Alfred Tennyson was the son of Reverend George Clayton Tennyson, who in the early years of the nineteenth century was rector of the church at Somersby in Lincolnshire. Here, in Somersby, the future poet was born on August 6, 1809. He was the fourth child in a family of 12 very talented individuals. But of them all, Alfred showed the most ability and potential. Alfred was taught by both his mother and father, both of which were very intelligent.
In 1828, Alfred entered Trinity College, Cambridge, where he soon found soulmates in a society called "The Apostles" which met frequently for debates on literary and social questions. It was here at Trinity that Tennyson met Arthur Henry Halaam, his greatest influence yet. Due to his father's death and financial hardship, Alfred was forced to return home. During thier separation, Halaam died of a fever, sparking a deep depression in Tennyson that produced some of his best poetry ever, including "In Memoriam," "The Passing of Arthur," and "Ulysses."
Tennyson's Ulysses is fascinating for many reasons. The story of Ulysses everyone is familiar with is full of heroism and adventure. However, Tennyson presents a much more realistic and humanistic picture of Ulysses in the following poem.
IT little profits that an idle king,
| By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
| Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
| Unequal laws unto a savage race,
| That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
| I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
| Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd
| Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
| That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and when
| Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
| Vext the dim sea: I am become a name ;
| For always roaming with a hungry heart
| Much have I seen and known ; cities of men
| And manners, climates, councils, governments,
| Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
| And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
| Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
| I am a part of all that I have met;
| Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
| Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
| For ever and for ever when I move.
| How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
| To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use !
| As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
| Were all too little, and of one to me
| Little remains : but every hour is saved
| From that eternal silence, something more,
| A bringer of new things ; and vile it were
| For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
| And this gray spirit yearning in desire
| To follow knowledge, like a sinking star,
| Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
| This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
| To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle -
| Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
| This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
| A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
| Subdue them to the useful and the good.
| Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
| Of common duties, decent not to fail
| In offices of tenderness, and pay
| Meet adoration to my household gods,
| When I2 am gone. He works his work, I mine.
| There lies the port : the vessel puffs her sail:
| There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
| Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with
| me -
| That ever with a frolic welcome took
| The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
| Free hearts, free foreheads - you and I are old;
| Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ;
| Death closes all: but something ere the end,
| Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
| Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
| The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks :
| The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs : the deep
| Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
| 'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
| Push off, and sitting well in order smite
| The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds
| To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
| Of all the western stars, until I die.
| It may be that the gulfs will wash us down :
| It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
| And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
| Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and tho'
| We are not now that strength which in old days
| Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are;
| One equal temper of heroic hearts,
| Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
| To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
| |
Alfred Lord Tennyson: A Brief Biography
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