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# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere

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SIR LAUNCELOT & QUEEN GUINEVERE.
A Fragment.
Like souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. In crystal vapour everywhere Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between, And far, in forest-deeps unseen, The topmost elm-tree gather'd green From draughts of balmy air.
Sometimes the linnet piped his song: Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong: By grassy capes with fuller sound In curves the yellowing river ran, And drooping chestnut-buds began To spread into the perfect fan, Above the teeming ground.
Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode thro' the coverts of the deer, With blissful treble ringing clear. She seem'd a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring.
Now on some twisted ivy-net, Now by some tinkling rivulet In mosses thick with violet, Her cream-white mule his pastern set: And now more fleet she skimm'd the plains
Than she whose elfin prancer springs By night to eery warblings, When all the glimmering moorland rings With jingling bridle-reins.
As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid: She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/Sir Galahad

SIR GALAHAD.
i.
My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel: They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
ii.
On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.
iii.
A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.
iv.
I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.
v.
Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height: No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
vi.
Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.
vii.
And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/Lady Clare

LADY CLARE.
Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare, I trow they did not part in scorn; Lord Ronald, her cousin, courted her And they will wed the morrow morn.
"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 God be thank'd!" 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 God'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 broach 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 sinn'd 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.
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 in 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 look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: He turn'd, and kiss'd 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."
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/A Pleasant Memory

* The Pleasing Thought
* Painted by W. BoxallEngraved by R. A. Artlett
A PLEASANT MEMORY.
BY L. E. L.
Ah! little do those features wear
The shade of grief, the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain snow,
And thence descends in many a ring,
With sun and summer glistening.
Yet something on that brow has wrought
A moment's cast of passing thought:
Musing of gentle dreams, like those
Which tint the slumbers of the rose:
Not love,—love is not yet with thee—
But just a glimpse what love may be:
A memory of some last night's sigh,
When flitting blush and drooping eye
Answer'd some youthful cavalier,
Whose words sank pleasant on thine ear,
To stir, but not to fill the heart;—
Dreaming of such, fair girl, thou art.
Thou blessed season of our spring,
When hopes are angels on the wing;
Bound upwards to their heavenly shore,
Alas! to visit earth no more,
Then step and laugh alike are light,
When, like a summer morning bright,
Our spirits in their mirth are such,
As turn to gold whate'er they touch.
The past! 'tis nothing,—childhood's day
Has rolled too recently away,
For youth to shed those mournful tears
That fill the eye in older years,
When care looks back on that bright leaf,
Of ready smiles and short-lived grief.
The future! 'tis the promised land,
To which Hope points with prophet hand,
Telling us fairy tales of flowers
That only change for fruit—and ours.
Though false, though fleeting, and though vain,
Thou blessed time I say again.
Glad being, with thy downcast eyes,
And visionary look that lies
Beneath their shadow, thou shalt share
A world, where all my treasures are—
My lute's sweet empire, filled with all
That will obey my spirit's call;
A world lit up by fancy's sun!
Ah! little like our actual one.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/Contents

Contents
| Title | Origin |
| The Young Olympia | The Rose, in The Golden Violet |
| The Ladye Adeline | The Troubadour |
| The Fair Patrician | Portrait of a Lady. By Sir Thomas Lawrence |
| The Maid of Lismore | The Upper Lake of Killarney |
| Erinna | Erinna |
| A Pleasant Memory | Poetical Portrait II |
| Emily | |
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/The Ladye Adeline

* The Lady Adeline
* Painted by A. E. Chalon, R. A.Engraved by H. Robinson
THE LADYE ADELINE.
BY L. E. L.
"Ah what could the Lady's beauty match
An it were not the Lady's pride."
The ladye of the festive board
Was ward to the castle's absent lord;
The Ladye Adeline—the same
Bright vision that with their greeting came.
On the knot of her wreathed hair was set
A blood-red ruby coronet:
And pearls the orient and the rare,
Braided the folds of her raven hair;
White they were, but their stainless snow
Was dim to the forehead that shone below.
Around her floated a veil of white,
Like the silvery rack round the star of twilight.
But yet there was mid her excess
Of bright and dazzling loveliness,
A something in the eye and hand,
And forehead speaking of command:
An eye whose dark flash seemed allied
To even more than beauty's pride;—
A hand as only used to wave
Its sign to worshipper and slave.—
A forehead—but that was too fair
To read of aught save beauty there.
Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild,
Capricious as a petted child,
She was all chance, all change; but now
A smile is on her radiant brow,—
A moment, and that smile is fled—
Contempt and scorn are there instead.
Ah, every change of beauty's face
And beauty's mood has its own grace.
(from “THE TROUBADOUR.”)
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/The Maid of Lismore

