Light-hearted dweller in the voiceless wood,
Pricking thy tasselled ears in hope to tell
Where, under, in thy haste, the acorn fell:
Now, for excess of summer in thy blood,
Running through all thy tricksy change of mood,
Or vaulting upward to thy citadel
To seek the mossy nest, thy miser-cell,
And chuckle o’er the winter’s hoard of food.
Miser? I do thee wrong to call thee so,
For, from the swinging larch-plumes overhead,
In showers of whispering music thou dost shed
Gold, thick as dust, where’er thy light feet go:
Keep, busy Almoner, thy gifts of gold!
Be still! Mine eyes ask only to behold.

(Sonnets at the English Lakes, p. 36)

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As one speaks of suicide, it is not only the man who suddenly falls by his own hand at a pistol shot that comes to mind; one sees, my friends, a long, melancholy procession of men who are drinking themselves into their graves by slow suicide pass before us—men who deserve at once the stigma and the pity with which we regard the self-murderer, and one feels the time has come to cry aloud in the name of Christ, “None of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.”  For consider what has happened: a young man, a carpet-designer by trade, who nine months ago wrote to a friend these words, “Worship veracity, cultivate the aesthetic perception, love work and workers, and your life will be joyous,” with no heavy trouble upon him, with gladness in his heart of the love of a young girl one day to be his wife, comes to the deliberate conclusion that life is a sham and the fear of death foolishness.  And after writing a long and rational letter to the daily press, stating his views as to the fallaciousness of life, and the absurdity of being detained in that state of life into which, without his leave, he had come, he shoots himself.  He is found to be at once famous among men, and is spoken of by the champions of his deed as a kind of hero and prophet who has done and written brave and manly things. (p. 213)

One could have let this poor selfish, self-willed, self-indulgent youth pass with sorrow to oblivion were it not for the fact that his death has been the means of deluging the press with the doctrines of the morals of suicide, which are unblushingly pagan in view, cynically flippant in tone, and a scandal to our common Christianity. (p. 213)….

All this sentimental talk about making it easy for us to “fall into the arms of easeful death,” or of “the quiet, restful, dreamless, fathomless night,” and at our own sweet will to make a well-behaved bow to our brothers, and pass without paining their susceptibilities out of this world into the next, is sheer un-Christlike cowardice. (p. 214)….

All this prating about “the disappointment of life,” “the being tired of it,” “the putting under our feet hunger and pain and fear of death and all that causes us discomfort,” and, failing this, the advice to go out of life by a pistol bullet or a razor edge, is sheer ignorance of the fact that all that makes us mortals fit for heaven is through the strain and stress and weary wild-beast wrestling, the “grappling with our evil star,” that draws out the best that is in us and nerves us to endure, even as Christ endured, unto the end.  “Perfect through suffering” is the Christian’s motto. (p. 214)….

But there are other things than cowardice in the desertion of our posts here in this life before our time, other things than the cruelty of selfishness and egotism that is involved in the suicide’s act, which need baring to the naked light of day, and making plain before our face.  First, we know not when our souls are strong enough to pass beyond the bourne and be fit for higher work beyond; and, secondly, these bodies are not ours to do as we choose with.  “What! know ye not that your bodies are temples of the Holy Ghost?” so the Gospel seems to cry aloud above the self-murderer’s bullet-rifled body.  These bodies are not our building, they are not made with hands.  They are God’s; He gives them, He repairs them. (p. 214)….

Nor can it escape us that the act of the suicide is absolute betrayal of all Christ taught as to our brotherhood and the claims of the community upon us; that we bear each other’s burdens and so fulfil the law of Christ.  No man can possibly assert that his living or his dying makes no difference to the community.  Take this last signal instance of selfishness of death by the self-murderer’s own hand.  What shall we say of the broken-hearted father who was left behind, or of the young girl’s heart and hope which by the suicide has been undone? (p. 214)….

