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Then they praised him, soft and low,

IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

'In Memoriam' was first published in 1850.

No changes were made in the second and third Stole a maiden from her place,

editions. In the fourth edition (1851) the presLightly to the warrior stept,

ent 59th section ('O Sorrow, wilt thou live with Took the face-cloth from the face;

me ?') was added. The present 39th section Yet she neither moved nor wept.

(* Old warder of these buried bones,' etc.) was added in the ‘Miniature Edition of the

Poems' (1871). Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Arthur Henry Hallam, to whose memory the Set his child upon her knee

poem is a tribute, was the son of Henry HalLike summer tempest came her tears - lam, the historian, and was born in London, Sweet my child, I live for thee.'

February 1, 1811. In 1818 he spent some

months with his parents in Italy and SwitzerVI

land, where he became familiar with the French

language, which he had already learned to read COME down, O maid, from yonder moun with ease. Latin he also learned to read with tain height.

facility in little more than a year. When What pleasure lives in height (the shep

only eight or nine years old, he began to write

tragedies which showed remarkable precocity. herd sang),

After a brief course in a preparatory school In height and cold, the splendor of the he was sent to Eton, where he remained till hills ?

1827. He did not distinguish himself as a clasBut cease to move so near the heavens, and

sical scholar, being more interested in English

literature, especially the earlier dramatists. He cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted pine,

took an active part in the Debating Society,

where he showed great power in argumentative To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; discussion; and during his last year in the And come, for Love is of the valley, come, school he began to write for the 'Eton MiscelFor Love is of the valley, come thou down

lany. After leaving Eton he spent eight And find him; by the happy threshold, he,

months with his parents in Italy, where he

mastered the language and the works of Dante Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,

and Petrarch. Or red with spirted purple of the vats,

In October, 1829, he went to Trinity College, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk

Cambridge. There he soon became acquainted With Death and Morning on the Silver

with the Tennysons, and thus began the ever

memorable friendship of which ' In Memoriam Horns,

is the monument. Like his friends, he was the Nor wilt thou spare him in the white ravine, pupil of the Rev. William Whewell. In 1831 Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, he obtained the first prize for an English decThat huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls

lamation on the conduct of the Independent

party during the Civil War. In consequence of To roll the torrent out of dusky doors.

this success, he was called upon to deliver an But follow; let the torrent dance thee oration in the chapel before the Christmas vadown

cation, and chose as a subject the influence of To find him in the valley; let the wild Italian upon English literature. He also gained Lean-headed eagles yelp alone, and leave

a prize for an English essay on the philosophical The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill

writings of Cicero

He left Cambridge on taking his decree in There thousand wreaths of dangling water January, 1832. He resided from that time with smoke,

his father in London in 67 Wimpole Street, reThat like a broken purpose waste in air. ferred to in ‘In Memoriam,' vii. :So waste not thou, but come; for all the Dark house, by which once more I stand vales

Here in the long unlovely street. Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth

Arthur used to say to his friends, 'You know Arise to thee; the children call, and I you will always find us at sixes and sevens.' At Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, the earnest desire of his father he applied himSweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; self vigorously to the study of law in the Inner Myriads of rivulets hurrying tbro' the lawn,

Temple, entering, in the month of October, His father tells the remainder of the sad story very briefly. Arthur accompanied him to Germany in the beginning of August. In returning to Vienna from Pesth, a wet day probably gave rise to an intermittent fever with very slight symptoms, which were apparently subsiding, when a sudden rush of blood to the head caused his death on the 15th of September, 1833. It appeared on examination that the cerebral vessels were weak, and that there was a lack of energy in the heart. In the usual chances of humanity a few more years would probably have been fatal.

1832, the office of an eminent conveyancer, with The moan of doves in immemorial elms,

whom he continued till his departure from And murmuring of innumerable bees.' | England in the following summer.

His loved remains' were brought to England and interred on the 3d of January, 1834, in Clevedon Church, Somersetshire, belonging to his maternal grandfather, Sir Abraham Elton. The place was selected by his father not only from its connection with the family, but also from its sequestered situation on a lone hill overlooking the Bristol Channel.

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VI

O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,

For words, like Nature, half reveal
Who changest not in any gale,

And half conceal the Soul within.
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom; But, for the unquiet heart and brain,

A use in measured language lies;
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

The sad mechanic exercise,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,

Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,

Like coarsest clothes against the cold; III

But that large grief which these enO Sorrow, cruel fellowship,

fold O Priestess in the vaults of Death, Is given in outline and no more.

O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip?

One writes, that other friends remain,' • The stars,' she whispers, blindly run; That • loss is common to the race'A web is woven across the sky;

And common is the commonplace, From out waste places comes a cry, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. And murmurs from the dying sun;

That loss is common would not make * And all the phantom, Nature, stands

My own less bitter, rather more. With all the music in her tone,

Too common ! Never morning wore A hollow echo of my own,

To evening, but some heart did break. A hollow form with empty hands.'

O father, wheresoe'er thou be, And shall I take a thing so blind,

Who pledgest now thy gallant son, Embrace her as my natural good;

A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. Upon the threshold of the mind ?

O mother, praying God will save

Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd, To Sleep I give my powers away;

His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud My will is bondsman to the dark; Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:

Ye know no more than I who wrought

At that last hour to please him well; O heart, how fares it with thee now,

Who mused on all I had to tell, That thou shouldst fail from thy desire, | And something written, something thought;

Who scarcely darest to inquire, • What is it makes me beat so low ?' Expecting still his advent home;

And ever met him on his way Something it is which thou hast lost,

With wishes, thinking, here to-day,' Some pleasure from thine early years. Or • here to-morrow will be come.'

Break, thon deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost !

0, somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,

That sittest ranging golden hair;
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross

And glad to find thyself so fair,
All night below the darken'd eyes; Poor child, that waitest for thy love !

With morning wakes the will, and cries, • Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.'

For now her father's chimney glows

In expectation of a guest;

And thinking this will please him I sometimes hold it half a sin

best,' To put in words the grief I feel; | She takes a riband or a rose;

IV

For he will see them on to-night;

And with the thought her color burns;

And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;

And this poor flower of poesy Which, little cared for, fades not yet.

And, even when she turn'd, the curse

Had fallen, and her future lord Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse.

O, what to her shall be the end ?

And what to me remains of good ?

To her perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.

But.since it pleased a vanish'd eye,

I go to plant it on his tomb,

That if it can it there may bloom,
Or, dying, there at least may die.

IX
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore

Sailest the placid ocean-plains

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft bim o'er. So draw him home to those that mourn

In vain; a favorable speed
Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead
Thro' prosperous floods his boly urn.
All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright

As our pure love, thro' early light Sball glimmer on the dewy decks.

VII Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more —

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

Sphere all your lights around, above;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;

Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see

Till all my widow'd race be run;

Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.

VIII
A happy lover who has come

To look on her that loves him well, Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home;

| I hear the noise about thy keel;

I hear the bell struck in the night;

I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel.

He saddens, all the magic light

Dies off at once from bower and hall,

And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight:

So find I every pleasant spot

In which we two were wont to meet,

The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And traveli'd men from foreign lands;

And letters unto trembling bands;
| And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him; we have idle dreams; •

This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies. O, to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems

Yet as that other, wandering there

In those deserted walks, may find

A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she foster'd up with care;

So seems it in my deep regret,

O my forsaken heart, with thee

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains,

Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God;

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