Tennyson Alfred Tennyson. The Poetry Collections. Illustrated

IDYLLS OF THE KING, POEMS, BY TWO BROTHERS, IN MEMORIAM A. H. H., TIMBUCTOO AND OTHERS
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-0-88003-037-3
Verlag: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 3094 Seiten

Alfred Tennyson was the Poet Laureate during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets. Number of phrases from Tennyson's work have become commonplace in the English language. As source material for his poetry, Tennyson used a wide range of subject matter ranging from medieval legends to classical myths and from domestic situations to observations of nature. Tennyson was a craftsman who polished and revised his manuscripts extensively, to the point where his efforts at self-editing were described by his contemporary Robert Browning as 'insane', symptomatic of 'mental infirmity'. Contents: 1. The Poetry  POEMS, BY TWO BROTHERS TIMBUCTOO: A POEM POEMS, CHIEFLY LYRICAL POEMS, 1832 THE LOVER'S TALE. A FRAGMENT. POEMS, 1842 MISCELLANEOUS CONTRIBUTIONS TO PERIODICALS, 1831-1868 THE PRINCESS: A MEDLEY IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS IDYLLS OF THE KING ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS BALLADS AND OTHER POEMS TIRESIAS AND OTHER POEMS LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER, ETC. DEMETER AND OTHER POEMS THE DEATH OF ?NONE, AND OTHER POEMS 2. The Plays QUEEN MARY: A DRAMA HAROLD: A DRAMA BECKET THE CUP: A TRAGEDY THE FALCON THE PROMISE OF MAY THE FORESTERS: ROBIN HOOD AND MAID MARIAN   

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson FRS (6 August 1809 - 6 October 1892) was an English poet. He was the Poet Laureate during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Tennyson, Alfred