He is our Imperator; we will not leave our station till He gives consent.  For we are set each in our appointed place to do just the work that no one else can do so well: to work out—God helping us—our own salvation and the salvation of our time with fear and trembling, in that state of life to which God has been pleased to call us.  He who in the hard life’s battle leaves the field before his time is a coward, false to the high trust that God has given. (p. 214)

(Christian World Pulpit, 44 (4 October 1893), 212-15)

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Sir,—There can be no more patriotic movement if we look at the future “stamina” of our people than a recall from the anaemic loaf of to-day to the wheat flour as God Almighty gave it for the building of bone and muscle and nerve….

Here in Cumberland another very important food-stuff, which in old days contributed to the bone and muscle of our dalesmen, has almost passed away.  I allude to the delicious “Haver” bread, a very thin cake of fine oatmeal, which up to thirty years ago was the staple bread at every farm, and for the storing of which—for only two bakings took place in the year—the oak kists were part of the household furniture….

The “Haver bread” not only helped to produce good teeth but helped to keep them good, for the eating of it acted as a toothbrush.  The report of our school medical officer of health and the report of our Chief Constable upon the condition of teeth of the fine strapping young fellows who, volunteering for the Metropolitan Police Force, were obliged to be rejected a year ago, by reason of their teeth, shows that something is radically wrong with the present food of the people.  I am assured that one of the inner cuticles of the wheat corn which is cast aside in the manufacture of refined white flour by the steel roller process, contains a particular “calcium” salt which goes to give enamel to the teeth.  If this is so, one cannot hope to arrest decay and cannot wonder that such a large percentage of our children are shown to be suffering from bad teeth.  This means that a large percentage of our children at the most critical portion of their growth are ill-supplied with the very instruments that most tend to good nutrition.

My experience of the stone-ground flour is that the mere fragrance and scent of it, if one becomes accustomed to it, makes it impossible for one to return to the scentless and tasteless flour that is in fashion.  I am told that one of the cuticles of the wheat grain which is cast out in the new milling process contains certain essential oils which give this nutty fragrance, and that this essential oil has a peculiar power to promote the flow of saliva and therefore is an important aid to digestion.

(London Daily News, 16 January 1911, p. 4]

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Obiit, Aldworth, October 6th, 1892

The moonlight lay with glory on his face
    About whose bed in grief the nation bowed,
    And darkly flew the wild October cloud:
Sobbed the pale morn, and came with faltering pace
    As if it feared to lift a dead man’s shroud;
    And all the streams made lamentation loud.

But such majestic calm was in his look
    As seemed to say, ‘Why weeping o’er me bend,
    Or bid me longer here on earth attend
Whose home is Heaven?’  His hand held Shake-
        speare’s book—
    Shakespeare, so soon to greet him as a friend!
    And so he went companioned, to the end.

Then to the poet, crowned with power and years,
    One bore the wreath of immortality,
    And laid his chaplet of green laurel by.
Wept England; over-seas a land in tears
    For its own bard, caught up the bitter cry
    That rings right round the world when singers die.

For he, the music-maker of the earth,
    Who ruled of right by sound’s melodious sway,
    Who still within his heart had words to say,
Turned to the home whence all his song had birth;
    The first, last, Laureate of a golden day,
    Untouched by time, passed painlessly away.

But as men sorrowed for the glory gone,
    And the dark dumbness fallen upon the time,
    There rang from Heaven triumphant angel-chime,
And voices cried, “Behold the twain are one,
    The friend beloved, who left him ere his prime,
    The friend who made Love’s great Memorial Rhyme.”

And lo! at ending of that heavenly psalm
    The silent sunshine flooded all the lea,
    The golden leaf scarce fluttered from the tree,
The distant ocean lay in autumn-calm;
    There was “no moaning at the bar,” when he—
    Our princely poet-soul, put out to sea.