* The Maid of Lismore
* Painted by F. StoneEngraved by R. H. Dyer
THE MAID OF LISMORE.
BY L. E. L.
Why doth the maiden turn away
 From voice so sweet, and words so dear?
Why doth the maiden turn away,
 When love and flattery woo her ear?
And rarely that enchanted twain,
Whisper in woman's ear in vain.
Why doth the maiden leave the hall?
 No face is fair as hers is fair,
No step has such a fairy fall,
 No azure eyes like hers are there.
The maiden seeks her lonely bower,
 Although her father's guests are met;
She knows it is the midnight hour,
 She knows the first pale star is set,
And now the silver moon-beams wake
The spirits of the haunted Lake.
The waves take rainbow hues, and now
 The shining train are gliding by,
Their chieftain lifts his glorious brow,
 The maiden meets his lingering eye.
The glittering shapes melt into night;
 Another look, their chief is gone,
And chill and grey comes morning's light,
 And clear and cold the Lake flows on;
Close, close the casement, not for sleep,
Over such visions eyes but weep.
How many share such destiny,
 How many, lured by fancy's beam,
Ask the impossible to be,
 And pine, the victims of a dream.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/The Young Olympia

This is actually taken from The Rose in the Golden Violet.
* The Young Olympia
* Painted by E. T. ParrisEngraved by H. T. Ryall
THE YOUNG OLYMPIA.
BY MISS LANDON.
The young Olympia!—On her face the dyes
Were yet warm with the dance's exercise,
The laugh upon her full red lip yet hung,
And, arrow-like, flash'd light words from her tongue.
She had more loveliness than beauty; hers
Was that enchantment which the heart confers;
A mouth sweet from its smiles, a glancing eye,
Which had o'er all expression mastery:
Laughing its orb, but the long dark lash made
Somewhat of sadness with its twilight shade,
And suiting well the upcast look which seem'd
At times as it of melancholy dream'd;
Her cheek was as a rainbow, it so chang'd,
As each emotion on its surface rang’d;
And every word had its companion blush,
But evanescent as the crimson flush
That tints the day-break; and her step was light
As the gale passing o'er the leaves at night;
In truth those snow feet were too like the wind,
Too slight to leave a single trace behind.
She lean'd against a pillar, and one hand
Smooth'd back the curls that had escap'd the band
Of wreath'd white pearls—a soft and fitting chain
In bondage such bright prisoners to retain.
The other was from the white marble known
But by the clasping of its emerald zone;
And lighted up her brow, and flash'd her eye,
As many that were wandering careless by
Caught but a sound, and paus'd to hear what more
Her lip might utter of its honey store.
She had that sparkling wit which is like light,
Making all things touch'd with its radiance bright;
And a sweet voice, whose words would chain all round,
Although they had no other charm than sound.
And many nam'd her name, and each with praise;
Some with her passionate beauty fill'd their gaze,
Some mark'd her graceful step, and others spoke
Of the so many hearts that own'd the yoke
Of her bewildering smile; meantime, her own
Seem'd as that it no other love had known
Than its sweet love of Nature, music, song,
Which as by right to woman's world belong,
And make it lovely for Love's dwelling place.
Alas! that he should leave his fiery trace!
But this bright creature's brow seem'd all too fair,
Too gay, for Love to be a dweller there;
For Love brings sorrow; yet you might descry
A troubled flashing in that brilliant eye,
A troubled colour on that varying cheek,
A hurry in the tremulous lip to speak,
Avoidance of sad topics, as to shun
Somewhat the spirit dar'd not rest upon;
An unquiet feverishness, a change of place,
A pretty pettishness, if on her face
A look dwelt as in scrutiny to seek
What hidden meanings from its change might break.
[FROM "THE VENETIAN BRACELET."]
The reader will perceive a slight alteration in one of the above lines. It has been made by the pen of the fair writer.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/Emily

