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diff --git a/8601-0.txt b/8601-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..11dbda4 --- /dev/null +++ b/8601-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18961 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Early Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +Author: Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +Release Date: July 27, 2003 [EBook #8601] +[Most recently updated: February 9, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EARLY POEMS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON *** + + + + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +The Early Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +edited with a critical introduction, commentaries and notes, together with the +various readings, a transcript of the poems temporarily and finally suppressed +and a bibliography + +by John Churton Collins + +Table of Contents + +Preface +Introduction +Part I—the editions +Part II—comparison of the editions +Part III—grouping the poems +Part IV—“Art for art, art for truth.” + +Early Poems +To the Queen +Claribel—a Melody +Lilian +Isabel +Mariana +To —— (“Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn”) +Madeline +Song—The Owl +Second Song to the Same +Recollections of the Arabian Nights +Ode to Memory +Song (“A spirit haunts the year’s last hours”) +Adeline +A Character +The Poet +The Poet’s Mind +The Sea-Fairies +The Deserted House +The Dying Swan +A Dirge +Love and Death +The Ballad of Oriana +Circumstance +The Merman +The Mermaid +Sonnet to J. M. K. +The Lady of Shalott +Mariana in the South +Eleänore +The Miller’s Daughter +Fatima +Œnone +The Sisters +To—— (“I send you here a sort of allegory”) +The Palace of Art +Lady Clara Vere de Vere +The May Queen +New Year’s Eve +Conclusion +The Lotos-Eaters +Dream of Fair Women +Margaret +The Blackbird +The Death of the Old Year +To J. S. +“You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease” +“Of old sat Freedom on the heights” +“Love thou thy land, with love far-brought” +The Goose +The Epic +Morte d’Arthur +The Gardener’s Daughter; or, The Pictures +Dora +Audley Court +Walking to the Mail +Edwin Morris; or, The Lake +St. Simeon Stylites +The Talking Oak +Love and Duty +The Golden Year +Ulysses +Locksley Hall +Godiva +The Two Voices +The Day-Dream:—Prologue +The Sleeping Palace +The Sleeping Beauty +The Arrival +The Revival +The Departure +L’Envoi +Epilogue +Amphion +St. Agnes +Sir Galahad +Edward Gray +Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue +To ——, after reading a Life and Letters +To E.L., on his Travels in Greece +Lady Clare +The Lord of Burleigh +Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere: a Fragment +A Farewell +The Beggar Maid +The Vision of Sin +“Come not, when I am dead” +The Eagle +“Move eastward, happy earth, and leave” +“Break, break, break” +The Poet’s Song +Appendix—Suppressed Poems +Elegiacs +The “How” and the “Why” +Supposed Confessions +The Burial of Love +To —— (“Sainted Juliet! dearest name !”) +Song (“I’ the glooming light”) +Song (“The lintwhite and the throstlecock”) +Song (“Every day hath its night”) +Nothing will Die +All Things will Die +Hero to Leander +The Mystic +The Grasshopper +Love, Pride and Forgetfulness +Chorus (“The varied earth, the moving heaven”) +Lost Hope +The Tears of Heaven +Love and Sorrow +To a Lady Sleeping +Sonnet (“Could I outwear my present state of woe”) +Sonnet (“Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon”) +Sonnet (“Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good”) +Sonnet (“The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain”) +Love +The Kraken +English War Song +National Song +Dualisms +We are Free +οἱ ῥέοντες. +“Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free” +To — (“All good things have not kept aloof”) +Buonaparte +Sonnet (“Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!”) +The Hesperides +Song (“The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit”) +Rosalind +Song (“Who can say”) +Kate +Sonnet (“Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar”) +Poland +To — (“As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood”) +O Darling Room +To Christopher North +The Skipping Rope +Timbuctoo +Bibliography of the _Poems_ of 1842 + + + + +Preface + + +A Critical edition of Tennyson’s poems has long been an acknowledged +want. He has taken his place among the English Classics, and as a +Classic he is, and will be, studied, seriously and minutely, by many +thousands of his countrymen, both in the present generation as well as +in future ages. As in the works of his more illustrious brethren, so in +his trifles will become subjects of curious interest, and assume an +importance of which we have no conception now. Here he will engage the +attention of the antiquary, there of the social historian. Long after +his politics, his ethics, his theology have ceased to be immediately +influential, they will be of immense historical significance. A +consummate artist and a consummate master of our language, the process +by which he achieved results so memorable can never fail to be of +interest, and of absorbing interest, to critical students. + +I must, I fear, claim the indulgence due to one who attempts, for the +first time, a critical edition of a text so perplexingly voluminous in +variants as Tennyson’s. I can only say that I have spared neither time +nor labour to be accurate and exhaustive. I have myself collated, or +have had collated for me, every edition recorded in the British Museum +Catalogue, and where that has been deficient I have had recourse to +other public libraries, and to the libraries of private friends. I am +not conscious that I have left any variant unrecorded, but I should not +like to assert that this is the case. Tennyson was so restlessly +indefatigable in his corrections that there may lurk, in editions of +the poems which I have not seen, other variants; and it is also +possible that, in spite of my vigilance, some may have escaped me even +in the editions which have been collated, and some may have been made +at a date earlier than the date recorded. But I trust this has not been +the case. + +Of the Bibliography I can say no more than that I have done my utmost +to make it complete, and that it is very much fuller than any which has +hitherto appeared. That it is exhaustive I dare not promise. + +With regard to the Notes and Commentaries, I have spared no pains to +explain everything which seemed to need explanation. There are, I +think, only two points which I have not been able to clear up, namely, +the name of the friend to whom the _The Palace of Art_ was addressed, +and the name of the friend to whom the _Verses after reading a Life and +Letters_ were addressed. I have consulted every one who would be likely +to throw light on the subject, including the poet’s surviving sister, +many of his friends, and the present Lord Tennyson, but without +success; so the names, if they were not those of some imaginary person, +appear to be irrecoverable. The Prize Poem, _Timbuctoo_, as well as the +poems which were temporarily or finally suppressed in the volumes +published in 1830 and 1832 have been printed in the Appendix: those +which were subsequently incorporated in his Works, in large type; those +which he never reprinted, in small. + +The text here adopted is that of 1857, but Messrs. Macmillan, to whom I +beg to express my hearty thanks, have most generously allowed me to +record all the variants which are still protected by copyright. I have +to thank them, too, for assistance in the Bibliography. I have also to +thank Mr. J. T. Wise for his kindness in lending me the privately +printed volume containing the _Morte d’Arthur, Dora,_ etc. + + + + +Introduction + +I + +The development of Tennyson’s genius, methods, aims and capacity of +achievement in poetry can be studied with singular precision and +fulness in the history of the poems included in the present volume. In +1842 he published the two volumes which gave him, by almost general +consent, the first place among the poets of his time, for, though +Wordsworth was alive, Wordsworth’s best work had long been done. These +two volumes contained poems which had appeared before, some in 1830 and +some in 1832, and some which were then given to the world for the first +time, so that they represent work belonging to three eras in the poet’s +life, poems written before he had completed his twenty-second year and +belonging for the most part to his boyhood, poems written in his early +manhood, and poems written between his thirty-first and thirty-fourth +year. + +The poems published in 1830 had the following title-page: “_Poems, +Chiefly Lyrical, by Alfred Tennyson._ London: Effingham Wilson, Royal +Exchange, 1830”. They are fifty-six in number and the titles are:— + +_Claribel_. +_Lilian_. +_Isabel_. +Elegiacs.* +The “How” and the “Why”. +_Mariana_. +To —— . +Madeline. +The Merman. +The _Mermaid_. +Supposed Confessions of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with +itself.* +The Burial of Love. +To — (Sainted Juliet dearest name.) +_Song. The Owl._ +_Second Song. To the same._ +_Recollections of the Arabian Nights._ +_Ode to Memory_. +Song. (I’ the glooming light.) +_Song. (A spirit haunts.)_ +_Adeline_. +_A Character._ +Song. (The lint-white and the throstle cock.) +Song. (Every day hath its night.) +_The Poet._ +_The Poet’s Mind._ +Nothing will die.* +All things will die.* +Hero to Leander. +The Mystic. +_The Dying Swan._ +_A Dirge._ +The Grasshopper. +Love, Pride and Forgetfulness. +Chorus (in an unpublished drama written very early). +Lost Hope. +The Deserted House.*† +The Tears of Heaven. +Love and Sorrow. +To a Lady Sleeping. +Sonnet. (Could I outwear my present state of woe.) +Sonnet. (Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon.) +Sonnet. (Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good.) +Sonnet. (The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain.) +Love. +_Love and Death._ +The Kraken.* +_The Ballad of Oriana._ +_Circumstance._ +English War Song. +National Song. +_The Sleeping Beauty._ +Dualisms. +We are Free. +The Sea-Fairies.*† +_Sonnet to J.M.K._ +οἱ ῥέοντες + + +Of these the poems in _italics_ appeared in the edition of 1842, and +were not much altered. Those with an asterisk were, in addition to the +italicised poems, afterwards included among the _Juvenilia_ in the +collected works (1871-1872), though excluded from all preceding +editions of the poems. Those with both a dagger and an asterisk were +restored in editions previous to the first collected editions of the +works. + +In December, 1832, appeared a second volume (it is dated on the +title-page, 1833): “Poems by Alfred Tennyson. London: Moxon, +MDCCCXXXIII.” This contains thirty poems:— + +Sonnet.†† (Mine be the strength of spirit fierce and free.) +To— .†† (All good things have not kept aloof.) +Buonaparte.†† +Sonnet I. (O Beauty passing beauty, sweetest Sweet.) +Sonnet II.†† (But were I loved, as I desire to be.) +_The Lady of Shalott_.* +_Mariana in the South._* +_Eleanore._ +_The Miller’s Daughter._* +φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θεοῖσιν Ἔμμεν ἀνήρ. +_Œnone_. +_The Sisters._ +To— . (With the Palace of Art.)* +_The Palace of Art_* +_The May Queen._ +_New Year’s Eve._ +The Hesperides. +_The Lotos Eaters._ +Rosalind.†† +_A Dream of Fair Women_* +Song. (Who can say.) +_Margaret_. +Kate. +Sonnet. Written on hearing of the outbreak of the Polish Insurrection. +Sonnet.†† On the result of the late Russian invasion of Poland. +Sonnet.†† (As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood.) +O Darling Room. +To Christopher North. +_The Death of the Old Year._ +_To J. S._ + + +Of these the poems italicised were included in the edition of 1842; +those marked with an asterisk being greatly altered and in some cases +almost rewritten, those marked with a dagger being practically +unaltered. To those reprinted in the collected works a double dagger is +prefixed. + +In 1842 appeared the two volumes which contained, in addition to the +selections made from the two former volumes, several new poems:— + +“Poems by Alfred Tennyson. In two volumes. London: Edward Moxon, +MDCCCXLII.” + +The first volume is divided into two parts: Selections from the poems +published in 1830, _Claribel_ to the _Sonnet to J. M. K._ inclusive. +Selections from the poems of 1832, _The Lady of Shalott_ to _The Goose_ +inclusive. The second volume contains poems then, with two exceptions, +first published. + +The Epic. +Morte d’Arthur. +The Gardener’s Daughter. +Dora. +Audley Court. +Walking to the Mail. +St. Simeon Stylites. +Conclusion to the May Queen. +The Talking Oak. +Lady Clara Vere de Vere. +Love and Duty. +Ulysses. +Locksley Hall. +Godiva. +The Two Voices. +The Day Dream. +Prologue. +The Sleeping Palace. +The Sleeping Beauty. +The Arrival. +The Revival. +The Departure. +Moral. +L’Envoi. +Epilogue. +Amphion. +St. Agnes. +Sir Galahad. +Edward Gray. +Will Waterproofs Lyrical Monologue, made at the Cock. +Lady Clare. +The Lord of Burleigh. +Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. +A Farewell. +The Beggar Maid. +The Vision of Sin. +The Skipping Rope. +“Move Eastward, happy Earth.” +“Break, break, break.” +The Poet’s Song. + + +Only two of these poems had been published before, namely, _St. Agnes_, +which was printed in _The Keepsake_ for 1837, and _The Sleeping Beauty_ +in _The Day Dream_, which was adopted with some alterations from the +1830 poem, and only one of these poems was afterwards suppressed, _The +Skipping Rope_, which was, however, allowed to stand till 1851. In 1843 +appeared the second edition of these poems, which is merely a reprint +with a few unimportant alterations, and which was followed in 1845 and +in 1846 by a third and fourth edition