Memories of the TennysonsJ. MacLehose and sons, 1900 - 252 pages |
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Æneid Aldworth Alfred Tennyson Arthur Hallam asked Bag-Enderby beautiful bell beneath brother Charles Tennyson Charles Tennyson Turner church daäys dark dear delight Enderby eyes Farringford father feel felt flowers fwoaks garden Georgics Gibraltar Point Grasby Halton Halton Holegate Harrington hear heard heart heaven hill honour James Spedding knew laädies lads Laureate letter light Lincolnshire lines look Lord Tennyson Louth Mablethorpe Maud Memoriam memory mind Mirehouse morning mother never night nivver nobbut Northern Farmer nowt once owd doctor passed poem poet poet's quaint Rawnsley Rectory remember rose round saäy sand Scamblesby seemed seen Sellwood Shiplake Skegness Somersby sonnet sound Spilsby spoke sweet talk tender Tennyson boys Tetford thee theer thing thou thought thro told trees verse village Virgil voice walk wold wood words written wrote Yees young
Popular passages
Page 192 - To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Page 141 - Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, An fill it in a silver tassie ; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie : The boat rocks at the pier o...
Page 183 - Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee! Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see; Only Thou art holy; there is none beside Thee, Perfect in power, in love and purity. 4 Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty! All Thy works shall praise Thy name, in earth and sky and sea; Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty; God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!
Page 194 - The time draws near the birth of Christ: The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door Were shut between me and the sound: Each voice four changes on the wind, That now dilate, and now decrease, Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace, Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.
Page 194 - 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!
Page 197 - Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad...
Page 194 - 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...
Page 195 - THE plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows.
Page 101 - ... purpose waste in air : So waste not thou ; but come ; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee ; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Page 184 - Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears: The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears : The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears; Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; He is gone who seem'd so great. — Gone; but nothing can bereave him Of the force he made his own Being here, and we believe him Something far advanced in State, And that he wears a truer crown Than any wreath that man can weave him. Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave...