Tennyson and his friends - Unknown

Thou roaring, roaming Sea!
When first I came into this happy isle,
I loved to listen evermore to thee,
And meditate the while.

But now that I have grown
Homesick, and weary of my loneliness,
It makes me sad to hear thy plaintive moan
And fills me with distress.

III

It speaks of many a friend,
Whom I shall meet no more on Life’s dark road,
It warns that here I must await the end
And cast no look abroad.

Thou ever roaring Sea!
I love thee, for that o’er thy waters come
The stately ships, breasting them gloriously,
That bring me news of home.

I cannot pray for grace—
My soul is heavy, and my sickness sore—
Wilt Thou, O God, for ever hide Thy face?
O! turn to me once more.
Madeira, November 30, 1853.

Drake’s career at Eton and Cambridge really interested him, for my old friend was an ardent worshipper of the Poet in days before Tennyson’s fame had become a national asset. I showed with some pride “Of old sat Freedom on the heights,” translated into Latin Alcaics, a version very popular with Etonians and King’s men. Scholarship has made gigantic strides since it appeared; “those who know” can read and see if we overvalued it.

OF OLD SAT FREEDOM		Idem—Latine redditum
Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind, And fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fulness of her face— Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes!		Olim insedebat montibus arduis Disiecta cernens sub pede fulmina Divina Libertas; superque Astra faces agitare vidit; Et confluentes audiit undique Amnes, opertis in penetralibus Exultat, et ritu Sibyllae Mente sua latet involuta, Sed vocis altae fragmina praepetes Venti ferebant.—Inde novalia Per culta discendens, per urbes Diva homines aditura venit, Ut vultus aegros ante oculos virûm Sensim pateret—mox parit integram Virtutem et altari marino Suppositum speculatur orbem— Quae seu deorum more acies gerit Dextra trifurcas, seu caput induit Regina regali corona. Expetit, insequiturque verum. Quae mille victrix experientiam Collegit annos: o Dea, sic tibi Aeterna si duret iuventus Neu lacrymis oculi madescant; Sic enitebis, sic dabis aureos Dies alumnis, aurea somnia; Sic ore divino refelles Quae properat malesuadus error.

When distinguished visitors came to the Island, who were on terms of friendship with the Poet, I gave him warning that I should not appear on the scene and spoil their pleasure; but to this condition he would not assent, and I can recall frequent occasions when I must have been a fly in the ointment, and the Jowetts, Bradleys, and distinguished Americans would have wished me at Jericho. Once I felt entirely at my ease, for I determined to start the subject of Dr. Johnson, worshipped by me from my boyhood. I knew my Birkbeck Hill pretty well by heart, having quite recently read the six volumes of his edition of Boswell, notes and all, to a blind friend who rejoiced in hearing them. Further than that, I had made a pilgrimage to Lichfield, and by the kindness of a Mr. Lomax, who owned the relics, had examined and handled a varied assortment of goods and chattels, once undoubtedly the property of the great Samuel. The pedigree was thus accounted for by my courteous showman. After Dr. Johnson’s death, Barber, his black servant, migrated from London to Lichfield, “bringing his sheaves with him”; amongst the spolia opima were a huge teapot and a manuscript copy of Devotions. Fortified with the recollections of this pilgrimage, and some out-of-the-way facts told to me by the residentiary Canon, my dear old friend Bishop Abraham, I started on a two hours’ walk with the Poet and Professor Jowett. It was easy to lead up to the theme of conversation—there was no difficulty whatever. I thought of Johnson’s own plan of extinguishing subjects which he intended at all costs to avoid. When Mrs. Neale asked his opinion of the conversational powers of Charles James Fox, “he talked to me one day at the Club,” said he, “concerning Catiline’s conspiracy, so I withdrew my attention and thought about Tom Thumb.” Every moment of that afternoon walk, Dr. Johnson was our theme, and we capped one another with long quotations from Boswell. Jowett chirped, the Poet gave wonderful emphasis and point to the oracles, often pausing suddenly in his walk, and cross-examining me on my remembered version of the actual words. I noted the upshot of our talk. Lord Tennyson agreed with the Master of Balliol “that Boswell was a man of real genius, and resembled Goldsmith in many points of character.”

Miss L——, Doctor Johnson’s godchild, used to tell a disagreeable story about him. Tennyson said about this:

T. “One should not lay stress on these oddities and angularities of great men. They should never be hawked about.”

T. “‘Break, break’ was made one early summer morning, in a Lincolnshire lane. ‘Crossing the Bar’ cost me five minutes one day last November.”