equally unimportant in their +variants, but in the fourth _The Golden Year_ was added. In the next +edition, the fifth, 1848, _The Deserted House_ was included from the +poems of 1830. In the sixth edition, 1850, was included another poem, +_To— , after reading a Life and Letters_, reprinted, with some +alterations, from the _Examiner_ of 24th March, 1849. + + +The seventh edition, 1851, contained important additions. First the +Dedication to the Queen, then _Edwin Morris_, the fragment of _The +Eagle_, and the stanzas, “Come not when I am dead,” first printed in +_The Keepsake_ for 1851, under the title of _Stanzas_. In this edition +the absurd trifle _The Skipping Rope_ was excised and finally +cancelled. In the eighth edition, 1853, _The Sea-Fairies,_ though +greatly altered, was included from the poems of 1830, and the poem _To +E. L. on his Travels in Greece_ was added. This edition, the eighth, +may be regarded as the final one. Nothing afterwards of much importance +was added or subtracted, and comparatively few alterations were made in +the text from that date to the last collected edition in 1898. + +All the editions up to, and including, that of 1898 have been carefully +collated, so that the student of Tennyson can follow step by step the +process by which he arrived at that perfection of expression which is +perhaps his most striking characteristic as a poet. And it was indeed a +trophy of labour, of the application “of patient touches of unwearied +art”. Whoever will turn, say to _The Palace of Art_, to _Œnone_, to the +_Dream of Fair Women_, or even to _The Sea-Fairies_ and to _The Lady of +Shalott_, will see what labour was expended on their composition. +Nothing indeed can be more interesting than to note the touches, the +substitution of which measured the whole distance between mediocrity +and excellence. Take, for example, the magical alteration in the +couplet in the _Dream of Fair Women_:— + +One drew a sharp knife thro’ my tender throat + Slowly,—and nothing more, + + +into + +The bright death quiver’d at the victim’s throat; + Touch’d; and I knew no more. + + +Or, in the same poem:— + +What nights we had in Egypt! I could hit + His humours while I cross’d him. O the life +I led him, and the dalliance and the wit, + + +into + +We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit + Lamps which outburn’d Canopus. O my life +In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, + The flattery and the strife. + + +Or, in _Mariana in the South_:— + +She mov’d her lips, she pray’d alone, + She praying, disarray’d and warm +From slumber, deep her wavy form + In the dark lustrous mirror shone, + + +into + +Complaining, “Mother, give me grace + To help me of my weary load”. + And on the liquid mirror glow’d +The clear perfection of her face. + + +How happy is this slight alteration in the verses _To J. S._ which +corrects one of the falsest notes ever struck by a poet:— + +A tear +Dropt on _my tablets_ as I wrote. + +A tear +Dropt on _the letters_ as I wrote. + + +or where in _Locksley Hall_ a splendidly graphic touch of description +is gained by the alteration of “_droops_ the trailer from the crag” +into “_swings_ the trailer”. + +So again in _Love and Duty_:— + + Should my shadow cross thy thoughts +Too sadly for their peace, _so put it back_. +For calmer hours in memory’s darkest hold, + + +where by altering “so put it back” into “remand it thou,” a somewhat +ludicrous image is at all events softened. + +What great care Tennyson took with his phraseology is curiously +illustrated in _The May Queen_. In the 1842 edition “Robin” was the +name of the May Queen’s lover. In 1843 it was altered to “Robert,” and +in 1845 and subsequent editions back to “Robin”. + +Compare, again, the old stanza in _The Miller’s Daughter_:— + +How dear to me in youth, my love, + Was everything about the mill; +The black and silent pool above, + The pool beneath it never still, + + +with what was afterwards substituted:— + +I loved the brimming wave that swam + Through quiet meadows round the mill, +The sleepy pool above the dam, + The pool beneath it never still. + + +Another most felicitous emendation is to be found in _The Poet_, where +the edition of 1830 reads:— + +And in the bordure of her robe was writ + Wisdom, a name to shake +Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit. + + +This in 1842 appears as:— + +And in her raiment’s hem was trac’d in flame + Wisdom, a name to shake +All evil dreams of power—a sacred name. + + +Again, in the _Lotos Eaters_ + +_Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow_ +Stood sunset-flushed + + +is changed into + +_Three silent pinnacles of aged snow_. + + +So in _Will Waterproof_ the cumbrous + +Like Hezekiah’s backward runs + The shadow of my days, + + +was afterwards simplified into + +Against its fountain upward runs + The current of my days. + + +Not less felicitous have been the additions made from time to time. +Thus in _Audley Court_ the concluding lines ran:— + +The harbour buoy, +With one green sparkle ever and anon +Dipt by itself. + + +But what vividness is there in the subsequent insertion of + + +“Sole star of phosphorescence in the calm.” + + +between the first line and the second. + +So again in the _Morte d’Arthur_ how greatly are imagery and rhythm +improved by the insertion of + +Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, + + +between + +Then went Sir Bedivere the second time, + + +and + + +Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought. + + +There is an alteration in Œnone which is very interesting. Till 1884 +this was allowed to stand:— + +The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, +Rests like a shadow, _and the cicala sleeps_. + + +No one could have known better than Tennyson that the cicala is loudest +in the torrid calm of the noonday, as Theocritus, Virgil, Byron and +innumerable other poets have noticed; at last he altered it, but at the +heavy price of a cumbrous pleonasm, into “and the winds are dead”. + +He allowed many years to elapse before he corrected another error in +natural history—but at last the alteration came. In _The Poet’s Song_ +in the line— + +The swallow stopt as he hunted the _bee_, + + +the “fly” which the swallow does hunt was substituted for what it does +not hunt, and that for very obvious reasons. + +But whoever would see what Tennyson’s poetry has owed to elaborate +revision and scrupulous care would do well to compare the first edition +of _Mariana in the South_, _The Sea-Fairies_, _Œnone_, _The Lady of +Shalott_, _The Palace of Art_ and _A Dream of Fair Women_ with the +poems as they are presented in 1853. Poets do not always improve their +verses by revision, as all students of Wordsworth’s text could +abundantly illustrate; but it may be doubted whether, in these poems at +least, Tennyson ever made a single alteration which was not for the +better. Fitzgerald, indeed, contended that in some cases, particularly +in _The Miller’s Daughter_, Tennyson would have done well to let the +first reading stand, but few critics would agree with him in the +instances he gives. We may perhaps regret the sacrifice of such a +stanza as this— + +Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, + Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, +Each quaintly folded cuckoo pint, + And silver-paly cuckoo flower. + +II + +Tennyson’s genius was slow in maturing. The poems contributed by him to +the volume of 1827, _Poems by Two Brothers_, are not without some +slight promise, but are very far from indicating extraordinary powers. +A great advance is discernible in _Timbuctoo_, but that Matthew Arnold +should have discovered in it the germ of Tennyson’s future powers is +probably to be attributed to the youth of the critic. Tennyson was in +his twenty-second year when the _Poems Chiefly Lyrical_ appeared, and +what strikes us in these poems is certainly not what Arthur Hallam saw +in them: much rather what Coleridge and Wilson discerned in them. They +are the poems of a fragile and somewhat morbid young man in whose +temper we seem to see a touch of Hamlet, a touch of Romeo and, more +healthily, a touch of Mercutio. Their most promising characteristic is +the versatility displayed. Thus we find _Mariana_ side by side with the +_Supposed Confessions_, the _Ode to Memory_ with οἱ ῥέοντες, _The +Ballad of Oriana_ with _The Dying Swan_, _Recollections of The Arabian +Nights_ with _The Poet_. Their worst fault is affectation. Perhaps the +utmost that can be said for them is that they display a fine but +somewhat thin vein of original genius, after deducing what they owe to +Coleridge, to Keats and to other poets. This is seen in the magical +touches of description, in the exquisite felicity of expression and +rhythm which frequently mark them, in the pathos and power of such a +poem as _Oriana_, in the pathos and charm of such poems as _Mariana_ +and _A Dirge_, in the rich and almost gorgeous fancy displayed in _The +Recollections_. + +The poems of 1833 are much more ambitious and strike deeper notes. Here +comes in for the first time that σπουδαιότης, that high seriousness +which is one of Tennyson’s chief characteristics—we see it in _The +Palace of Art_, in _Œnone_ and in the verses _To J. S._ But in +intrinsic merit the poems were no advance on their predecessors, for +the execution was not equal to the design. The best, such as _Œnone_, +_A Dream of Fair Women_, _The Palace of Art_, _The Lady of Shalott_—I +am speaking of course of these poems in their first form—were full of +extraordinary blemishes. The volume was degraded by pieces which were +very unworthy of him, such as _O Darling Room_ and the verses _To +Christopher North_, and affectations of the worst kind deformed many, +nay, perhaps the majority of the poems. But the capital defect lay in +the workmanship. The diction is often languid and slipshod, sometimes +quaintly affected, and we can never go far without encountering lines, +stanzas, whole poems which cry aloud for the file. The power and charm +of Tennyson’s poetry, even at its ripest, depend very largely, often +mainly, on expression, and the couplet which he envied Browning, + +The little more, and how much it is, +The little less, and what worlds away, + + +is strangely applicable to his own art. On a single word, on a subtle +collocation, on a slight touch depend often his finest effects: “the +little less” reduces him to mediocrity, “the little more” and he is +with the masters. To no poetry would the application of Goethe’s test +be, as a rule, more fatal—that the real poetic quality in poetry is +that which remains when it has been translated literally into prose. + +Whoever will compare the poems of 1832 with the same poems as they +appeared in 1842 will see that the difference is not so much a +difference in degree, but almost a difference in kind. In the +collection of 1832 there were three gems, _The Sisters_, the lines _To +J. S._ and _The May Queen_. Almost all the others which are of any +value were, in the edition of 1842, carefully revised, and in some +cases practically rewritten. If Tennyson’s career had closed in 1833 he +would hardly have won a prominent place among the minor poets of the +present century. The nine years which intervened between the +publication of his second volume and the volumes of 1842 were the +making of him, and transformed a mere dilettante into a master. Much +has been said about the brutality of Lockhart’s review in the +_Quarterly_. In some respects it was stupid, in some respects it was +unjust, but of one thing there can be no doubt—it had a most salutary +effect. It held up the mirror to weaknesses and deficiencies which, if +Tennyson did not care to acknowledge to others, he must certainly have +acknowledged to himself. It roused him and put him on his mettle. It +was a wholesome antidote to the enervating flattery of coteries and +“apostles” who were certainly talking a great deal of nonsense about +him, as Arthur Hallam’s essay in the _Englishman_ shows. During the +next nine years he published nothing, with the exception of two +unimportant contributions to certain minor periodicals.