All Poems
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To A Friend
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
My low deserts consist not with applauseSo kindly -- when I fain would deem it so,My sad heart, musing on its proper flaws,Thy gentle commendation must forego;As toys, which, glued together, hold awhile,But, haply brought too near some searching fire,Start from their frail compacture, and beguileThe child, that pieced them, of his fond desire:I was a very child for that brief tide,Whenas I join'd and solder'd thy good wordWith my poor merits -- 'twas a moment's pride --The flames of conscience sunder'd their accord:My heart dropt off in sorrow from thy praise,Self-knowledge baulk'd self-love so many ways
St. Augustine and Monica
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
When Monica's young son had felt her kiss --Her weeping kiss -- for years, her sorrow flowedAt last into his wilful blood; he owedTo her his after-life of truth and bliss:And her own joy, what words, what thoughts could paint!When o'er his soul, with sweet constraining force,Came Penitence -- a fusion from remorse --And made her boy a glorious Christian saint
The Oak and the Hill
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
When the storm fell'd our oak, and thou, fair wold,Wast seen beyond it, we were slow to takeThe lesson taught, for our old neighbour's sake
A Night-Charge Against A Swan By A Lover
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
The swan, wild-clanging, scoured the midnight lake,And broke my dream of Annie, and I lay,Through those brief hours before the dawn of day,Chiding the sound that startled me awake
The Mute Lovers On the Railway Journey
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
They bade farwell; but neither spoke of love
Millie MacGill
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
I watch'd thy merry gambols on the sand,And ask'd thy name beside the morning sea;Sweet came thine answer, with thy little handUpon the spade, and thy blue eyes on me,Millie Macgill
The Marble Landing
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
They sunk a graven stone into the groundWhere first our Garibaldi's ship was moor'd,Whereon an angry record of his woundBeneath those fair memorial lines, was scor'd;At night the accusing tablet was replacedBy one, discharged of that injurious word,That pierced the general bosom like a sword,Belied their love, their common hope disgrac'd
Letty's Globe
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
When Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad year,And her young, artless words began to flow,One day we gave the child a colour'd sphereOf the wide earth, that she might mark and know,By tint and outline, all its sea and land
The Holy Emerald
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
The gem, to which the artist did entrustThat Face which now outshines the Cherubim,Gave up, full willingly, its emerald dust,To take Christ's likeness, to make room for Him
The Gold-Crested Wren
© Turner Charles (Tennyson)
When my hand closed upon thee, worn and spentWith idly dashing on the window-pane,Or clinging to the cornice -- I, that meantAt once to free thee, could not but detain;I dropt my pen, I left th' unfinished lay,To give thee back to freedom; but I took --Oh, charm of sweet occasion! -- one brief lookAt thy bright eyes and innocent dismay;Then forth I sent thee on thy homeward quest,My lesson learnt -- thy beauty got by heart:And if, at times, my sonnet-muse would restShort of her topmost skill, her little best,The memory of thy delicate gold crestShall plead for one last touch, -- the crown of Art
Sonnets. Part II, XXX
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
Yet , even mid merry boyhood's tricks and scapes,Early my heart a deeper lesson learnt;Wandering alone by many a mile of burntBlack woodside, that but the snow-flake decks and drapes
Sonnets. Part II, VII
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
His heart was in his garden; but his brainWandered at will among the fiery stars:Bards, heroes, prophets, Homers, Hamilcars,With many angels, stood, his eye to gain;The devils, too, were his familiars
Sonnets. Part I, XVIII
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
And Change, with hurried hand, has swept these scenes:The woods have fallen; across the meadow-lotThe hunter's trail and trap-path is forgot;And fire has drunk the swamps of evergreens!Yet for a moment let my fancy plantThese autumn hills again, -- the wild dove's haunt,The wild deer's walk
Sonnets. I
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
The starry flower, the flower-like stars that fadeAnd brighten with the daylight and the dark, --The bluet in the green I faintly mark,And glimmering crags with laurel overlaid,Even to the Lord of light, the Lamp of shade,Shine one to me, -- the least, still glorious madeAs crownèd moon, or heaven's great hierarch
The Cricket
© Frederick Goddard Tuckerman
The humming bee purrs softly o'er his flower, From lawn and thicketThe dogday locust singeth in the sun, From hour to hour;Each has his bard, and thou, ere day be done Shalt have no wrong;So bright that murmur mid the insect crowdMuffled and lost in bottom grass, or loud By pale and picket:Shall I not take to help me in my song A little cooing cricket?
The afternoon is sleepy!, let us lieBeneath these branches, whilst the burdened brookMuttering and moaning to himself goes by,And mark our minstrel's carol, whilst we lookToward the faint horizon, swooning-blue
