Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Frederick Tennyson b. 1807The Blackbird
H
The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon;
Rich breath of hayfields streams thro’ whispering trees;
And birds of morning trim their bustling wings,
And listen fondly—while the Blackbird sings.
On this green valley’s cheery solitude,
On the trim cottage with its screen of roses,
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood,
And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel that flings
Its bubbling freshness—while the Blackbird sings.
Seems as ’t were dreaming in a dozy rest;
The scribbled benches underneath the porch
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West;
But the broad casements of the old Three Kings
Blaze like a furnace—while the Blackbird sings.
Three rosy revellers round a table sit,
And thro’ gray clouds give laws unto the realm,
Curse good and great, but worship their own wit,
And roar of fights, and fairs, and junketings,
Corn, colts, and curs—the while the Blackbird sings.
The tidy Grandam spins beneath the shade
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet
The dreaming pug, and purring tabby laid;
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
And spells in silence—while the Blackbird sings.
Breathes o’er the hamlet with its gardens green,
While the far fields with sunlight overflow’d
Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen;
Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs,
And fires the thicket where the Blackbird sings.
With its peach-cover’d walls, and rookery loud,
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screen’d with boughs,
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings,
Lie in warm sunshine—while the Blackbird sings.
Of festal garments—and my Lady streams
With her gay court across the garden green;
Some laugh, and dance, some whisper their love-dreams;
And one calls for a little page; he strings
Her lute beside her—while the Blackbird sings.
A youth, whose life has been all Summer, steals
Forth from the noisy guests around the board,
Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels;
And, when she pauses, murmurs tender things
Into her fond ear—while the Blackbird sings.
And dizzy things of eve begin to float
Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire;
Half way to sunset with a drowsy note
The ancient clock from out the valley swings;
The Grandam nods—and still the Blackbird sings.
Where the great stack is piling in the sun;
Thro’ narrow gates o’erladen wagons reel,
And barking curs into the tumult run;
While the inconstant wind bears off, and brings
The merry tempest—and the Blackbird sings.
Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream;
The shouts have ceased, the laughter and the fun;
The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her dream;
Only a hammer on an anvil rings;
The day is dying—still the Blackbird sings.
Serene, with long white hair; and in his eye
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer’d Fate,
And felt the wings of immortality;
His heart is throng’d with great imaginings,
And tender mercies—while the Blackbird sings.
A lowly wicket; and at last he stands
Awful beside the bed of one who grew
From boyhood with him—who with lifted hands
And eyes, seems listening to far welcomings,
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting sun;
His sinking hands seem pointing to the West;
He smiles as though he said—“Thy will be done:”
His eyes, they see not those illuminings;
His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird sings.