[1] But he was +educating himself, saturating himself with all that is best in the +poetry of Ancient Greece and Rome, of modern Italy, of Germany and of +his own country, studying theology, metaphysics, natural history, +geology, astronomy and travels, observing nature with the eye of a +poet, a painter and a naturalist. Nor was he a recluse. He threw +himself heartily into the life of his time, following with the keenest +interest all the great political and social movements, the progress and +effects of the Reform Bill, the troubles in Ireland, the troubles with +the Colonies, the struggles between the Protectionists and the Free +Traders, Municipal Reform, the advance of the democracy, Chartism, the +popular education question. He travelled on the Continent, he travelled +in Wales and Scotland, he visited most parts of England, not as an idle +tourist, but as a student with note-book in hand. And he had been +submitted also to the discipline which is of all disciplines the most +necessary to the poet, and without which, as Goethe says, “he knows not +the heavenly powers”: he had “ate his bread in sorrow”. The death of +his father in 1831 had already brought him face to face, as he has +himself expressed it, with the most solemn of all mysteries. In 1833 he +had an awful shock in the sudden death of his friend Arthur Hallam, “an +overwhelming sorrow which blotted out all joy from his life and made +him long for death”. He had other minor troubles which contributed +greatly to depress him,—the breaking up of the old home at Somersby, +his own poverty and uncertain prospects, his being compelled in +consequence to break off all intercourse with Miss Emily Selwood. It is +possible that _Love and Duty_ may have reference to this sorrow; it is +certain that _The Two Voices_ is autobiographical. + +Such was his education between 1832 and 1842, and such the influences +which were moulding him, while he was slowly evolving _In Memoriam_ and +the poems first published in the latter year. To the revision of the +old poems he brought tastes and instincts cultivated by the critical +study of all that was best in the poetry of the world, and more +particularly by a familiarity singularly intimate and affectionate with +the masterpieces of the ancient classics; he brought also the skill of +a practised workman, for his diligence in production was literally that +of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the sister art—_nulla dies sine line’_. Into +the composition of the new poems all this entered. He was no longer a +trifler and a Hedonist. As Spedding has said, his former poems betrayed +“an over-indulgence in the luxuries of the senses, a profusion of +splendours, harmonies, perfumes, gorgeous apparel, luscious meals and +drinks, and creature comforts which rather pall upon the sense, and +make the glories of the outward world to obscure a little the world +within”. Like his own _Lady of Shalott_, he had communed too much with +shadows. But the serious poet now speaks. He appeals less to the ear +and the eye, and more to the heart. The sensuous is subordinated to the +spiritual and the moral. He deals immediately with the dearest concerns +of man and of society. He has ceased to trifle. The σπουδαιότης, the +high seriousness of the true poet, occasional before, now pervades and +enters essentially into his work. It is interesting to note how many of +these poems have direct didactic purpose. How solemn is the message +delivered in such poems as _The Palace of Art_ and _The Vision of Sin_, +how noble the teaching in _Love and Duty_, in _Œnone_, in _Godiva_, in +_Ulysses_; to how many must such a poem as _The Two Voices_ have +brought solace and light; how full of salutary lessons are the +political poems _You ask me, why, though ill at ease_ and _Love thou +thy Land_, and how noble is their expression! And, even where the poems +are less directly didactic, it is such refreshment as busy life needs +to converse with them, so pure, so wholesome, so graciously human is +their tone, so tranquilly beautiful is their world. Who could lay down +_The Miller’s Daughter, Dora, The Golden Year, The Gardener’s Daughter, +The Talking Oak, Audley Court, The Day Dream_ without something of the +feeling which Goethe felt when he first laid down _The Vicar of +Wakefield?_ In the best lyrics in these volumes, such as _Break, +Break_, and _Move Eastward_, _Happy Earth_, the most fastidious of +critics must recognise flawless gems. In the two volumes of 1842 +Tennyson carried to perfection all that was best in his earlier poems, +and displayed powers of which he may have given some indication in his +cruder efforts, but which must certainly have exceeded the expectation +of the most sanguine of his rational admirers. These volumes justly +gave him the first place among the poets of his time, and that +supremacy he maintained—in the opinion of most—till the day of his +death. It would be absurd to contend that Tennyson’s subsequent +publications added nothing to the fame which will be secured to him by +these poems. But this at least is certain, that, taken with _In +Memorium_, they represent the crown and flower of his achievement. What +is best in them he never excelled and perhaps never equalled. We should +be the poorer, and much the poorer, for the loss of anything which he +produced subsequently, it is true; but would we exchange half a dozen +of the best of these poems or a score of the best sections of _In +Memoriam_ for all that he produced between 1850 and his death? + + [1] In _The Keepsake_, “St. Agnes’ Eve”; in _The Tribute_, “Stanzas”: + “Oh! that ’twere possible”. Between 1831 and 1832 he had contributed + to _The Gem_ three, “No more,” “Anacreontics,” and “A Fragment”; in + _The Englishman!s Magazine_, a Sonnet; in _The Yorkshire Literary + Annual_, lines, “There are three things that fill my heart with + sighs”; in _Friendship’s Offering_, lines, “Me my own fate”. + +III + +The poems of 1842 naturally divide themselves into seven groups:— + +(i.) _Studies in Fancy._ + + +_Claribel_. +_Lilian_. +_Isabel_. +_Madeline_. +_A Spirit Haunts_. +_Recollections of the Arabian Nights_. +_Adeline_. +_The Dying Swan_. +_A Dream of Fair Women_. +_The Sea-Fairies_. +_The Deserted House_. +_Love and Death_. +_The Merman_. +_The Mermaid_. +_The Lady of Shalott_. +_Eleanore_. +_Margaret_. +_The Death of the Old Year_. +_St. Agnes._ +_Sir Galahad_. +_The Day Dream_. +_Will Waterproof’s Monologue_. +_Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere_. +_The Talking Oak_. +_The Poet’s Song_. + + +(ii.) _Studies of Passion._ + + +_Mariana_. +_Mariana in the South._ +_Oriana_. +_Fatima_. +_The Sisters_. +_Locksley Hall_. +_Edward Gray_. + + +(iii.) _Psychological Studies._ + + +_A Character_. +_The Poet_. +_The Poet’s Mind_. +_The Two Voices_. +_The Palace of Art_. +_The Vision of Sin_. +_St. Simeon Stylites_. + + +(iv.) _Idylls._ +(_a_.) Classical. + + +_Œnone_. +_The Lotos Eaters_. +_Ulysses_. + + +(_b_.) English. + + +_The Miller’s Daughter_. +_The May Queen_. +_Morte d’Arthur_. +_The Gardener’s Daughter_. +_Dora_. +_Audley Court_. +_Walking to the Mail_. +_Edwin Morris_. +_The Golden Year_. + + +(v.) _Ballads._ + + +_Oriana_. +_Lady Clara Vere de Vere_. +_Edward Gray_. +_Lady Clare_. +_The Lord of Burleigh_. +_The Beggar Maid_. + + +(vi.) _Autobiographical._ + + +_Ode to Memory_. +_Sonnet to J. M. K_. +_To—— with the Palace of Art_. +_To J.S._ +_Amphion_. +_To E. L. on his Travels in Greece_. +_To—— after reading a Life and Letters_. +_“Come not when I am Dead_.” +_A Farewell_. +“_Move Eastward, Happy Earth_.” +“_Break, Break, Break_.” + + +(vii.) _Political Group._ + + +_“You ask me.”_ +_“Of old sat Freedom.”_ +_“Love thou thy Land.”_ +_The Goose._ + + +In surveying these poems two things must strike every one— their very +wide range and their very fragmentary character. There is scarcely any +side of life on which they do not touch, scarcely any phase of passion +and emotion to which they do not give exquisite expression. Take the +love poems: compare _Fatima_ with _Isabel_, _The Miller’s Daughter_ +with _Locksley Hall_, _The Gardener’s Daughter_ with _Madeline_, or +_Mariana_ with Cleopatra in the _Dream of Fair Women_. When did love +find purer and nobler expression than in _Love and Duty?_ When has +sorrow found utterance more perfect than in the verses _To J.S_., or +the passion for the past than in _Break, Break, Break_, or revenge and +jealousy than in _The Sisters?_ In _The Two Voices_, _The Palace of +Art_ and _The Vision of Sin_ we are in another sphere. They are appeals +to the soul of man on subjects of momentous concern to him. And each is +a masterpiece. What is proper to philosophy and what is proper to +poetry have never perhaps been so happily blended. They have all the +sensuous charm of Keats, but the prose of Hume could not have presented +the truths which they are designed to convey with more lucidity and +precision. In that superb fragment the _Morte d’Arthur_ we have many of +the noblest attributes of Epic poetry. _ënone_ is the perfection of the +classical idyll, _The Gardener’s Daughter_ and the idylls that follow +it of the romantic. _Sir Galahad_ and _St. Agnes_ are in the vein of +Keats and Coleridge, but Keats and Coleridge have produced nothing more +exquisite and nothing so ethereal. _The Lotos Eaters_ is perhaps the +most purely delicious poem ever written, the _ne plus ultra_ of +sensuous loveliness, and yet the poet who gave us that has given us +also the political poems, poems as trenchant and austerely dignified in +style as they are pregnant with practical wisdom. There is the same +versatility displayed in the trifles. + +But all is fragmentary. No thread strings these jewels. They form a +collection of gems unset and unarranged. Without any system or any +definite scope they have nothing of that unity in diversity which is so +perceptible in the lyrics and minor poems of Goethe and Wordsworth. +Capricious as the gyrations of a sea-gull seem the poet’s moods and +movements. We have now the reveries of a love-sick maiden, now the +picture of a soul wrestling with despair and death; here a study from +rural life, or a study in character, there a sermon on politics, or a +descent into the depths of psychological truth, or a sketch from +nature. But nothing could be more concentrated than the power employed +to shape each fragment into form. What Pope says of the _Æneid_ may be +applied with very literal truth to these poems:— + +Finish’d the whole, and laboured every part +With patient touches of unwearied art. + + +In the poems of 1842 we have the secret of Tennyson’s eminence as a +poet as well as the secret of his limitations. He appears to have been +constitutionally deficient in what the Greeks called _architektoniké_, +combination and disposition on a large scale. The measure of his power +as a constructive artist is given us in the poem in which the English +idylls may be said to culminate, namely, _Enoch Arden_. _In Memoriam_ +and the _Idylls of the King_ have a sort of spiritual unity, but they +are a series of fragments tacked rather than fused together. It is the +same with _Maud_, and it is the same with _The Princess_. His poems +have always a tendency to resolve themselves into a series of cameos: +it is only the short poems which have organic unity. A gift of +felicitous and musical expression which is absolutely marvellous; an +instinctive sympathy with what is best and most elevated in the sphere +of ordinary life, of ordinary thought and sentiment, of ordinary +activity with consummate representative power; a most rare faculty of +seizing and fixing in very perfect form what is commonly so +inexpressible because so impalpable and evanescent in emotion and +expression; a power of catching and rendering the charm of nature with +a fidelity and vividness which resemble magic; and lastly, unrivalled +skill in choosing, repolishing and remounting the gems which are our +common inheritance from the past: these are the gifts which will secure +permanence for his work as long as the English language lasts. + +In his power of crystallising commonplaces he stands next to Pope, in +subtle felicity of expression beside Virgil. And, when he says of +Virgil that we find in his diction “all the grace of all the muses +often flowering in one lonely word,” he says what is literally true of +his own work. As a master of style his place is in the first rank among +English classical poets. But his style is the perfection of art. His +diction, like the diction of Milton and Gray, resembles mosaic work. +With a touch here and a touch there, now from memory, now from +unconscious assimilation, inlaying here an epithet and there a phrase, +adding, subtracting, heightening, modifying, substituting one metaphor +for another, developing what is latent in the suggestive imagery of a +predecessor, laying under contribution the most intimate familiarity +with what is best in the literature of the ancient and modern world, +the unwearied artist toils patiently on till his precious mosaic work +is without a flaw. All the resources of rhetoric are employed to give +distinction to his style and every figure in rhetoric finds expression +in his diction: Hypallage as in + +_The pillard dusk_ +Of sounding sycamores. + +—_Audley Court_. + + +Paronomasia as in + +The seawind sang +_Shrill, chill_ with flakes of foam. + +—_Morte d’Arthur_. + + +Oxymoron as + +_Behold_ them _unbeheld, unheard +Hear_ all. + +—_Œnone._ + + +Hyperbaton as in + +The _dew-impearled_ winds of dawn. + +—_Ode to Memory._ + + +Metonymy as in + +The _bright death_ quiver’d at the victim’s throat. + +—_Dream of Fair Women_. + + +or in + +For some three _careless moans_ +The summer pilot of an empty heart. + +—_Gardener’s Daughter_. + + +No poet since Milton has employed what is known as Onomatopoeia with so +much effect. Not to go farther than the poems of 1842, we have in the +_Morte d’Arthur_:— + + +So all day long the noise of battle _rolled +Among the mountains by the winter sea;_ + + +or + +_Dry clashed_ his harness in the icy caves +And _barren chasms_, and all to left and right +The _bare black cliff clang’d round_ him, as he bas’d +His feet _on juts of slippery crag that rang +Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—_ + + +or the exquisite + + +I heard the _water lapping on the crag,_ +And the _long ripple washing in the reeds._ + + +So in _The Dying Swan,_ + +And _the wavy swell of the soughing reeds._ + + +See too the whole of _Oriana_ and the description of the dance at the +beginning of _The Vision of Sin._ + +Assonance, alliteration, the revival or adoption of obsolete and +provincial words, the transplantation of phrases and idioms from the +Greek and Latin languages, the employment of common words in uncommon +senses, all are pressed into the service of adding distinction to his +diction. His diction blends the two extremes of simplicity and +artificiality, but with such fine tact that this strange combination +has seldom the effect of incongruity. Longinus has remarked that “as +the fainter lustre of the stars is put out of sight by the +all-encompassing rays of the sun, so when sublimity sheds its light +round the sophistries of rhetoric they become invisible”.