But we are left disconsolate; no lyre
    To sound a people’s glory, soothe its pain,
    No trumpet-call to chivalry again,
No words of subtlest feeling, finest fire
    To keep us still a nation, and no strain
    To bring new Knowledge to a wiser reign.

He was true patriot, and his soul was set
    To give our England flowers of song for weeds.
    He planted well, he scattered fruitful seeds;
He showed us love was more than coronet,
    And in the jarring of a hundred creeds
    Taught life and truth were hid in noble deeds.

Yet most that purest passion for a maid
    And manly love with maiden virtue crowned,
    Availed to keep our social fabric sound;
And loving Arthur well, he well pourtrayed
    That kingliest Arthur of the Table Round,
    Who entered Heaven to heal him of Earth’s wound.

And he has entered Heaven by earth unharmed;
    Years could not blanch a single lock with grey,
    Time could not steal a single bolt away,
Nor blunt the sword wherewith his soul was armed:
    But from this shore, whereon he might not stay,
    His music nevermore shall die away.

Now he is gone, who up the windy ways
    Followed the shepherd to the bleating fold;
    Who, when the level plain was laid in gold,
Ran with the reapers, learnt their Doric phrase,
    And to his great iambic’s stately mould
    Caught back rich words that never can grow old.

Now he is gone, who spoke with Greece and Rome,
    And took the herdsman’s sunny pipe, and played
    Idyllic music fit for English shade;
Who in his ocean-sounding island home
    Walked with the mighty Homer unafraid,
    And Saxon metre to his thunder made.

I shall not find his welcome at the home,
    Nor front those searching eyes that when we met
    Would ask what father’s-features lingered yet;
Nor mark the sun-browned ample forehead’s dome,
    Strong Norman mouth-swirls, cheeks whereon was set
    The powerful seal of the Plantagenet.

I shall not press that soft and tender hand,
    Nor hear far off his rich voice like a bell
    Ring after crying “Friend! farewell, farewell!”
Nor see the dreaming dark-cloaked poet stand
    Like some Velasquez figure in the dell,
    Where o’er his face full shadow rose and fell.

Friends! we no more shall climb the darkened down
    And hear him measure music to the beat
    Of summer seas reverberant at his feet;
Never in orchard-garden overblown
    With spice of rose and lily, and  made sweet
    With song of birds, can share his arbour seat,

And listen to the tale of boyhood days
    Not quite forgotten, in the Lincoln land
    Of corn that yellowed to the yellow sand,
Where first he strove to win a mother’s praise
    By warbling with his brother, hand in hand,
    The wild-wood notes her heart could understand,

Or move from boyhood’s day and personal theme
    To hint of curious workmanship confessed
    In some great thought his labour had expressed,
To talk of nations, and the poet’s dream
    Of England, free, pure, faithful, self-possessed,
    His fears for Modred’s battle in the West.

With him we cannot claim the moorland walk
    And watch the sunlight shoot athwart the rain,
    Or halt to hear new bird-notes in the lane;
Or see him stoop from philosophic talk
    To shred some simple wayside weed in twain,
    And marvel at the miracle made plain.

Nor ever view soft veils of vapour drawn
    From the ‘grey sea’ beyond the Sussex glade,
    Nor watch from Aldworth’s height, the morning made,
Nor ever leave the cedar-scented lawn
    To thread the high-o’er-arching colonnade
    Of cloistral trees that gave the poet shade.

And when the birds have sought their ilex home,
    And the magnolia pours its fragrance rare,
    We shall not mount again his turret stair
And hear the strong deep-chested music come,
    While light in hand within his simple chair
    He summoned sound to people all the air,

And set the rafters ringing to the wail
    Of a great nation for its warrior dead,
    The boom of cannon and the mourner’s tread;
Or bade the bugle’s elfin echoes fail,
    The long low lights on castle walls be shed—
    Then shut the book in dream, and bowed his head.

