
    Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 
    The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
    Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

  

CVII. 
 
It is the day when he was born, 
    A bitter day that early sank 
    Behind a purple-frosty bank 
Of vapour, leaving night forlorn. 
The time admits not flowers or leaves 
    To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies 
    The blast of North and East, and ice 
Makes daggers at the sharpen’d eaves, 

And bristles all the brakes and thorns 
    To yon hard crescent, as she hangs 
    Above the wood which grides and clangs 
Its leafless ribs and iron horns 

Together, in the drifts that pass 
    To darken on the rolling brine 
    That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, 
Arrange the board and brim the glass; 

Bring in great logs and let them lie, 
    To make a solid core of heat; 
    Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat 
Of all things ev’n as he were by; 

We keep the day. With festal cheer, 
    With books and music, surely we 
    Will drink to him, whate’er he be, 
And sing the songs he loved to hear. 

  

CVIII. 
 
I will not shut me from my kind, 
    And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
    I will not eat my heart alone, 
Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: 
What profit lies in barren faith, 
    And vacant yearning, tho’ with might 
    To scale the heaven’s highest height, 
Or dive below the wells of Death? 

What find I in the highest place, 
    But mine own phantom chanting hymns? 
    And on the depths of death there swims 
The reflex of a human face. 

I`ll rather take what fruit may be 
    Of sorrow under human skies: 
    ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, 
Whatever wisdom sleep with thee. 

  

CIX. 
 
Heart-affluence in discursive talk 
    From household fountains never dry; 
    The critic clearness of an eye, 
That saw thro’ all the Muses’ walk; 
Seraphic intellect and force 
    To seize and throw the doubts of man; 
    Impassion’d logic, which outran 
The hearer in its fiery course; 

High nature amorous of the good, 
    But touch’d with no ascetic gloom; 
    And passion pure in snowy bloom 
Thro’ all the years of April blood; 

A love of freedom rarely felt, 
    Of freedom in her regal seat 
    Of England; not the schoolboy heat, 
The blind hysterics of the Celt; 

And manhood fused with female grace 
    In such a sort, the child would twine 
    A trustful hand, unask’d, in thine, 
And find his comfort in thy face; 

All these have been, and thee mine eyes 
    Have look’d on: if they look’d in vain, 
    My shame is greater who remain, 
Nor let thy wisdom make me wise. 

  

CX. 
 
Thy converse drew us with delight, 
    The men of rathe and riper years: 
    The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, 
Forgot his weakness in thy sight. 
On thee the loyal-hearted hung, 
    The proud was half disarm’d of pride, 
    Nor cared the serpent at thy side 
To flicker with his double tongue. 

The stern were mild when thou wert by, 
    The flippant put himself to school 
    And heard thee, and the brazen fool 
Was soften’d, and he knew not why; 

While I, thy nearest, sat apart, 
    And felt thy triumph was as mine; 
    And loved them more, that they were thine, 
The graceful tact, the Christian art; 

Nor mine the sweetness or the skill, 
    But mine the love that will not tire, 
    And, born of love, the vague desire 
That spurs an imitative will. 

  

CXI. 
 
The churl in spirit, up or down 
    Along the scale of ranks, thro’ all, 
    To him who grasps a golden ball, 
By blood a king, at heart a clown; 
The churl in spirit, howe’er he veil 
    His want in forms for fashion’s sake, 
    Will let his coltish nature break 
At seasons thro’ the gilded pale: 

For who can always act? but he, 
    To whom a thousand memories call, 
    Not being less but more than all 
The gentleness he seem’d to be, 

Best seem’d the thing he was, and join’d 
    Each office of the social hour 
    To noble manners, as the flower 
And native growth of noble mind; 

Nor ever narrowness or spite, 
    Or villain fancy fleeting by, 
    Drew in the expression of an eye, 
Where God and Nature met in light; 

And thus he bore without abuse 
    The grand old name of gentleman, 
    Defamed by every charlatan, 
And soil’d with all ignoble use. 

  

CXII.
  
High wisdom holds my wisdom less, 
    That I, who gaze with temperate eyes 
    On glorious insufficiencies, 
Set light by narrower perfectness. 
But thou, that fillest all the room 
    Of all my love, art reason why 
    I seem to cast a careless eye 
On souls, the lesser lords of doom. 

For what wert thou? some novel power 
    Sprang up for ever at a touch, 
    And hope could never hope too much, 
In watching thee from hour to hour, 

Large elements in order brought, 
    And tracts of calm from tempest made, 
    And world-wide fluctuation sway’d 
In vassal tides that follow’d thought. 

  

CXIII. 
 
’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise; 
    Yet how much wisdom sleeps with thee 
    Which not alone had guided me, 
But served the seasons that may rise; 
For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
    In intellect, with force and skill 
    To strive, to fashion, to fulfil– 
I doubt not what thou wouldst have been: 

A life in civic action warm, 
    A soul on highest mission sent, 
    A potent voice of Parliament, 
A pillar steadfast in the storm, 

Should licensed boldness gather force, 
    Becoming, when the time has birth, 
    A lever to uplift the earth 
And roll it in another course, 

With thousand shocks that come and go, 
    With agonies, with energies, 
    With overthrowings, and with cries, 
And undulations to and fro. 

  

CXIV. 
 
Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail 
    Against her beauty? May she mix 
    With men and prosper! Who shall fix 
Her pillars? Let her work prevail. 
But on her forehead sits a fire: 
    She sets her forward countenance 
    And leaps into the future chance, 
Submitting all things to desire. 

Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain– 
    She cannot fight the fear of death. 
    What is she, cut from love and faith, 
But some wild Pallas from the brain 

Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst 
    All barriers in her onward race 
    For power. Let her know her place; 
She is the second, not the first. 

A higher hand must make her mild, 
    If all be not in vain; and guide 
    Her footsteps, moving side by side 
With wisdom, like the younger child: 

For she is earthly of the mind, 
    But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
    O, friend, who camest to thy goal 
So early, leaving me behind, 

I would the great world grew like thee, 
    Who grewest not alone in power 
    And knowledge, but by year and hour 
In reverence and in charity. 

  

CXV. 
 
Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
    Now burgeons every maze of quick 
    About the flowering squares, and thick 
By ashen roots the violets blow. 
Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
    The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
    And drown’d in yonder living blue 
The lark becomes a sightless song. 

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
    The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
    And milkier every milky sail 
On winding stream or distant sea; 

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives 
    In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
    The happy birds, that change their sky 
To build and brood; that live their lives 

From land to land; and in my breast 
    Spring wakens too; and my regret 
    Becomes an April violet, 
And buds and blossoms like the rest. 

  

CXVI. 
 
Is it, then, regret for buried time 
    That keenlier in sweet April wakes, 
    And meets the year, and gives and takes 
The colours of the crescent prime? 
Not all: the songs, the stirring air, 
    The life re-orient out of dust, 
    Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust 
In that which made the world so fair. 

Not all regret: the face will shine 
    Upon me, while I muse alone; 
    And that dear voice, I once have known, 
Still speak to me of me and mine: 

Yet less of sorrow lives in me 
    For days of happy commune dead; 
    Less yearning for the friendship fled, 
Than some strong bond which is to be. 

  

CXVII. 
 
O days and hours, your work is this 
    To hold me from my proper place, 
    A little while from his embrace 
For fuller gain of after bliss: 
That out of distance might ensue 
    Desire of nearness doubly sweet; 
    And unto meeting when we meet, 
Delight a hundredfold accrue, 

For every grain of sand that runs, 
    And every span of shade that steals, 
    And every kiss of toothed wheels, 
And all the courses of the suns. 

  

CXVIII. 
 
Contemplate all this work of Time, 
    The giant labouring in his youth; 
    Nor dream of human love and truth, 
As dying Nature’s earth and lime; 
But trust that those we call the dead 
    Are breathers of an ampler day 
    For ever nobler ends. They say, 
The solid earth whereon we tread 

In tracts of fluent heat began, 
    And grew to seeming-random forms, 
    The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 
Till at the last arose the man; 

Who throve and branch’d from clime to clime, 
    The herald of a higher race, 
    And of himself in higher place, 
If so he type this work of time 

Within himself, from more to more; 
    Or, crown’d with attributes of woe 
    Like glories, move his course, and show 
That life is not as idle ore, 

But iron dug from central gloom, 
    And heated hot with burning fears, 
    And dipt in baths of hissing tears, 
And batter’d with the shocks of doom 

To shape and use. Arise and fly 
    The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; 
    Move upward, working out the beast, 
And let the ape and tiger die. 

