How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!

The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear la.s.sie, Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain, And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

ALFRED TENNYSON

TENNYSON, ALFRED (Lord), the great English poet, and poet laureate, was born at Somersby, Lincolnshire, in August, 1809, and died at Aldworth, in October, 1892. He was unquestionably the greatest English poet of his time and one of the greatest poets of all time.

He was the youngest of three brothers, all of whom were educated at Cambridge, and gave promise of marked intellectual gifts. Alfred Tennyson's first volume, _Poems, Chiefly Lyrical_, was published in 1830, and met with a favourable reception, though its merits hardly warranted the expectation of his later masterpieces. Other volumes followed rapidly, exhibiting his powers as a poet. In 1850 Tennyson gave to the world a poem which instantly quieted all doubts, of which there had been some, as to his t.i.tle to the highest rank among contemporary poets, and which was universally received as an ample warrant for his appointment to the poet-laureateship which was made in the same year. This was his famous poem, _In Memoriam_.

_Maud_, published in 1855 added to the author's fame, and the same may be said of the many shorter poems from his pen which preceded the publication of the _Idyls of the King_, in 1859. The great charm of Tennyson's poetry lies in his unequalled felicity of diction; his choice and arrangement of words and adjustment of epithets almost seem to be the result of inspiration, so happy are they. The most striking characteristic of his verse is refinement,--a delicacy of sentiment and expression that has rarely, if ever, been attained by any poet. His influence upon the poetical spirit of the age has been very potent, and to the purity of his muse is due, in great degree, the comparative health of our poetical literature.

LADY CLARE

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Roland had brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long betrothed were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: G.o.d's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair, He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O G.o.d be thanked," said Alice, the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair; Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"

Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?"

"As G.o.d's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth; you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread!

I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely, have ye done, O Mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie.

Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can."

She said, "Not so, but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right."

"And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!

Alas, my child, I sinned for thee."

"O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me."

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropped her head in the maiden's hand, And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!

Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are; I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed.

Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

"O," and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail: She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn; He turned and kissed her where she stood; "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood--

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

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 dotes 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 had 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.