Nor ever after meat when lamps are lit,
    About the shining table drawing nigher,
    Feel the fine soul that flashed forth at desire;
Sharp sallies, rapier-thrusts of genial wit
    That called for friend, and bade the foe retire,
    And filled the hall with laughter, and with fire.

The hall is filled with silence and with tears!
    The stately hound that licked his dying hand,
    Fair-flewed, rough-chested, sorrowful must stand,
Must wonder why no well-loved step he hears,
    Or, restless, roam among the funeral band
    That comes to bear his master thro’ the land.

Yea! bear him down, by weald, and wood, and town;
    He knew each rosy farm, he loved each lane,
    For he was home-bred English.  Lo! the plain
Is gold from harvest; he, whom Death has mown
    In ripeness, goes to where our goodliest grain
    Is garnered, till the Christ return again.

Bear him in some triumphal leafy car,
    Laced round with moss, with laurel interwove,
    And let the simple pall be strewn above
With all white flowers that pure and fragrant are—
    Wild roses, on the pall embroidered, prove
    His zeal for knightliness, our England’s love.

But bear him when the sunset, saffron-gold,
    Floods the pale Heaven, above the moorland height,
    And in the west one waning star hangs bright;
For now the race is run, the tale is told,
    One last lone star sinks down into the night,
    Our one last prophet vanishes from sight.

For, though I find thy voice in hall or cot,
    And see thy words on every flying sheet,
    Or hear thee lisped by children in the street,
And murmured in the cloister,—Thou art not.
    Thy soul, that shunned earth’s restlessness and
            heat,
    Has sought Heaven’s unapproachable retreat.

I trace the brooklet swirling to the plain
    From near the copse beside thy father’s door,
    That ancient grove whence ‘holy waters’ pour;¹
I pass by thorpe and tower toward the main,
    I roam the long sands thou didst love of yore,²
    But ah! thy feet have left the lonely shore.

Far off, by Cam, I catch the careless chimes,³
Through close-cropt meads and stately halls I
            stray,
    Where those disciples of thy glorious day⁴
Made mirth and music underneath the limes,
    Thou with the twelve—nigh latest didst thou stay;
    But now the last leaf falls, the world is grey.

I wander to the chapel by the mere,
    I win the Hall, beyond the grove of pine,⁵
    Where-over, Skiddaw doth at day’s decline
Shed back its fern-flushed glory.  Thou wert there—
    There didst out-roll ‘Morte d’Arthur’ line on line
    To willing ears—thy ghost alone is mine.

Or leaving Thames I seek by chalky dell⁶
    My father’s terrace-garden o’er the flood,
    Where once a bride and bridegroom-poet stood,
And heard in June-tide air the marriage bell
    Ring thro’ the walnuts that “the hour is good
    When noble man weds noblest woman-hood.”

There are now perchance in thought slow moveth one
    Pale and in pain: she hears another sound,
    Her eyes for sorrow cannot leave the ground,
The gentlest wife that ever bore a son,
    Who once for Love and Life, went gaily-gowned,
    And now, for Death, with weeds is wrapt around.

Then to the church close-bosomed in the chine,⁷
    Where moves and moans the silver Severn sea,
    I turn.  I feel thy spirit, joyous, free;
There lies the heart, once lost, now wholly thine,
    Of whose true wards thy music held the key;
    There men who mourn shall surely meet with
        thee.

¹ Holywell Wood, at Somersby, Lincolnshire.
² Skegness, Lincolnshire.
³ The Lime Walk, Trinity College, Cambridge, 1828-1831.
⁴ The society of twelve undergraduate friends, at Cambridge known as “The Apostles”.
⁵ Mirehouse, Home of the Speddings, 1835.
⁶ Shiplake-on-Thames, where Tennyson was married, 1850.
⁷ Clevedon, 31^st Jan., 1834.

(Valete: Tennyson and other Memorial Poems, p. 3)

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