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 scepter 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, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I 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,
‘Tis 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.
Originally published in Poems (1842) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Public domain.
Analysis
Tennyson’s “Ulysses” stands as one of the defining poems of the Victorian era — a meditation on heroism, aging, and the restless human spirit. Written in 1833 and published in 1842, it transforms the ancient Greek hero Odysseus (Latinized as Ulysses) into a symbol of modern existential yearning. The poem captures the tension between duty and desire, between the domestic and the heroic, and between the acceptance of mortality and the refusal to be diminished by it.
Context and Inspiration
Tennyson composed “Ulysses” shortly after the death of his close friend Arthur Hallam, whose loss deeply affected him. The poem’s voice of perseverance amid sorrow reflects the poet’s own struggle to find meaning in grief. Like Ulysses, who cannot remain idle after returning home, Tennyson could not resign himself to despair. The poem thus becomes a form of spiritual defiance — a refusal to yield to death or resignation.
The Victorian public, living in an age of industrial progress and moral uncertainty, found in Ulysses a model of ceaseless striving. It embodies the quintessential Victorian ideal of perseverance in the face of limitation, echoing Tennyson’s famous later line from In Memoriam: “’Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all.”
Structure and Voice
The poem is written in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter), giving it the elevated, meditative quality of a dramatic monologue. Ulysses speaks not to an audience but to himself — or perhaps to his crew — in a tone that oscillates between introspection and command. The rhythm mirrors the tides: sometimes surging with passion, sometimes ebbing with melancholy.
The opening lines establish a tone of dissatisfaction. The hero finds no fulfillment in ruling “a savage race / That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.” He contrasts the dullness of domestic routine with the “delight of battle” and the thrill of discovery. Life, for him, is only meaningful in pursuit — “to follow knowledge like a sinking star.”
Themes
1. The Restless Quest for Meaning
At its heart, “Ulysses” explores the human need for continual striving. The hero cannot rest even after achieving fame and survival. His journey becomes an allegory for intellectual and spiritual ambition — an eternal search “beyond the utmost bound of human thought.” Tennyson transforms the Homeric voyager into a figure of modern existentialism, one who finds identity not in arrival, but in movement.
2. The Duality of Age and Heroism
Ulysses acknowledges the decline of physical strength — “We are not now that strength which in old days / Moved earth and heaven” — yet asserts the enduring power of will. This juxtaposition between frailty and fortitude reflects Tennyson’s broader theme: that human dignity lies not in conquest, but in perseverance. The line “Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will” epitomizes Victorian resilience.
3. Duty vs. Desire
The middle section, where Ulysses speaks of Telemachus, contrasts two modes of life. Telemachus represents patience, order, and civic duty — virtues of a stable society. Ulysses, by contrast, embodies passion, curiosity, and rebellion. Tennyson suggests that both are necessary: one for governance, the other for aspiration. Yet Ulysses cannot embrace the domestic peace his son offers; he is drawn to the sea, the symbol of the unknown.
4. Mortality and the Afterlife
The poem’s closing lines evoke both mortality and transcendence. Ulysses accepts that death may come — “It may be that the gulfs will wash us down” — but the possibility of reaching “the Happy Isles” (the Elysium of Greek myth) gives his final voyage a spiritual dimension. Death, in Tennyson’s vision, is not an end but the next adventure.
Symbolism and Imagery
The sea dominates the poem as a metaphor for life’s vastness and uncertainty. “The sounding furrows” suggest both the physical act of rowing and the furrows of experience carved into a human life. The image of the “arch wherethrough / Gleams that untravelled world” captures the boundless lure of discovery — a vision of perpetual motion and possibility.
Light and darkness recur throughout: “the long day wanes,” “the slow moon climbs,” “the lights begin to twinkle.” These images mirror Ulysses’ own twilight state, poised between life and death, yearning for one last dawn of purpose.
Tone and Interpretation
The tone of “Ulysses” has provoked varied interpretations. Some critics read it as noble and inspiring — the anthem of a soul who refuses to succumb to age or defeat. Others detect arrogance and selfishness: a hero who abandons family and duty for reckless adventure. Tennyson himself called the poem “the voice of the will striving in the midst of doubt.” This ambiguity is part of its enduring power.
Ultimately, “Ulysses” invites the reader to see striving as both curse and salvation. The poem does not promise arrival; it sanctifies the journey.
Legacy
“Ulysses” became one of Tennyson’s most quoted works, its closing lines often invoked in political speeches, memorials, and explorations of human endurance. The phrase “To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield” has become a moral emblem for generations — from explorers and reformers to soldiers and scholars. Its spirit of defiance against limitation speaks to any age that must confront doubt and decline.
In its fusion of classical myth and modern psychology, “Ulysses” transcends its era. It captures the eternal tension between who we are and who we wish to be, reminding us that even in age and loss, life’s purpose remains to move forward — endlessly, bravely, toward the horizon.