This seems to be a new poem.
* Emily
* Painted by E. T. ParrisEngraved by G. Adcock
EMILY.
BY MISS LANDON.
Her eye has wandered from the book
 That rests upon her knee;
Gone from that page of love and war,
 Where can her fancy be?
Is it amid those pleasant vales
 Where once her childhood strayed;
Those olive groves upon the hill,
 The myrtles in the glade—
Where, almost hidden from the bee,
 The early violet dwells,
Or where the Spring chimes fragrant peals
 From the blue hyacinth bells?
Ah! there is colour on her cheek,
 And languor in her eye;
It is some deeper, dearer thought,
 That now is flitting by!
A history of old romance
 That painted page has shown;
How can she read of others' love
 And not recal her own?
Her heart is in the tented field,
 A youthful knight is there;
Ah! well she knows the scarf and glove
 Which he is vow'd to wear.
Upon that scarf, upon that glove
 Her tears have left their stain;
But they will wear a deeper dye,
 Ere brought to her again.
Ah! absence is not darkness all—
 It hath its lighter hour,
When youth is fresh upon the soul,
 And fancy tries its power!
That maiden with her wandering eye,
 The sweet flush on her brow,
One image present on her mind—
 Is she not happy now?
Yes; haunted by those gentle dreams
 Which early life but knows:
The first warmth over morning's sky—
 The first dew on the rose;
Ere colder, darker feelings rise
 Within the mind's pure spring;
When hope soars lark-like through the air,
 With sunshine on its wing.
An innocent and happy love
 Is in that youthful face;
God grant that never coming years
 May leave a sadder trace!
Life's book has one or two fair leaves;
 Ah, such should be for thine!
That young face is too kind, too good
 To bear a harsher line.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/Erinna

* Erinna
* Painted by F. StoneEngraved by Charles Lewis
ERINNA.
BY L. E. L.
Was she of spirit race, or was she one
Of Earth's least earthly daughters, one to whom
A gift of soul and loveliness is given,
Only to make men wretched?
There is an antique gem, on which her brow
Retains its graven beauty even now.
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind
Floats as enamour'd of the summer wind;
The rest is simple. Is she not too fair
Even to think of maiden's sweetest care?
The mouth and brow are contrasts. One so fraught
With pride, the melancholy pride of thought
Conscious of power, and yet forced to know
How little way such power as that can go;
Regretting, while too proud of the fine mind,
Which raises but to part it from its kind:
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this;
It was a mouth the rose had leaned to kiss,
For her young sister, telling, now though mute,
How soft an echo it was to the lute.
The one spoke genius, in its high revealing;
The other smiled a woman's gentle feeling.
It was a lovely face: the Greek outline
Flowing, yet delicate and feminine;
The glorious lightning of the kindled eye,
Raised, as it communed with its native sky,
A lovely face, the spirit's fitting shrine;
The one almost, the other quite, divine.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Finden’s Gallery of the Graces (1834)/The Fair Patrician

* The Fair Patrician
* Painted by A. E. Chalon, R. A.Engraved by R. A. Artlett
THE FAIR PATRICIAN.
BY L. E. L.
Lady, thy lofty brow is fair,
Beauty's sign and seal are there;
And thy lip is like the rose
Closing round the bee's repose;
And thine eye is like a star,
But blue as the sapphires are.
Beautiful Patrician! thou
Wearest on thy stately brow
All that suits a noble race;
All of high born maiden's grace,— Who is there could look on thee
And doubt thy nobility?
Round thee satin robe is flung,
Pearls upon thy neck are hung,
And upon thy arm of snow
Rubies like red sun-gifts glow;
Yet thou wearest pearl and gem
As thou hadst forgotten them.
'Tis a step, but made to tread
O'er Persian's web, or flower's head,—
Soft hand that might only move
In the broidered silken glove,—
Cheek unused to ruder air
Than what hot-house rose might bear;
One whom nature only meant
To be Queen of the tournament,—
Courtly fête, and lighted hall,—
Grace and ornament of all!
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1824