Leseproben

THE OAK OF THE NORTH “Quae quantum vertice ad auras ?thereas, tantum radice in Tartara tendit, Ergo non hyemes illam, non flabra, neque imbres Convellunt; immota manet, multosque nepotes Multa virum volens durando s?cula vincit.” VIRGIL. THOU forest lord! whose deathless arms Full many an age of rolling time Have mock’d the madness of the storms, Unfaded in thy shadowy prime Thou livest still — and still shalt stay, Tho’ the destroying tyrant bow The temple, and the tower, and lay The pomp and pride of empires low. And if thy stately form be riven And blasted by the fiery levin, Still dost thou give that giant front, Undaunted, to the pitiless brunt Of angry winds, that vainly rave; And, like the scars by battle graven Upon the bosoms of the brave, The tokens of resistless heaven Deep in thy rugged breast are seen, The marks of frays that once have been; The lightning’s stroke, the whirlwind’s force, Have marr’d thee in their furious course, But they have left thee unsubdued; And if they bend thy crest awhile. Thou dost arise in might renew’d, Tameless in undiminish’d toil, Singly against an hostile host Contending, like th’ immortal king, Who quell’d the Titans’ impious boast With thunder, tho’ he stood alone Defender of his starry throne, Dashing th’ aspiring mountains down. Dark Ossa, like a powerless thing, And Pelion with his nodding pines; Then bound with adamantine chains, Where the glad sunlight never shines, The earth-born in eternal pains. Of many who were born with thee, Scarce now a thought survives to tell; War hath ta’en some — their memory But faintly lives of those who fell: Even the conqueror’s glorious name, That boasts a life beyond the tomb, Borne on the wings of rushing fame, May bow before the common doom, Before the measure of its praise Hath filled thy multitude of days. And ere the poet’s hallow’d star, Refulgent o’er his voicelesss urn, Glance thro’ the gloom of years so far, Its living fires may cease to burn. Thy mere existence shall be more Than others’ immortality; The spirits of the great, who bore A sway on earth, and still would be Remember’d when they are not seen, Shall die like echoes on the wind, Nor leave of all that they have been In living hearts one thrill behind; Their very names shall be forgot, Ancient of days! ere thou art not. The druid’s mystic harp, that hung So long upon thy stormy boughs, Mute as its master’s magic tongue, Who slumbereth in that deep repose, No earthly sound shall wake again, Nor glare of sacrificial fire, Nor howl of victims in their pain, Or the weird priestess in her ire, Hath mingled with th’ oblivious dust Of him who called its spirit forth, In those prophetic tones which hush’d The enraptured children of the north Binding them with a holy fear, And smiting each enchanted ear With such a sound as seem’d to raise The hidden forms of future days: Sleep on! — no Roman foe alarms Your rest; and over ye shall wave A guardian God’s protecting arms, And flowers shall deck your grassy grave And he who gazeth on thee now, Ere long shall lie as low as they; The daring heart, the intrepid brow, Not long can feel youth’s joyous glow, The strength of life must soon decay A few short years fleet swiftly by, And rayless is the sparkling eye, Mute the stern voice of high command, And still oppression’s iron hand; The lords of earth shall waste away Beneath the worm, and many a day Of wintry frost and summer sun, Ere yet thy number’d hours be done; For thou art green and flourishing, The mountain-forest’s stately king, Unshaken as the granite stone That stands thine everlasting throne. There was a tower, whose haughty head Erewhile rose darkly by thy side, But they are number’d with the dead, Who ruled within its place of pride; For time and overwhelming war Have crumbled it, and overthrown Bulwark, and battlement, and bar, Column, and arch, and sculptured stone Around thy base are rudely strewn The tokens of departed power, The wrecks of unrecorded fame Lie mouldering in the frequent shower: But thou art there, the very same As when those hearts, which now are cold, First beat in triumph to behold The shadow of its form, which fell At distance o’er the darken’d dell, No more the battle’s black array Shall sternly meet the rising day; No beacon-fire’s disastrous light Flame fiercely in the perilous night. Forgotten is that fortress now, Deserted is the feudal hall, But here and there the red flowers blow Upon its bare and broken wall. And ye may hear the night-wind moan Thro’ shatter’d hearths with moss o’ergrown, Wild grasses wave above the gate; And where the trumpets sung at morn, The tuneless night-bird dwells forlorn, And the unanswer’d ravens prate, Till silence is more desolate. For thou hast heard the clarion’s breath Pour from thy heights its blast of death, While gathering multitudes replied Defiance with a shout that hurl’d Back on their foes the curse of pride, And bended bows, and flags unfurl’d; And swiftly from the hollow vale Their arrowy vengeance glanced, like hail, What time some fearless son of war, Emerging to the upper air, Gain’d the arm’d steep’s embattled brows, Thro’ angry swords around him waving, ‘Mid the leagued thousands of his foes, Their fury like a lion braving: And faster than the summer rain Stream’d forth the life-blood of the slain, Whom civil hate and feudal power Mingled in that tempestuous hour, Steeping thy sinewy roots, that drew Fresh vigour from that deadly dew, And still shall live — tho’ monarchs fail; And those who waged the battle then Are made the marvel of a tale, To warm the hearts of future men. On such a heart did Cambria gaze, When Freedom on that dismal day Saw Edward’s haughty banners blaze Triumphant, and the dread array In the deep vales beneath her gleam, Then started from her ancient throne, That mighty song could not redeem From ruthless hands and hearts of stone. While ages yield their fleeting breath, Art thou the only living thing On earth, which all-consuming death Blasts not with his destroying wing? No! thou shalt die! — tho’ gloriously Those proud arms beat the azure air. Some hour in Time’s dark womb shall see The strength they boast no longer there. Tho’ to thy life, as to thy God’s, Unnumber’d years are as a day, When He, who is eternal, nods, Thy mortal strength must pass away. Unconquer’d Fate, with viewless hand, Hath mark’d the moment of thy doom, For He, who could create, hath spann’d Thy being, and its hour shall come: Some thunderbolt more dread than all That ever...