[2] What +Longinus says of “sublimity” is equally true of sincerity and +truthfulness in combination with exquisitely harmonious expression. We +have an illustration in Gray’s _Elegy_. Nothing could be more +artificial than the style, but what poem in the world appeals more +directly to the heart and to the eye? It is one thing to call art to +the assistance of art, it is quite another thing to call art to the +assistance of nature. And this is what both Gray and Tennyson do, and +this is why their artificiality, so far from shocking us, “passes in +music out of sight”. But this cannot be said of Tennyson without +reserve. At times his strained endeavours to give distinction to his +style by putting common things in an uncommon way led him into +intolerable affectation. Thus we have “the knightly growth that fringed +his lips” for a moustache, “azure pillars of the hearth” for ascending +smoke, “ambrosial orbs” for apples, “frayed magnificence” for a shabby +dress, “the secular abyss to come” for future ages, “the sinless years +that breathed beneath the Syrian blue” for the life of Christ, “up went +the hush’d amaze of hand and eye” for a gesture of surprise, and the +like. One of the worst instances is in _In Memoriam_, where what is +appropriate to the simple sentiment finds, as it should do, +corresponding simplicity of expression in the first couplet, to +collapse into the falsetto of strained artificiality in the second:— + +To rest beneath the clover sod + That takes the sunshine and the rains, + _Or where the kneeling hamlet drains +The chalice of the grapes of God._ + + +An illustration of the same thing, almost as offensive, is in _Enoch +Arden_, where, in an otherwise studiously simple diction, Enoch’s wares +as a fisherman become + +Enoch’s _ocean spoil_ +In ocean-smelling osier. + + +But these peculiarities are less common in the earlier poems than in +the later: it was a vicious habit which grew on him. + +But, if exception may sometimes be taken to his diction, no exception +can be taken to his rhythm. No English poet since Milton, Tennyson’s +only superior in this respect, had a finer ear or a more consummate +mastery over all the resources of rhythmical expression. What colours +are to a painter rhythm is, in description, to the poet, and few have +rivalled, none have excelled Tennyson in this. Take the following:— + + And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain +_On the bald street strikes the blank day._ + +—_In Memoriam._ + + +See particularly _In Memoriam_, cvii., the lines beginning “Fiercely +flies,” to “darken on the rolling brine”: the description of the island +in _Enoch Arden_; but specification is needless, it applies to all his +descriptive poetry. It is marvellous that he can produce such effects +by such simple means: a mere enumeration of particulars will often do +it, as here:— + +No gray old grange or lonely fold, + Or low morass and whispering reed, + Or simple style from mead to mead, +Or sheep walk up the windy wold. + +—_In Memoriam,_ c. + + +Or here:— + +The meal sacks on the whitened floor, + The dark round of the dripping wheel, +The very air about the door + Made misty with the floating meal. + +—_The Miller’s Daughter._ + + +His blank verse is best described by negatives. It has not the endless +variety, the elasticity and freedom of Shakespeare’s, it has not the +massiveness and majesty of Milton’s, it has not the austere grandeur of +Wordsworth’s at its best, it has not the wavy swell, “the linked +sweetness long drawn out” of Shelley’s, but its distinguishing feature +is, if we may use the expression, its importunate beauty. What +Coleridge said of Claudian’s style may be applied to it: “Every line, +nay every word stops, looks full in your face and asks and begs for +praise”. is earlier blank verse is less elaborate and seemingly more +spontaneous and easy than his later.[3] But it is in his lyric verse +that his rhythm is seen in its greatest perfection. No English lyrics +have more magic or more haunting beauty, more of that which charms at +once and charms for ever. + +In his description of nature he is incomparable. Take the following +from _The Dying Swan_:— + +Some blue peaks in the distance rose, +And white against the cold-white sky, +Shone out their crowning snows. +One willow over the river wept, +And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; +Above in the wind was the swallow, + Chasing itself at its own wild will, + + +or the opening scene in _Œnone_ and in _The Lotos Eaters_, or the +meadow scene in _The Gardener’s Daughter_, or the conclusion of _Audley +Court_, or the forest scene in the _Dream of Fair Women_, or this +stanza in _Mariana in the South_:— + +There all in spaces rosy-bright + Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears, + And deepening through the silent spheres, +Heaven over Heaven rose the night. + + +A single line, nay, a single word, and a scene is by magic before us, +as here where the sea is looked down upon from an immense height:— + +The _wrinkled_ sea beneath him _crawls_. + +—_The Eagle_. + + +Or here of a ship at sea, in the distance:— + +And on through zones of light and shadow +_Glimmer away to the lonely deep._ + +—_To the Rev. F. D. Maurice._ + + +Or here of waters falling high up on mountains:— + +Their thousand _wreaths of dangling water-smoke._ + +—_The Princess._ + + +Or of a water-fall seen at a distance:— + +And _like a downward smoke_ the slender stream +Along the cliff _to fall and pause and fall_ did seem. + + +Or here again:— + +We left the dying ebb that _faintly lipp’d +The flat red granite._ + + +Or here of a wave:— + +Like a wave in the wild North Sea +_Green glimmering toward the summit_ bears with all +_Its stormy crests that smoke_ against the skies +Down on a bark. + +—_Elaine._ + +That beech will _gather brown_, +This _maple burn itself away_. + +—_In Memoriam._ + +The _wide-wing’d sunset_ of the misty marsh. + +—_Last Tournament._ + + +But illustrations would be endless. Nothing seems to escape him in +Nature. Take the following:— + +Like _a purple beech among the greens +Looks out of place_. + +—_Edwin Morris_. + + +Or + +Delays _as the tender ash delays To clothe herself, when all the woods +are green_. + +—_The Princess_. + +As _black as ash-buds in the front of March_. + +—_The Gardener’s Daughter_. + +A gusty April morn +That _puff’d_ the swaying _branches into smoke_. + +—_Holy Grail_. + + +So with flowers, trees, birds and insects:— + +The fox-glove _clusters dappled bells_. + +—_The Two Voices_. + + +The sunflower:— + +_Rays round with flame its disk of seed_. + +—_In Memoriam_. + + +The dog-rose:— + + +_Tufts of rosy-tinted snow_. + +—_Two Voices_. + +A _million emeralds_ break from the _ruby-budded lime_. + +—_Maud_. + +In gloss and hue the chestnut, _when the shell +Divides threefold to show the fruit within_. +—_The Brook_. + + +Or of a chrysalis:— + +And flash’d as those +_Dull-coated_ things, _that making slide apart +Their dusk wing cases, all beneath there burns +A Jewell’d harness_, ere they pass and fly. + +—_Gareth and Lynette_. + + +So again:— + +Wan-sallow, as _the plant that feeds itself, +Root-bitten by white lichen_. + +—_Id_. + + +And again:— + +All the _silvery gossamers_ +That _twinkle into green and gold_. + +—_In Memoriam_. + + +His epithets are in themselves a study: “the _dewy-tassell’d_ wood,” +“the _tender-pencill’d_ shadow,” “_crimson-circl’d_ star,” the “_hoary_ +clematis,” “_creamy_ spray,” “_dry-tongued_ laurels”. But whatever he +describes is described with the same felicitous vividness. How magical +is this in the verses to Edward Lear:— + +Naiads oar’d +A _glimmering shoulder_ under _gloom_ +Of _cavern pillars_. + + +Or this:— + + +She lock’d her lips: she left me where I stood: + “Glory to God,” she sang, and past afar, +Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, + Toward the morning-star. + +—_A Dream of Fair Women_. + + +But if in the world of Nature nothing escaped his sensitive and +sympathetic observation,—and indeed it might be said of him as truly as +of Shelley’s _Alastor_ + +Every sight +And sound from the vast earth and ambient air +Sent to his heart its choicest impulses, + + +—he had studied the world of books with not less sympathy and +attention. In the sense of a profound and extensive acquaintance with +all that is best in ancient and modern poetry, and in an +extraordinarily wide knowledge of general literature, of philosophy and +theology, of geography and travel, and of various branches of natural +science, he is one of the most erudite of English poets. With the +poetry of the Greek and Latin classics he was, like Milton and Gray, +thoroughly saturated. Its influence penetrates his work, now in +indirect reminiscence, now in direct imitation, now inspiring, now +modifying, now moulding. He tells us in _The Daisy_ how when at Como +“the rich Virgilian rustic measure of _Lari Maxume_” haunted him all +day, and in a later fragment how, as he rowed from Desenzano to Sirmio, +Catullus was with him. And they and their brethren, from Homer to +Theocritus, from Lucretius to Claudian, always were with him. I have +illustrated so fully in the notes and elsewhere[4] the influence of the +Greek and Roman classics on the poems of 1842 that it is not necessary +to go into detail here. But a few examples of the various ways in which +they affected Tennyson’s work generally may be given. Sometimes he +transfers a happy epithet or expression in literal translation, as in:— + +On either _shining_ shoulder laid a hand, + + +which is Homer’s epithet for the shoulder— + +ἀνὰ φαιδίμῳ ὤμῳ + +—_Od_., xi., 128. + +It was the red cock _shouting_ to the light, + + +exactly the + +ἕος ἐβόησεν ἀλέκτωρ +(Until the cock _shouted_). + +—_Batrachomyomachia_, 192. + +And all in passion utter’d a _dry_ shriek, + + +which is the _sicca vox_ of the Roman poets. So in _The Lotos Eaters_:— + +His voice was _thin_ as voices from the grave, + + +which is Theocritus’ voice of Hylas from his watery grave:— + +ἀραιὰ δ’ Ἱκετο φωνά + + +So in _The Princess_, sect. i.:— + +And _cook’d his spleen_, + + +which is a phrase from the Greek, as in Homer, _Il_., iv., 513:— + +ἐπι νηυσὶ χόλον θυμαλγέα πέσσει +(At the ships he cooks his heart-grieving spleen). + + +Again in _The Princess_, sect. iv.:— + +_Laugh’d with alien lips,_ + + +which is Homer’s (_Od_., 69-70)— + +διδ’ ἤδη γναθμοῖσι γελῴων ἀλλοτρίοισι + + +So in _Edwin Morris_— + +All perfect, finished _to the finger nail_, + + +which is a phrase transferred from Latin through the Greek; _cf._, +Horace, _Sat_., i., v., 32:— + +_Ad unguem_ +Factus homo + +(A man fashioned to the finger nail). + + +“The _brute_ earth,” _In Memoriam_, cxxvii., which is Horace’s + + +_Bruta_ tellus. + +—_Odes_, i., xxxiv., 9. + + +So again:— + +A bevy of roses _apple-cheek’d_ + + +in _The Island_, which is Theocritus’ μαλοπάρῃος. The line in the +_Morte d’Arthur_, + +This way and that, dividing the swift mind, + + +is an almost literal translation of Virgil’s _Æn._, iv., 285:— + +Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc +(And this way and that he divides his swift mind). + + +Another way in which they affect him is where, without direct +imitation, they colour passages and poems as in _Œnone_, _The Lotos +Eaters_, _Tithonus_, _Tiresias_, _The Death of Œnone_, _Demeter and +Persephone_, the passage beginning “From the woods” in _The Gardener’s +Daughter_, which is a parody of Theocritus, _Id._, vii., 139 _seq._, +while the Cyclops’ invocation to Galatea in Theocritus, _Id._, xi., +29-79, was plainly the model for the idyll, “Come down, O Maid,” in the +seventh section of _The Princess_, just as the tournament in the same +poem recalls closely the epic of Homer and Virgil. Tennyson had a +wonderful way of transfusing, as it were, the essence of some beautiful +passage in a Greek or Roman poet into English. A striking illustration +of this would be the influence of reminiscences of Virgil’s fourth +_Æneid_ on the idyll of _Elaine and Guinevere_. Compare, for instance, +the following: he is describing the love-wasted Elaine, as she sits +brooding in the lonely evening, with the shadow of the wished-for death +falling on her:— + +But when they left her to herself again, +Death, like a friend’s voice from a distant field, +Approaching through the darkness, call’d; the owls +Wailing had power upon her, and she mix’d +Her fancies with the sallow-rifted glooms +Of evening and the moanings of the wind. + + +How exactly does this recall, in a manner to be felt rather than +exactly defined, a passage equally exquisite and equally pathetic in +Virgil’s picture of Dido, where, with the shadow of her death also +falling upon her, she seems to hear the phantom voice of her dead +husband, and “mixes her fancies” with the glooms of night and the owl’s +funereal wail:— + +Hinc exaudiri voces et verba vocantis +Visa viri, nox quum terras obscura teneret; +Solaque culminibus ferali carmine bubo +Sæpe queri, et longas in fletum ducere voces. + +—_Æn._, iv., 460.) + + (From it she thought she clearly heard a voice, even the accents of + her husband calling her when night was wrapping the earth with + darkness; and on the roof the lonely owl in funereal strains kept + oft complaining, drawing out into a wail its protracted notes.) + + +Similar passages, though not so striking, would be the picture of +Pindar’s Elysium in _Tiresias_, the sentiment pervading _The Lotos +Eaters_ transferred so faithfully from the Greek poets, the scenery in +_Œnone_ so crowded with details from Homer, Theocritus and Callimachus. +Sometimes we find similes suggested by the classical poets, but +enriched by touches from original observation, as here in _The +Princess_:— + +As one that climbs a peak to gaze +O’er land and main, and sees a great black cloud +Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night +Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore. +... +And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn +Expunge the world, + + +which was plainly suggested by Homer, iv., 275:— + +ὡς δ’ ὅτ’ ἀπὸ σκοπιῆς εἴδε νέφος αἰπολος ἀνήρ +ἐρχόμενον κατὰ πόντον ὑπὸ Ζεφύροιο ἰωῆς +τῷ δε τ’ ἄνευθεν ἐόντι, μελάντερον ἠΰτε πίσσα, +φαίνετ’ ἰὸν κατὰ πόντον, ἄγει δέ τε λαῖλαπα πολλὴν. + +(As when a goat-herd from some hill-peak sees a cloud coming across the +deep with the blast of the west wind behind it; and to him, being as he +is afar, it seems blacker, even as pitch, as it goes along the deep, +bringing with it a great whirlwind.) + + +So again the fine simile in _Elaine_, beginning + +Bare as a wild wave in the wide North Sea, + + +is at least modelled on the simile in _Iliad_, xv., 381-4, with +reminiscences of the same similes in _Iliad_, xv., 624, and _Iliad_, +iv., 42-56. The simile in the first section of the _Princess_, + +As when a field of corn +Bows all its ears before the roaring East, + + +reminds us of Homer’s + +ὡς δ’ ὅτε κινήση Ζέφυρος βαθυλήϊον, ἐλθὼν +λάβρος, ἐπαιγίζων, ἐπὶ τ’ ἠμύει ἀσταχύεσσιν. + +(As when the west wind tosses a deep cornfield rushing down with +furious blast, and it bows with all its ears.) + + +Nothing could be more happy than such an adaptation as the following— + +Ever fail’d to draw +The quiet night into her blood, + + +from Virgil, _Æn_., iv., 530:— + +Neque unquam Solvitur in somnos _oculisve aut pectore noctem +Accipit._ +(And she never relaxes into sleep, or receives the night in eyes or +bosom), + + +or than the following (in _Enid_) from Theocritus:— + +Arms on which the standing muscle sloped, +As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone, +Running too vehemently to break upon it. + +ἐν δὲ μύες στερεοῖσι βραχίοσιν ἄκρον ὑπ’ ὦμον +ἔστασαν, ἠύτε πέτροι ὀλοίτροχοι οὕς τε κυλίνδον +χειμάῤῥους ποταμὸς μεγάλαις περιέξεσε δίναις. + + —_Idyll_, xxii., 48 _seq._ +(And the muscles on his brawny arms close under the shoulder stood out +like boulders which the wintry torrent has rolled and worn smooth with +the mighty eddies.) + + +But there was another use to which Tennyson applied his accurate and +intimate acquaintance with the classics. It lay in developing what was +suggested by them, in unfolding, so to speak, what was furled in their +imagery. Nothing is more striking in ancient classical poetry than its +pregnant condensation. It often expresses in an epithet what might be +expanded into a detailed picture, or calls up in a single phrase a +whole scene or a whole position. Where in _Merlin and Vivian_ Tennyson +described + +The _blind wave feeling round his long sea hall +In silence_, + + +he was merely unfolding to its full Homer’s κῦμα κωφόν—“dumb wave”; +just as the best of all comments on Horace’s expression, “Vultus nimium +lubricus aspici,” _Odes_, _I._, xix., 8, is given us in Tennyson’s +picture of the Oread in Lucretius:— + +How the sun delights +To _glance and shift about her slippery sides_. + + +Or take again this passage in the _Agamemnon_, 404-5, describing +Menelaus pining in his desolate palace for the lost Helen:— + +πόθῳ δ’ ὑπερποντίας +φάσμα δόξει δόμων ἀνάσσειν + +(And in his yearning love for her who is over the sea a phantom will +seem to reign over his palace.) + + +What are the lines in _Guinevere_ but an expansion of what is latent +but unfolded in the pregnant suggestiveness of the Greek poet:— + +And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk +Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, +And I should evermore be vex’d with thee +In hanging robe or vacant ornament, +Or ghostly foot-fall echoing on the stair— + + +with a reminiscence also perhaps of Constance’s speech in _King John_, +III., iv. + +It need hardly be said that these particular passages, and possibly +some of the others, may be mere coincidences, but they illustrate what +numberless other passages which could be cited prove that Tennyson’s +careful and meditative study of the Greek and Roman poets enabled him +to enrich his work by these felicitous adaptations. + +He used those poets as his master Virgil used his Greek predecessors, +and what the elder Seneca said of Ovid, who had appropriated a line +from Virgil, might exactly be applied to Tennyson: “Fecisse quod in +multis aliis versibus Virgilius fecerat, non surripiendi caus, sed +palam imitandi, hoc animo ut vellet agnosci”.[5] + +He had plainly studied with equal attention the chief Italian poets, +especially Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto and Tasso. On a passage in Dante he +founded his _Ulysses_, and imitations of that master are frequent +throughout his poems. _In Memoriam_, both in its general scheme as well +as in numberless particular passages, closely recalls Petrarch; and +Ariosto and Tasso have each influenced his work. In the poetry of his +own country nothing seems to have escaped him, either in the masters or +the minor poets.[6] To apply the term plagiarism to Tennyson’s use of +his predecessors would be as absurd as to resolve some noble fabric +into its stones and bricks, and confounding the one with the other to +taunt the architect with appropriating an honour which belongs to the +quarry and the potter. Tennyson’s method was exactly the method of two +of the greatest poets in the world, Virgil and Milton, of the poet who +stands second to Virgil in Roman poetry, Horace, of one of the most +illustrious of our own minor poets, Gray. + +An artist more fastidious than Tennyson never existed. As scrupulous a +purist in language as Cicero, Chesterfield and Macaulay in prose, as +Virgil, Milton, and Leopardi in verse, his care extended to the nicest +minutiæ of word-forms. Thus “ancle” is always spelt with a “c” when it +stands alone, with a “k” when used in compounds; thus he spelt “Idylls” +with one “l” in the short poems, with two “l’s” in the epic poems; thus +the employment of “through” or “thro’,” of “bad” or “bade,” and the +retention or suppression of “e” in past participles are always +carefully studied. He took immense pains to avoid the clash of “s” with +“s,” and to secure the predominance of open vowels when rhythm rendered +them appropriate. Like the Greek painter with his partridge, he thought +nothing of sacrificing good things if, in any way, they interfered with +unity and symmetry, and thus, his son tells us, many stanzas, in +themselves of exquisite beauty, have been lost to us. + + [2] _De Sublimitate,_ xvii. + + + [3] Tennyson’s blank verse in the _Idylls of the King_ (excepting in + the _Morte d’Arthur_ and in the grander passages), is obviously + modelled in rhythm on that of Shakespeare’s earlier style seen to + perfection in _King John_. Compare the following lines with the rhythm + say of _Elaine_ or _Guinevere_;— + + But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, + And chase the native beauty from his cheek, + And he will look as hollow as a ghost; + As dim and meagre as an ague’s fit: + And so he’ll die; and, rising so again, + When I shall meet him in the court of heaven + I shall not know him: therefore never, never + Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. + + —_King John_, III., iv. + + + [4] _Illustrations of Tennyson_. + + + [5] Seneca, third _Suasoria_. + + + [6] For fuller illustrations of all this, and for the influence of the + ancient classics on Tennyson, I may perhaps venture to refer the + reader to my _Illustrations of Tennyson_. And may I here take the + opportunity of pointing out that nothing could have been farther from + my intention in that book than what has so often been most unfairly + attributed to it, namely, an attempt to show that a charge of + plagiarism might be justly urged against Tennyson. No honest critic, + who had even cursorily inspected the book, could so utterly + misrepresent its purpose. + +IV + +Tennyson’s place is not among the “lords of the visionary eye,” among +seers, among prophets, but not the least part of the debt which his +countrymen owe to him is his dedication of his art to the noblest +purposes. At a time when poetry was beginning to degenerate into what +it has now almost universally become—a mere sense-pampering siren, and +when critics were telling us, as they are still telling us, that we are +to understand by it “all literary production which attains the power of +giving pleasure by its form as distinct from its matter,” he remained +true to the creed of his great predecessors. “L’art pour art,” he would +say, quoting Georges Sand, “est un vain mot: l’art pour le vrai, l’art +pour le beau et le bon, voila la religion que je cherche.” When he +succeeded to the laureateship he was proud to remember that the wreath +which had descended to him was + +greener from the brows +Of him that utter’d nothing base, + + +and he was a loyal disciple of that poet whose aim had been, in his own +words, “to console the afflicted, to add sunshine to daylight by making +the happy happier, to teach the young and the gracious of every age to +see, to think, to feel, and therefore to become more actively and +securely virtuous”.[7] Wordsworth had said that he wished to be +regarded as a teacher or as nothing, but unhappily he did not always +distinguish between the way in which a poet and a philosopher should +teach. He forgot that the didactic element in a poem should be, to +employ a homely illustration, what garlic should be in a salad, “scarce +suspected, animate the whole,” that the poet teaches not as the +moralist and the preacher teach, but as nature and life teach us. He +taught us when he wrote _The Fountain_ and _The Highland Reaper, The +Leach-gatherer_ and _Michael_, he merely wearied us when he sermonised +in _The Excursion_ and in _The Prelude_. Tennyson never makes this +mistake. He is seldom directly didactic. Would he inculcate subjugation +to the law of duty—he gives us the funeral ode on Wellington, _The +Charge of the Light Brigade_, and _Love and Duty_. Would he inculcate +resignationto the will of God, and the moral efficacy of conventional +Christianity—he gives us _Enoch Arden_. Would he picture the endless +struggle between the sensual and the spiritual, and the relation of +ideals to life—he gives us the _Idylls of the King_. Would he point to +what atheism may lead—he gives us _Lucretius_. Poems which are +masterpieces of sensuous art, such as mere æsthetes, like Rosetti and +his school, must contemplate with admiring despair, he makes vehicles +of the most serious moral and spiritual teaching. _The Vision of Sin_ +is worth a hundred sermons on the disastrous effects of unbridled +profligacy. In _The Palace of Art_ we have the quintessence of _The +Book of Ecclesiastes_ and much more besides. Even in _The Lotos Eaters_ +we have the mirror held up to Hedonism. On the education of the +affections and on the purity of domestic life must depend very largely, +not merely the happiness of individuals, but the well-being of society, +and how wide a space is filled by poems in Tennyson’s works bearing +influentially on these subjects is obvious. And they admit us into a +pleasaunce with which it is good to be familiar, so pure and wholesome +is their atmosphere, so tranquilly beautiful the world in which the +characters move and the little dramas unfold themselves. They preach +nothing, but deep into every heart must sink their silent lessons. +“Upon the sacredness of home life,” writes his son, “he would maintain +that the stability and greatness of a nation largely depend; and one of +the secrets of his power over mankind was his true joy in the family +duties and affections.” What sermons have we in _The Miller’s +Daughter_, in _Dora_, in _The Gardener’s Daughter_ and in _Love and +Duty_. _The Princess_ was a direct contribution to a social question of +momentous importance to our time. _Maud_ had an immediate political +purpose, while in _In Memoriam_ he became the interpreter and teacher +of his generation in a still higher sense. + +Since Shakespeare no English poet has been so essentially patriotic, or +appealed so directly to the political conscience of the nation. In his +noble eulogies of the English constitution and of the virtue and wisdom +of its architects, in his spirit-stirring pictures of the heroic +actions of our forefathers and contemporaries both by land and sea, in +his passionate denunciations of all that he believed would detract from +England’s greatness and be prejudicial to her real interests, in his +hearty sympathy with every movement and with every measure which he +believed would contribute to her honour and her power, in all this he +stands alone among modern poets. But if he loved England as Shakespeare +loved her, he had other lessons than Shakespeare’s to teach her. The +responsibilities imposed on the England of our time—and no poet knew +this better—are very different from those imposed on the England of +Elizabeth. An empire vaster and more populous than that of the Cæsars +has since then been added to our dominion. Millions, indeed, who are of +the same blood as ourselves and who speak our language have, by the +folly of common ancestors, become aliens. But how immense are the +realms peopled by the colonies which are still loyal to us, and by the +three hundred millions who in India own us as their rulers: of this +vast empire England is now the capital and centre. That she should +fulfil completely and honourably the duties to which destiny has called +her will be the prayer of every patriot, that he should by his own +efforts contribute all in his power to further such fulfilment must be +his earnest desire. It would be no exaggeration to say that Tennyson +contributed more than any man who has ever lived to what may be called +the higher political education of the English-speaking races. Of +imperial federation he was at once the apostle and the pioneer. In +poetry which appealed as probably no other poetry has appealed to every +class, wherever our language is spoken, he dwelt fondly on all that +constitutes the greatness and glory of England, on her grandeur in the +past, on the magnificent promise of the part she will play in