  

CXIX. 
 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 
    So quickly, not as one that weeps 
    I come once more; the city sleeps; 
I smell the meadow in the street; 
I hear a chirp of birds; I see 
    Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn 
    A light-blue lane of early dawn, 
And think of early days and thee, 

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland, 
    And bright the friendship of thine eye; 
    And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh 
I take the pressure of thine hand. 

  

CXX. 
 
I trust I have not wasted breath: 
    I think we are not wholly brain, 
    Magnetic mockeries; not in vain, 
Like Paul with beasts, I fought with Death; 
Not only cunning casts in clay: 
    Let Science prove we are, and then 
    What matters Science unto men, 
At least to me? I would not stay. 

Let him, the wiser man who springs 
    Hereafter, up from childhood shape 
    His action like the greater ape, 
But I was born to other things. 

  

CXXI. 
 
Sad Hesper o’er the buried sun 
    And ready, thou, to die with him, 
    Thou watchest all things ever dim 
And dimmer, and a glory done: 
The team is loosen’d from the wain, 
    The boat is drawn upon the shore; 
    Thou listenest to the closing door, 
And life is darken’d in the brain. 

Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night, 
    By thee the world’s great work is heard 
    Beginning, and the wakeful bird; 
Behind thee comes the greater light: 

The market boat is on the stream, 
    And voices hail it from the brink; 
    Thou hear’st the village hammer clink, 
And see’st the moving of the team. 

Sweet Hesper-Phosphor, double name 
    For what is one, the first, the last, 
    Thou, like my present and my past, 
Thy place is changed; thou art the same. 

  

CXXII. 
 
Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, 
    While I rose up against my doom, 
    And yearn’d to burst the folded gloom, 
To bare the eternal Heavens again, 
To feel once more, in placid awe, 
    The strong imagination roll 
    A sphere of stars about my soul, 
In all her motion one with law; 

If thou wert with me, and the grave 
    Divide us not, be with me now, 
    And enter in at breast and brow, 
Till all my blood, a fuller wave, 

Be quicken’d with a livelier breath, 
    And like an inconsiderate boy, 
    As in the former flash of joy, 
I slip the thoughts of life and death; 

And all the breeze of Fancy blows, 
    And every dew-drop paints a bow, 
    The wizard lightnings deeply glow, 
And every thought breaks out a rose. 

  

CXXIII. 
 
There rolls the deep where grew the tree. 
    O earth, what changes hast thou seen! 
    There where the long street roars, hath been 
The stillness of the central sea. 
The hills are shadows, and they flow 
    From form to form, and nothing stands; 
    They melt like mist, the solid lands, 
Like clouds they shape themselves and go. 

But in my spirit will I dwell, 
    And dream my dream, and hold it true; 
    For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu, 
I cannot think the thing farewell. 

  

CXXIV. 
 
That which we dare invoke to bless; 
    Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; 
    He, They, One, All; within, without; 
The Power in darkness whom we guess; 
I found Him not in world or sun, 
    Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye; 
    Nor thro’ the questions men may try, 
The petty cobwebs we have spun: 

If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep, 
    I heard a voice ‘believe no more’ 
    And heard an ever-breaking shore 
That tumbled in the Godless deep; 

A warmth within the breast would melt 
    The freezing reason’s colder part, 
    And like a man in wrath the heart 
Stood up and answer’d ‘I have felt.’ 

No, like a child in doubt and fear: 
    But that blind clamour made me wise; 
    Then was I as a child that cries, 
But, crying, knows his father near; 

And what I am beheld again 
    What is, and no man understands; 
    And out of darkness came the hands 
That reach thro’ nature, moulding men. 

  

CXXV. 
 