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
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Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in Forget Me Not, 1824 compiled from contemporary reviews by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* Ellen
* Lines on the Mausoleum of the Princess Charlotte, at Claremont
# Pollyooly/Front matter

POLLYOOLY
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Written in North Wales

WRITTEN IN NORTH WALES.
Oh! happy regions of delight and joy, And much-loved scenes of bliss without alloy; Hail! to your mountains, groves, and woodlands dear, Hail! to your flowery lawns, and streamlets clear; Hail! to your lowly cots, and stately parks, And hail! your meadows green, and soaring larks.
Observe yon verdant fields, and shady bowers, Wherein I've passed so many happy hours;
See, too, yon rugged hill, upon whose brow Majestic trees and woods aspiring grow. There to the right, the vale of Clwyd ends; Here to the left, huge Penman-mawr extends: Look to the south, the Cambrian mountains o'er; Hark! to the north, the ocean's awful roar. Remark those lowing herds and sportive sheep, And watchful shepherds too, their flocks who keep. Behold yon ships, now on the glassy main, Which spread the sails, their destin'd port to gain. These lovely prospects, how they cheer my soul, With what delight and joy I view the whole! Accept Great God, thanks for these blessings giv'n, And may my gratitude ascend to heav'n.
# Poems by Ingelow, Jean/A Sea Song

A SEA SONG.
Old Albion sat on a crag of late,
And sung out, 'Ahoy! ahoy!
Long life to the captain, good luck to the mate,
And this to my sailor boy! Come over, come home,
Through the salt sea foam,
My sailor, my sailor boy.
'Here's a crown to be given away, I ween,
A crown for my sailor's head.
And all for the worth of a widowed queen,
And the love of the noble dead, And the fear and fame
Of the island's name
Where my boy was born and bred.
'Content thee, content thee, let it alone,
Thou marked for a choice so rare;
Though treaties be treaties, never a throne
Was proffered for cause as fair.
Yet come to me home,
Through the salt sea foam, For the Greek must ask elsewhere.
'Tis pity, my sailor, but who can tell?
Many lands they look to me;
One of these might be wanting a Prince as well,
But that's as hereafter may be.'
She raised her white head
And laughed; and she said
'That's as hereafter may be.'
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To the Moonlit Hour

TO THE MOONLIGHT HOUR.
Sweetest of the pensive hours, Welcome to our Cambrian bowers; While the harp with plaintive close, Bids us love the song of woes; Or the lute so gaily sweet, Echoes thro' this wild retreat; While our hearts with frolic pleasure, Vibrate to the dulcet measure; We will bless thy soothing power, Sweet and pensive moonlight hour.
By the soft expressive sigh We breathe to mournful melody; By the poet's melting trance, And by his visions of romance; By the lover's trembling tear, To sorrow and to rapture dear; Ever be thy shadowy beam Sacred as the minstrel's theme. Sweetest of the pensive hours, Welcome to our Cambrian bowers.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Youth

YOUTH.
Oh! halcyon Youth, delightful hours, When not a cloud of sorrow lowers; When every moment wings its flight, To waft new joy and new delight. Kind, unsuspecting, and sincere, Youth knows no pang, no jealous fear; And sprightly Health, with cherub face, Enlivens ev'ry opening grace; And laughing Pleasure hovers near, And tranquil Peace to youth is dear. If Sorrow heave the little breast, There plaintive sorrow cannot rest; For swiftly flies the transient pain, And Pleasure re-assumes her reign. The tale the sons of woe impart, Vibrates upon the youthful heart: The soul is open to belief, And Pity flies to soften grief. Hope with sweet expressive eye, Mirth, and gay Felicity, Fancy in her lively dress, Pity who delights to bless; Innocence, and candid Truth, These and more attend on Youth.