the +future, if her sons are true to her. There should be no distinction, +for she recognises no distinction between her children at home and her +children in her colonies. She is the common mother of a common race: +one flag, one sceptre, the same proud ancestry, the same splendid +inheritance. “How strange England cannot see,” he once wrote, “that her +true policy lies in a close union with her colonies.” + +Sharers of our glorious past, +Shall we not thro’ good and ill +Cleave to one another still? +Britain’s myriad voices call, +Sons be welded all and all +Into one imperial whole, +One with Britain, heart and soul! +One life, one flag, one fleet, one Throne! + + +Thus did the poetry of Tennyson draw closer, and thus will it continue +to draw closer those sentimental ties—ties, in Burke’s phrase, “light +as air, but strong as links of iron,” which bind the colonies to the +mother country; and in so doing, if he did not actually initiate, he +furthered, as no other single man has furthered, the most important +movement of our time. Nor has any man of genius in the present +century—not Dickens, not Ruskin—been moved by a purer spirit of +philanthropy, or done more to show how little the qualities and actions +which dignify humanity depend, or need depend, on the accidents of +fortune. He brought poetry into touch with the discoveries of science, +and with the speculations of theology and metaphysics, and though, in +treating such subjects, his power is not, perhaps, equal to his charm, +the debt which his countrymen owe him, even intellectually, is +incalculable. + + [7] See Wordsworth’s letter to Lady Beaumont, _Prose Works_, vol. ii., + p. 176. + + + + +Early Poems + + + + +To the Queen + +This dedication was first prefixed to the seventh edition of these +poems in 1851, Tennyson having succeeded Wordsworth as Poet Laureate, +19th Nov., 1850. + +Revered, beloved[1]—O you that hold +A nobler office upon earth +Than arms, or power of brain, or birth +Could give the warrior kings of old, + +Victoria,[2]—since your Royal grace +To one of less desert allows +This laurel greener from the brows +Of him that utter’d nothing base; + +And should your greatness, and the care +That yokes with empire, yield you time +To make demand of modern rhyme +If aught of ancient worth be there; + +Then—while[3] a sweeter music wakes, +And thro’ wild March the throstle calls, +Where all about your palace-walls +The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes— + +Take, Madam, this poor book of song; +For tho’ the faults were thick as dust +In vacant chambers, I could trust +Your kindness.[4] May you rule us long. + +And leave us rulers of your blood +As noble till the latest day! +May children of our children say, +“She wrought her people lasting good;[5] + +“Her court was pure; her life serene; +God gave her peace; her land reposed; +A thousand claims to reverence closed +In her as Mother, Wife and Queen; + +“And statesmen at her council met +Who knew the seasons, when to take +Occasion by the hand, and make +The bounds of freedom wider yet[6] + +“By shaping some august decree, +Which kept her throne unshaken still, +Broad-based upon her people’s will,[7] +And compass’d by the inviolate sea.” + +MARCH, 1851. + + [1] 1851. Revered Victoria, you that hold. + + + [2] 1851. I thank you that your Royal grace. + + + [3] This stanza added in 1853. + + + [4] 1851. Your sweetness. + + + [5] In 1851 the following stanza referring to the first Crystal + Palace, opened 1st May, 1851, was inserted here:— + +She brought a vast design to pass, +When Europe and the scatter’d ends +Of our fierce world were mixt as friends +And brethren, in her halls of glass. + + + [6] 1851. Broader yet. + + + [7] With this cf. Shelley, _Ode to Liberty_:— + +Athens diviner yet +Gleam’d with its crest of columns _on the will_ +Of man. + + + + +Claribel + +a melody + +First published in 1830. + + +In 1830 and in 1842 edd. the poem is in one long stanza, with a full +stop in 1830 ed. after line 8; 1842 ed. omits the full stop. The name +“Claribel” may have been suggested by Spenser (_F. Q._, ii., iv., or +Shakespeare, _Tempest_). + + +1 + + +Where Claribel low-lieth +The breezes pause and die, +Letting the rose-leaves fall: +But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, +Thick-leaved, ambrosial, +With an ancient melody +Of an inward agony, +Where Claribel low-lieth. + + +2 + + +At eve the beetle boometh +Athwart the thicket lone: +At noon the wild bee[1] hummeth +About the moss’d headstone: +At midnight the moon cometh, +And looketh down alone. +Her song the lintwhite swelleth, +The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, +The callow throstle[2] lispeth, +The slumbrous wave outwelleth, +The babbling runnel crispeth, +The hollow grot replieth +Where Claribel low-lieth. + + [1] 1830. “Wild” omitted, and “low” inserted with a hyphen before + “hummeth”. + + + [2] 1851 and all previous editions, “fledgling” for “callow”. + + + + +Lilian + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Airy, fairy Lilian, +Flitting, fairy Lilian, +When I ask her if she love me, +Claps her tiny hands above me, +Laughing all she can; +She’ll not tell me if she love me, +Cruel little Lilian. + + +2 + + +When my passion seeks +Pleasance in love-sighs +She, looking thro’ and thro’[1] me +Thoroughly to undo me, +Smiling, never speaks: +So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, +From beneath her gather’d wimple[2] +Glancing with black-beaded eyes, +Till the lightning laughters dimple +The baby-roses in her cheeks; +Then away she flies. + + +3 + + +Prythee weep, May Lilian! +Gaiety without eclipse +Wearieth me, May Lilian: +Thro’[3] my very heart it thrilleth +When from crimson-threaded[4] lips +Silver-treble laughter[5] trilleth: +Prythee weep, May Lilian. + + +4 + + +Praying all I can, +If prayers will not hush thee, +Airy Lilian, +Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, +Fairy Lilian. + + + [1] 1830. Through and through me. + + + [2] 1830. Purfled. + + + [3] 1830. Through. + + + [4] With “crimson-threaded” _cf._ Cleveland’s _Sing-song on Clarinda’s + Wedding_, “Her _lips those threads of scarlet dye_”; but the original + is _Solomons Song_ iv. 3, “Thy lips are _like a thread of scarlet_”. + + + [5] 1830. Silver treble-laughter. + + + + +Isabel + +First printed in 1830. Lord Tennyson tells us (_Life of Tennyson_, i., +43) that in this poem his father more or less described his own mother, +who was a “remarkable and saintly woman”. In this as in the other poems +elaborately painting women we may perhaps suspect the influence of +Wordsworth’s _Triad_, which should be compared with them. + +1 + + +Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed +With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, +Clear, without heat, undying, tended by +Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane +Of her still spirit[1]; locks not wide-dispread, +Madonna-wise on either side her head; +Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign +The summer calm of golden charity, +Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, +Revered Isabel, the crown and head, +The stately flower of female fortitude, +Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.[2] + +2 + + +The intuitive decision of a bright +And thorough-edged intellect to part +Error from crime; a prudence to withhold; +The laws of marriage[3] character’d in gold +Upon the blanched[4] tablets of her heart; +A love still burning upward, giving light +To read those laws; an accent very low +In blandishment, but a most silver flow +Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, +Right to the heart and brain, tho’ undescried, +Winning its way with extreme gentleness +Thro’[5] all the outworks of suspicious pride; +A courage to endure and to obey; +A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, +Crown’d Isabel, thro’[6] all her placid life, +The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife. + + +3 + + +The mellow’d reflex of a winter moon; +A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, +Till in its onward current it absorbs +With swifter movement and in purer light +The vexed eddies of its wayward brother: +A leaning and upbearing parasite, +Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, +With cluster’d flower-bells and ambrosial orbs +Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other— +Shadow forth thee:—the world hath not another +(Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, +And thou of God in thy great charity) +Of such a finish’d chasten’d purity, + + [1] With these lines may be compared Shelley, _Dedication to the + Revolt of Islam_:— + +And through thine eyes, e’en in thy soul, I see +A lamp of vestal fire burning eternally. + + + [2] Lowlihead a favourite word with Chaucer and Spenser. + + + [3] 1830. Wifehood. + + + [4] 1830. Blenched. + + + [5] 1830 and all before 1853. Through. + + + [6] 1830. Through. + + + + +Mariana + +“Mariana in the moated grange.”—_Measure for Measure_. + +First printed in 1830. + + +This poem as we know from the motto prefixed to it was suggested by +Shakespeare (_Measure for Measure_, iii., 1, “at the moated grange +resides this dejected Mariana,”) but the poet may have had in his mind +the exquisite fragment of Sappho:— + +δέδυκε μὲν ἁ σελάννα +καὶ Πληϊαδες, μέδαι δὲ +νύκτες, παρὰ δ’ ἔρχετ’ ὥρα, +ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω. + + +“The moon has set and the Pleiades, and it is midnight: the hour too is +going by, but I sleep alone.” It was long popularly supposed that the +scene of the poem was a farm near Somersby known as Baumber’s farm, but +Tennyson denied this and said it was a purely “imaginary house in the +fen,” and that he “never so much as dreamed of Baumbers farm”. See +_Life_, i., 28. + + +With blackest moss the flower-plots +Were thickly crusted, one and all: +The rusted nails fell from the knots +That held the peach[1] to the garden-wall.[2] +The broken sheds look’d sad and strange: +Unlifted was the clinking latch; +Weeded and worn the ancient thatch +Upon the lonely moated grange. +She only said, “My life is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +Her tears fell with the dews at even; +Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;[3] +She could not look on the sweet heaven, +Either at morn or eventide. +After the flitting of the bats, +When thickest dark did trance the sky, +She drew her casement-curtain by, +And glanced athwart the glooming flats. +She only said, “The night is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +Upon the middle of the night, +Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: +The cock sung out an hour ere light: +From the dark fen the oxen’s low +Came to her: without hope of change, +In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn, +Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed[4] morn +About the lonely moated grange. +She only said, “The day is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +About a stone-cast from the wall +A sluice with blacken’d waters slept, +And o’er it many, round and small, +The cluster’d marish-mosses crept. +Hard by a poplar shook alway, +All silver-green with gnarled bark: +For leagues no other tree did mark[5] +The level waste, the rounding gray.[6] +She only said, “My life is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +And ever when the moon was low, +And the shrill winds were up and away,[7] +In the white curtain, to and fro, +She saw the gusty shadow sway. +But when the moon was very low, +And wild winds bound within their cell, +The shadow of the poplar fell +Upon her bed, across her brow. +She only said, “The night is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +All day within the dreamy house, +The doors upon their hinges creak’d; +The blue fly sung in the pane;[8] the mouse +Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, +Or from the crevice peer’d about. +Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors, +Old footsteps trod the upper floors, +Old voices called her from without. +She only said, “My life is dreary, +He cometh not,” she said; +She said, “I am aweary, aweary, +I would that I were dead!” + +The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof, +The slow clock ticking, and the sound, +Which to the wooing wind aloof +The poplar made, did all confound +Her sense; but most she loathed the hour +When the thick-moted sunbeam lay +Athwart the chambers, and the day +Was sloping[9] toward his western bower. +Then, said she, “I am very dreary, +He will not come,” she said; +She wept, “I am aweary, aweary, +O God, that I were dead!” + + [1] 1863. Pear. + + + [2] 1872. Gable-wall. + + + [3] With this beautiful couplet may be compared a couplet of Helvius + Cinna:— + +Te matutinus flentem conspexit Eous, +Te flentem paullo vidit post Hesperus idem. + +(_Cinnae Reliq._ Ed. Mueller, p. 83.) + + + [4] 1830. _Grey_-eyed. _Cf. Romeo and Juliet_, ii., 3, + +“The _grey morn_ smiles on the frowning night”. + + + [5] 1830, 1842, 1843. Dark. + + + [6] 1830. Grey. + + + [7] 1830. An’ away. + + + [8] All editions before 1851. I’ the pane. With this line _cf. Maud_, + I., vi., 8, “and the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse”. + + + [9] 1830. Downsloped was westering in his bower. + + + + +To—— + +First printed in 1830. + + +The friend to whom these verses were addressed was Joseph William +Blakesley, third Classic and Senior Chancellor’s Medallist in 1831, and +afterwards Dean of Lincoln. Tennyson said of him: “He ought to be Lord +Chancellor, for he is a subtle and powerful reasoner, and an honest +man”.