Whatever I have said or sung, 
    Some bitter notes my harp would give, 
    Yea, tho’ there often seem’d to live 
A contradiction on the tongue, 
Yet Hope had never lost her youth; 
    She did but look through dimmer eyes; 
    Or Love but play’d with gracious lies, 
Because he felt so fix’d in truth: 

And if the song were full of care, 
    He breathed the spirit of the song; 
    And if the words were sweet and strong 
He set his royal signet there; 

Abiding with me till I sail 
    To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
    And this electric force, that keeps 
A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 

  

CXXVI. 
 
Love is and was my Lord and King, 
    And in his presence I attend 
    To hear the tidings of my friend, 
Which every hour his couriers bring. 
Love is and was my King and Lord, 
    And will be, tho’ as yet I keep 
    Within his court on earth, and sleep 
Encompass’d by his faithful guard, 

And hear at times a sentinel 
    Who moves about from place to place, 
    And whispers to the worlds of space, 
In the deep night, that all is well. 

  

CXXVII. 
 
And all is well, tho’ faith and form 
    Be sunder’d in the night of fear; 
    Well roars the storm to those that hear 
A deeper voice across the storm, 
Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
    And justice, ev’n tho’ thrice again 
    The red fool-fury of the Seine 
Should pile her barricades with dead. 

But ill for him that wears a crown, 
    And him, the lazar, in his rags: 
    They tremble, the sustaining crags; 
The spires of ice are toppled down, 

And molten up, and roar in flood; 
    The fortress crashes from on high, 
    The brute earth lightens to the sky, 
And the great Æon sinks in blood, 

And compass’d by the fires of Hell; 
    While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
    O’erlook’st the tumult from afar, 
And smilest, knowing all is well. 

  

CXXVIII. 
 
The love that rose on stronger wings, 
    Unpalsied when he met with Death, 
    Is comrade of the lesser faith 
That sees the course of human things. 
No doubt vast eddies in the flood 
    Of onward time shall yet be made, 
    And throned races may degrade; 
Yet O ye mysteries of good, 

Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear, 
    If all your office had to do 
    With old results that look like new; 
If this were all your mission here, 

To draw, to sheathe a useless sword, 
    To fool the crowd with glorious lies, 
    To cleave a creed in sects and cries, 
To change the bearing of a word, 

To shift an arbitrary power, 
    To cramp the student at his desk, 
    To make old bareness picturesque 
And tuft with grass a feudal tower; 

Why then my scorn might well descend 
    On you and yours. I see in part 
    That all, as in some piece of art, 
Is toil coöperant to an end. 

  

CXXIX.
  
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
    So far, so near in woe and weal; 
    O loved the most, when most I feel 
There is a lower and a higher; 
Known and unknown; human, divine; 
    Sweet human hand and lips and eye; 
    Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, 
Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine; 

Strange friend, past, present, and to be; 
    Loved deeplier, darklier understood; 
    Behold, I dream a dream of good, 
And mingle all the world with thee. 

  

CXXX.
  
Thy voice is on the rolling air; 
    I hear thee where the waters run; 
    Thou standest in the rising sun, 
And in the setting thou art fair. 
What art thou then? I cannot guess; 
    But tho’ I seem in star and flower 
    To feel thee some diffusive power, 
I do not therefore love thee less: 

My love involves the love before; 
    My love is vaster passion now; 
    Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou, 
I seem to love thee more and more. 

Far off thou art, but ever nigh; 
    I have thee still, and I rejoice; 
    I prosper, circled with thy voice; 
I shall not lose thee tho’ I die. 

  

CXXXI. 
 
O living will that shalt endure 
    When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
    Rise in the spiritual rock, 
Flow thro’ our deeds and make them pure, 
That we may lift from out of dust 
    A voice as unto him that hears, 
    A cry above the conquer’d years 
To one that with us works, and trust, 

With faith that comes of self-control, 
    The truths that never can be proved 
    Until we close with all we loved, 
And all we flow from, soul in soul. 

            _________ 

O true and tried, so well and long, 
    Demand not thou a marriage lay; 
    In that it is thy marriage day 
Is music more than any song. 

Nor have I felt so much of bliss 
    Since first he told me that he loved 
    A daughter of our house; nor proved 
Since that dark day a day like this; 

Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er 
    Some thrice three years: they went and came, 
    Remade the blood and changed the frame, 
And yet is love not less, but more; 

No longer caring to embalm 
    In dying songs a dead regret, 
    But like a statue solid-set, 
And moulded in colossal calm. 

Regret is dead, but love is more 
    Than in the summers that are flown, 
    For I myself with these have grown 
To something greater than before; 

Which makes appear the songs I made 
    As echoes out of weaker times, 
    As half but idle brawling rhymes, 
The sport of random sun and shade. 

But where is she, the bridal flower, 
    That must he made a wife ere noon? 
    She enters, glowing like the moon 
Of Eden on its bridal bower: 

On me she bends her blissful eyes 
    And then on thee; they meet thy look 
    And brighten like the star that shook 
Betwixt the palms of paradise. 

O when her life was yet in bud, 
    He too foretold the perfect rose. 
    For thee she grew, for thee she grows 
For ever, and as fair as good. 

And thou art worthy; full of power; 
    As gentle; liberal-minded, great, 
    Consistent; wearing all that weight 
Of learning lightly like a flower. 

But now set out: the noon is near, 
    And I must give away the bride; 
    She fears not, or with thee beside 
And me behind her, will not fear. 

For I that danced her on my knee, 
    That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm, 
    That shielded all her life from harm 
At last must part with her to thee; 

Now waiting to be made a wife, 
    Her feet, my darling, on the dead; 
    Their pensive tablets round her head, 
And the most living words of life 

Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, 
    The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again 
    The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain 
Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one. 

Now sign your names, which shall be read, 
    Mute symbols of a joyful morn, 
    By village eyes as yet unborn; 
The names are sign’d, and overhead 

Begins the clash and clang that tells 
    The joy to every wandering breeze; 
    The blind wall rocks, and on the trees 
The dead leaf trembles to the bells. 

O happy hour, and happier hours 
    Await them. Many a merry face 
    Salutes them–maidens of the place, 
That pelt us in the porch with flowers. 

O happy hour, behold the bride 
    With him to whom her hand I gave. 
    They leave the porch, they pass the grave 
That has to-day its sunny side. 

To-day the grave is bright for me, 
    For them the light of life increased, 
    Who stay to share the morning feast, 
Who rest to-night beside the sea. 

Let all my genial spirits advance 
    To meet and greet a whiter sun; 
    My drooping memory will not shun 
The foaming grape of eastern France. 

It circles round, and fancy plays, 
    And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom, 
    As drinking health to bride and groom 
We wish them store of happy days. 

Nor count me all to blame if I 
    Conjecture of a stiller guest, 
    Perchance, perchance, among the rest, 
And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy. 

But they must go, the time draws on, 
    And those white-favour’d horses wait; 
    They rise, but linger; it is late; 
Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. 

A shade falls on us like the dark 
    From little cloudlets on the grass, 
    But sweeps away as out we pass 
To range the woods, to roam the park, 

Discussing how their courtship grew, 
    And talk of others that are wed, 
    And how she look’d, and what he said, 
And back we come at fall of dew. 

Again the feast, the speech, the glee, 
    The shade of passing thought, the wealth 
    Of words and wit, the double health, 
The crowning cup, the three-times-three, 

And last the dance;–till I retire: 
    Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, 
    And high in heaven the streaming cloud, 
And on the downs a rising fire: 

And rise, O moon, from yonder down, 
    Till over down and over dale 
    All night the shining vapour sail 
And pass the silent-lighted town, 

The white-faced halls, the glancing rills, 
    And catch at every mountain head, 
    And o’er the friths that branch and spread 
Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills; 

And touch with shade the bridal doors, 
    With tender gloom the roof, the wall; 
    And breaking let the splendour fall 
To spangle all the happy shores 

By which they rest, and ocean sounds, 
    And, star and system rolling past, 
    A soul shall draw from out the vast 
And strike his being into bounds, 

And, moved thro’ life of lower phase, 
    Result in man, be born and think, 
    And act and love, a closer link 
Betwixt us and the crowning race 

Of those that, eye to eye, shall look 
    On knowledge; under whose command 
    Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand 
Is Nature like an open book; 

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