—_Life_, i., 65. He was a contributor to the _Edinburgh_ and +_Quarterly Reviews_, and died in April, 1885. See memoir of him in the +_Dictionary of National Biography_. + +1 + + +Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn, +Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain +The knots that tangle human creeds,[1] +The wounding cords that[2] bind and strain +The heart until it bleeds, +Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn +Roof not a glance so keen as thine: +If aught of prophecy be mine, +Thou wilt not live in vain. + + +2 + + +Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; +Falsehood shall bear her plaited brow: +Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now +With shrilling shafts of subtle wit. +Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords +Can do away that ancient lie; +A gentler death shall Falsehood die, +Shot thro’ and thro’[3] with cunning words. + + +3 + + +Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, +Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, +Thy kingly intellect shall feed, +Until she be an athlete bold, +And weary with a finger’s touch +Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; +Like that strange angel[4] which of old, +Until the breaking of the light, +Wrestled with wandering Israel, +Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, +And heaven’s mazed signs stood still +In the dim tract of Penuel. + + [1] 1830. The knotted lies of human creeds. + + + [2] 1830. “Which” for “that”. + + + [3] 1830. Through and through. + + + [4] The reference is to Genesis xxxii. 24-32. + + + + +Madeline + +First published in 1830. + + +1 + + +Thou art not steep’d in golden languors, +No tranced summer calm is thine, +Ever varying Madeline. +Thro’[1] light and shadow thou dost range, +Sudden glances, sweet and strange, +Delicious spites and darling angers, +And airy[2] forms of flitting change. + + +2 + + +Smiling, frowning, evermore, +Thou art perfect in love-lore. +Revealings deep and clear are thine +Of wealthy smiles: but who may know +Whether smile or frown be fleeter? +Whether smile or frown be sweeter, +Who may know? +Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow +Light-glooming over eyes divine, +Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, +Ever varying Madeline. +Thy smile and frown are not aloof +From one another, +Each to each is dearest brother; +Hues of the silken sheeny woof +Momently shot into each other. +All the mystery is thine; +Smiling, frowning, evermore, +Thou art perfect in love-lore, +Ever varying Madeline. + + +3 + + +A subtle, sudden flame, +By veering passion fann’d, +About thee breaks and dances +When I would kiss thy hand, +The flush of anger’d shame +O’erflows thy calmer glances, +And o’er black brows drops down +A sudden curved frown: +But when I turn away, +Thou, willing me to stay, +Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest; +But, looking fixedly the while, +All my bounding heart entanglest +In a golden-netted smile; +Then in madness and in bliss, +If my lips should dare to kiss +Thy taper fingers amorously,[3] +Again thou blushest angerly; +And o’er black brows drops down +A sudden-curved frown. + + [1] 1830. Through. + + + [2] 1830. Aery. + + + [3] 1830. Three-times-three; though noted as an _erratum_ for + amorously. + + + + +Song—The Owl + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +When cats run home and light is come, +And dew is cold upon the ground, +And the far-off stream is dumb, +And the whirring sail goes round, +And the whirring sail goes round; +Alone and warming his five wits, +The white owl in the belfry sits. + +2 + + +When merry milkmaids click the latch, +And rarely smells the new-mown hay, +And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch +Twice or thrice his roundelay, +Twice or thrice his roundelay; +Alone and warming his five wits, +The white owl in the belfry sits. + + + + +Second Song—To the Same + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Thy tuwhits are lull’d I wot, +Thy tuwhoos of yesternight, +Which upon the dark afloat, +So took echo with delight, +So took echo with delight, +That her voice untuneful grown, +Wears all day a fainter tone. + +2 + + +I would mock thy chaunt anew; +But I cannot mimick it; +Not a whit of thy tuwhoo, +Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, +Thee to woo to thy tuwhit, +With a lengthen’d loud halloo, +Tuwhoo, tuwhit, tuwhit, tuwhoo-o-o. + + + + +Recollections of the Arabian Nights + +First printed in 1830. + + +With this poem should be compared the description of Harun al Rashid’s +Garden of Gladness in the story of Nur-al-din Ali and the damsel Anis +al Talis in the Thirty-Sixth Night. The style appears to have been +modelled on Coleridge’s _Kubla Khan_ and _Lewti_, and the influence of +Coleridge is very perceptible throughout the poem. + + +When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free +In the silken sail of infancy, +The tide of time flow’d back with me, +The forward-flowing tide of time; +And many a sheeny summer-morn, +Adown the Tigris I was borne, +By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold, +High-walled gardens green and old; +True Mussulman was I and sworn, +For it was in the golden prime[1] +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Anight my shallop, rustling thro’[2] +The low and bloomed foliage, drove +The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove +The citron-shadows in the blue: + By garden porches on the brim, +The costly doors flung open wide, +Gold glittering thro’[3] lamplight dim, +And broider’d sofas[4] on each side: +In sooth it was a goodly time, +For it was in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Often, where clear-stemm’d platans guard +The outlet, did I turn away +The boat-head down a broad canal +From the main river sluiced, where all +The sloping of the moon-lit sward +Was damask-work, and deep inlay +Of braided blooms[5] unmown, which crept +Adown to where the waters slept. +A goodly place, a goodly time, +For it was in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +A motion from the river won +Ridged the smooth level, bearing on +My shallop thro’ the star-strown calm, +Until another night in night +I enter’d, from the clearer light, +Imbower’d vaults of pillar’d palm, +Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb +Heavenward, were stay’d beneath the dome +Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time, +For it was in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Still onward; and the clear canal +Is rounded to as clear a lake. +From the green rivage many a fall +Of diamond rillets musical, +Thro’ little crystal[6] arches low +Down from the central fountain’s flow +Fall’n silver-chiming, seem’d to shake +The sparkling flints beneath the prow. +A goodly place, a goodly time, +For it was in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Above thro’[7] many a bowery turn +A walk with vary-colour’d shells +Wander’d engrain’d. On either side +All round about the fragrant marge +From fluted vase, and brazen urn +In order, eastern flowers large, +Some dropping low their crimson bells +Half-closed, and others studded wide +With disks and tiars, fed the time +With odour in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Far off, and where the lemon-grove +In closest coverture upsprung, +The living airs of middle night +Died round the bulbul[8] as he sung; +Not he: but something which possess’d +The darkness of the world, delight, +Life, anguish, death, immortal love, +Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress’d. +Apart from place, withholding[9] time, +But flattering the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Black the[10] garden-bowers and grots +Slumber’d: the solemn palms were ranged +Above, unwoo’d of summer wind: +A sudden splendour from behind +Flush’d all the leaves with rich gold-green, +And, flowing rapidly between +Their interspaces, counterchanged +The level lake with diamond-plots +Of dark and bright.[11] A lovely time, +For it was in the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, +Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,[12] +Grew darker from that under-flame: +So, leaping lightly from the boat, +With silver anchor left afloat, +In marvel whence that glory came +Upon me, as in sleep I sank +In cool soft turf upon the bank, +Entranced with that place and time, +So worthy of the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Thence thro’ the garden I was drawn—[13] +A realm of pleasance, many a mound, +And many a shadow-chequer’d lawn +Full of the city’s stilly sound,[14] +And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round +The stately cedar, tamarisks, +Thick rosaries[15] of scented thorn, +Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks +Graven with emblems of the time, +In honour of the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +With dazed vision unawares +From the long alley’s latticed shade +Emerged, I came upon the great +Pavilion of the Caliphat. +Right to the carven cedarn doors, +Flung inward over spangled floors, +Broad-based flights of marble stairs +Ran up with golden balustrade, +After the fashion of the time, +And humour of the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +The fourscore windows all alight +As with the quintessence of flame, +A million tapers flaring bright +From twisted silvers look’d[16] to shame +The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream’d +Upon the mooned domes aloof +In inmost Bagdat, till there seem’d +Hundreds of crescents on the roof +Of night new-risen, that marvellous time, +To celebrate the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Then stole I up, and trancedly +Gazed on the Persian girl alone, +Serene with argent-lidded eyes +Amorous, and lashes like to rays +Of darkness, and a brow of pearl +Tressed with redolent ebony, +In many a dark delicious curl, +Flowing beneath[17] her rose-hued zone; +The sweetest lady of the time, +Well worthy of the golden prime +Of good Haroun Alraschid. + +Six columns, three on either side, +Pure silver, underpropt[18] a rich +Throne of the[19] massive ore, from which +Down-droop’d, in many a floating fold, +Engarlanded and diaper’d +With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. +Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr’d +With merriment of kingly pride, +Sole star of all that place and time, +I saw him—in his golden prime, +THE GOOD HAROUN ALRASCHID! + + [1] “Golden prime” from Shakespeare. “That cropp’d the _golden prime_ + of this sweet prince.” (_Rich. III._, i., sc. ii., 248.) + + + [2] 1830. Through. + + + [3] 1830. Through. + + + [4] 1830 and 1842. Sophas. + + + [5] 1830. Breaded blosms. + + + [6] 1830. Through crystal. + + + [7] 1830. Through. + + + [8] “Bulbul” is the Persian for nightingale. _Cf. Princes_, iv., 104:— + + “O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan + Shall brush her veil”. + + + [9] 1830. Witholding. So 1842, 1843, 1845. + + + [10] 1830. Blackgreen. + + + [11] 1830. Of saffron light. + + + [12] 1830. Unrayed. + + + [13] 1830. Through ... borne. + + + [14] Shakespeare has the same expression: “The hum of either army + _stilly sounds_”. (_Henry V._, act iv., prol.) + + + [15] 1842. Roseries. + + + [16] 1830. Wreathed. + + + [17] 1830. Below. + + + [18] 1830. Underpropped. 1842. Underpropp’d. + + + [19] 1830. O’ the. + + + + +Ode to Memory + +First printed in 1830. + + +After the title in 1830 ed. is “Written very early in life”. The +influence most perceptible in this poem is plainly Coleridge, on whose +_Songs of the Pixies_ it seems to have been modelled. Tennyson +considered it, and no wonder, as one of the very best of “his early and +peculiarly concentrated Nature-poems”. See _Life_, i., 27. It is full +of vivid and accurate pictures of his Lincolnshire home and haunts. See +_Life_, i., 25-48, _passim_. + +1 + + +Thou who stealest fire, +From the fountains of the past, +To glorify the present; oh, haste, +Visit my low desire! +Strengthen me, enlighten me! +I faint in this obscurity, +Thou dewy dawn of memory. + +2 + + +Come not as thou camest[1] of late, +Flinging the gloom of yesternight +On the white day; but robed in soften’d light +Of orient state. +Whilome thou camest with the morning mist, +Even as a maid, whose stately brow +The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss’d,[2] +When she, as thou, +Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight +Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots +Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, +Which in wintertide shall star +The black earth with brilliance rare. + + +3 + + +Whilome thou camest with the morning mist. +And with the evening cloud, +Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast, +(Those peerless flowers which in the rudest wind +Never grow sere, +When rooted in the garden of the mind, +Because they are the earliest of the year). +Nor was the night thy shroud. +In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest +Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. +The eddying of her garments caught from thee +The light of thy great presence; and the cope +Of the half-attain’d futurity, +Though deep not fathomless, +Was cloven with the million stars which tremble +O’er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. +Small thought was there of life’s distress; +For sure she deem’d no mist of earth could dull +Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: +Sure she was nigher to heaven’s spheres, +Listening the lordly music flowing from +The illimitable years.[3] +O strengthen me, enlighten me! +I faint in this obscurity, +Thou dewy dawn of memory. + + +4 + + +Come forth I charge thee, arise, +Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! +Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines +Unto mine inner eye, +Divinest Memory! +Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall +Which ever sounds and shines +A pillar of white light upon the wall +Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: +Come from the woods that belt the grey hill-side, +The seven elms, the poplars[4] four +That stand beside my father’s door, +And chiefly from the brook[5] that loves +To purl o’er matted cress and ribbed sand, +Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves, +Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, +In every elbow and turn, +The filter’d tribute of the rough woodland. +O! hither lead thy feet! +Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat +Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds, +Upon the ridged wolds, +When the first matin-song hath waken’d[6] loud +Over the dark dewy earth forlorn, +What time the amber morn +Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. + + +5 + + +Large dowries doth the raptured eye +To the young spirit present +When first she is wed; +And like a bride of old +In triumph led, +With music and sweet showers +Of festal flowers, +Unto the dwelling she must sway. +Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, +In setting round thy first experiment +With royal frame-work of wrought gold; +Needs must thou dearly love thy first essay, +And foremost in thy various gallery +Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls +Upon the storied walls; +For the discovery +And newness of thine art so pleased thee, +That all which thou hast drawn of fairest +Or boldest since, but lightly weighs +With thee unto the love thou bearest +The first-born of thy genius. +Artist-like, +Ever retiring thou dost gaze +On the prime labour of thine early days: +No matter what the sketch might be; +Whether the high field on the bushless Pike, +Or even a sand-built ridge +Of heaped hills that mound the sea, +Overblown with murmurs harsh, +Or even a lowly cottage[7] whence we see +Stretch’d wide and wild the waste enormous marsh, +Where from the frequent bridge, +Like emblems of infinity,[8] +The trenched waters run from sky to sky; +Or a garden bower’d close +With plaited[9] alleys of the trailing rose, +Long alleys falling down to twilight grots, +Or opening upon level plots +Of crowned lilies, standing near +Purple-spiked lavender: +Whither in after life retired +From brawling storms, +From weary wind, +With youthful fancy reinspired, +We may hold converse with all forms +Of the many-sided mind, +And those[10] whom passion hath not blinded, +Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. +My friend, with you[11] to live alone, +Were how much[12] better than to own +A crown, a sceptre, and a throne! +O strengthen, enlighten me! +I faint in this obscurity, +Thou dewy dawn of memory. + + [1] 1830. Cam’st. + + + [2] 1830. Kist. + + + [3] Transferred from _Timbuctoo_. + + And these with lavish’d sense + Listenist the lordly music flowing from + The illimitable years. + + + [4] The poplars have now disappeared but the seven elms are still to + be seen in the garden behind the house. See Napier, _The Laureate’s + County_, pp. 22, 40-41. + + + [5] This is the Somersby brook which so often reappears in Tennyson’s + poetry, cf. _Millers Daughter, A Farewell_, and _In Memoriam_, 1 xxix. + and c. + + + [6] 1830. Waked. For the epithet “dew-impearled” _cf._ Drayton, + _Ideas_, sonnet liii., “amongst the dainty _dew-impearled flowers_,” + where the epithet is more appropriate and intelligible. + + + [7] 1830. The few. + + + [8] 1830 and 1842. Thee. + + + [9] 1830. Methinks were, so till 1850, when it was altered to the + present reading. + + + [10] The cottage at Maplethorpe where the Tennysons used to spend the + summer holidays. (See _Life_, i., 46.) + + + [11] 1830. Emblems or Glimpses of Eternity. + + + [12] 1830. Pleached. The whole of this passage is an exact description + of the Parsonage garden at Somersby. See _Life_, i., 27. + + + + +Song + +First printed in 1830. + + +The poem was written in the garden at the Old Rectory, Somersby; an +autumn scene there which it faithfully describes. This poem seems to +have haunted Poe, a fervent admirer of Tennyson’s early poems. + +1 + + +A Spirit haunts the year’s last hours +Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: +To himself he talks; +For at eventide, listening earnestly, +At his work you may hear him sob and sigh +In the walks; +Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks +Of the mouldering flowers: +Heavily hangs the broad sunflower +Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; +Heavily hangs the hollyhock, +Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. + +2 + + +The air is damp, and hush’d, and close, +As a sick man’s room when he taketh repose +An hour before death; +My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves +At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, +And the breath +Of the fading edges of box beneath, +And the year’s last rose. +Heavily hangs the broad sunflower +Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; +Heavily hangs the hollyhock, +Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. + + + + +Adeline + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Mystery of mysteries, +Faintly smiling Adeline, +Scarce of earth nor all divine, +Nor unhappy, nor at rest, +But beyond expression fair +With thy floating flaxen hair; +Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes +Take the heart from out my breast. +Wherefore those dim looks of thine, +Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? + + +2 + + +Whence that aery bloom of thine, +Like a lily which the sun +Looks thro’ in his sad decline, +And a rose-bush leans upon, +Thou that faintly smilest still, +As a Naïad in a well, +Looking at the set of day, +Or a phantom two hours old +Of a maiden passed away, +Ere the placid lips be cold? +Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, +Spiritual Adeline? + +3 + + +What hope or fear or joy is thine? +Who talketh with thee, Adeline? +For sure thou art not all alone: +Do beating hearts of salient springs +Keep measure with thine own? +Hast thou heard the butterflies +What they say betwixt their wings? +Or in stillest evenings +With what voice the violet woos +To his heart the silver dews? +Or when little airs arise, +How the merry bluebell rings[1] +To the mosses underneath? +Hast thou look’d upon the breath +Of the lilies at sunrise? +Wherefore that faint smile of thine, +Shadowy, dreaming Adeline? + +4 + + +Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, +Some spirit of a crimson rose +In love with thee forgets to close +His curtains, wasting odorous sighs +All night long on darkness blind. +What aileth thee? whom waitest thou +With thy soften’d, shadow’d brow, +And those dew-lit eyes of thine,[2] +Thou faint smiler, Adeline? + + +5 + + +Lovest thou the doleful wind +When thou gazest at the skies? +Doth the low-tongued Orient[3] +Wander from the side of[4] the morn, +Dripping with Sabæan spice +On thy pillow, lowly bent +With melodious airs lovelorn, +Breathing Light against thy face, +While his locks a-dropping[5] twined +Round thy neck in subtle ring +Make a _carcanet of rays_,[6] +And ye talk together still, +In the language wherewith Spring +Letters cowslips on the hill? +Hence that look and smile of thine, +Spiritual Adeline. + + [1] This conceit seems to have been borrowed from Shelley, _Sensitive + Plant_, i.:— + + And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, + Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew + Of music. + + + [2] _Cf._ Collins, _Ode to Pity_, “and _eyes of dewy light_”. + + + [3] What “the low-tongued Orient” may mean I cannot explain. + + + [4] 1830 and all editions till 1853. O’. + + + [5] 1863. A-drooping. + + + [6] A carcanet is a necklace, diminutive from old French “Carcan”. Cf. + _Comedy of Errors_, in., i, “To see the making of her Carcanet”. + + + + +A Character + +First printed in 1830. + + +The only authoritative light thrown on the person here described is +what the present Lord Tennyson gives, who tells us that “the then +well-known Cambridge orator S—was partly described”. He was “a very +plausible, parliament-like, self-satisfied speaker at the Union +Debating Society”. The character reminds us of Wordsworth’s Moralist. +See _Poet’s Epitaph_;— + + +One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling, + Nor form nor feeling, great nor small; +A reasoning, self-sufficient thing, + An intellectual all in all. + + +Shakespeare’s fop, too (Hotspur’s speech, _Henry IV._, i., i., 2), +seems to have suggested a touch or two. + +With a half-glance upon the sky +At night he said, “The wanderings +Of this most intricate Universe +Teach me the nothingness of things”. +Yet could not all creation pierce +Beyond the bottom of his eye. + +He spake of beauty: that the dull +Saw no divinity in grass, +Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; +Then looking as ’twere in a glass, +He smooth’d his chin and sleek’d his hair, +And said the earth was beautiful. + +He spake of virtue: not the gods +More purely, when they wish to charm +Pallas and Juno sitting by: +And with a sweeping of the arm, +And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, +Devolved his rounded periods. + +Most delicately hour by hour +He canvass’d human mysteries, +And trod on silk, as if the winds +Blew his own praises in his eyes, +And stood aloof from other minds +In impotence of fancied power. + +With lips depress’d as he were meek, +Himself unto himself he sold: +Upon himself himself did feed: +Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, +And other than his form of creed, +With chisell’d features clear and sleek. + + + + +The Poet + +First printed in 1830. + + +In this poem we have the first grand note struck by Tennyson, the first +poem exhibiting the σπουδαιότης of the true poet. + + +The poet in a golden clime was born, +With golden stars above; +Dower’d with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,[1] +The love of love. + +He saw thro’[2] life and death, thro’[3] good and ill, +He saw thro’[4] his own soul. +The marvel of the everlasting will, +An open scroll, + +Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded +The secretest walks of fame: +The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed +And wing’d with flame,— + +Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, +And of so fierce a flight, +From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, +Filling with light + +And vagrant melodies the winds which bore +Them earthward till they lit; +Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, +The fruitful wit + +Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew +Where’er they fell, behold, +Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew +A flower all gold, + +And bravely furnish’d all abroad to fling +The winged shafts of truth, +To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring +Of Hope and Youth. + +So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, +Tho’[5] one did fling the fire. +Heaven flow’d upon the soul in many dreams +Of high desire. + +Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world +Like one[6] great garden show’d, +And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurl’d, +Rare sunrise flow’d. + +And Freedom rear’d in that august sunrise +Her beautiful bold brow, +When rites and forms before his burning eyes +Melted like snow. + +There was no blood upon her maiden robes +Sunn’d by those orient skies; +But round about the circles of the globes +Of her keen eyes + +And in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame +WISDOM, a name to shake +All evil dreams of power—a sacred name.[7] +And when she spake, + +Her words did gather thunder as they ran, +And as the lightning to the thunder +Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, +Making earth wonder, + +So was their meaning to her words. +No sword +Of wrath her right arm whirl’d,[8] +But one poor poet’s scroll, and with _his_ word +She shook the world. + + [1] The expression, as is not uncommon with Tennyson, is extremely + ambiguous; it may mean that he hated hatred, scorned scorn, and loved + love, or that he had hatred, scorn and love as it were in + quintessence, like Dante, and that is no doubt the meaning + + + [2] 1830. Through. + + + [3] 1830. Through. + + + [4] 1830. Through. + + + [5] 1830 till 1851. Though. + + + [6] 1830. A. + + + [7] 1830. + +And in the bordure of her robe was writ + Wisdom, a name to shake +Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit. + + + [8] 1830. Hurled. + + + + +The Poet’s Mind + +First published in 1830. +A companion poem to the preceding. + + +After line 7 in 1830 appears this stanza, afterwards omitted:— + + +Clear as summer mountain streams, +Bright as the inwoven beams, +Which beneath their crisping sapphire +In the midday, floating o’er +The golden sands, make evermore +To a blossom-starrèd shore. +Hence away, unhallowed laughter! + + +1 + + +Vex not thou the poet’s mind +With thy shallow wit: +Vex not thou the poet’s mind; +For thou canst not fathom it. +Clear and bright it should be ever, +Flowing like a crystal river; +Bright as light, and clear as wind. + + +2 + + +Dark-brow’d sophist, come not anear; +All the place[1] is holy ground; +Hollow smile and frozen sneer +Come not here. +Holy water will I pour +Into every spicy flower +Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. +The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. +In your eye there is death, +There is frost in your breath +Which would blight the plants. +Where you stand you cannot hear +From the groves within +The wild-bird’s din. +In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, +It would fall to the ground if you came in. +In the middle leaps a fountain +Like sheet lightning, +Ever brightening +With a low melodious thunder; +All day and all night it is ever drawn +From the brain of the purple mountain +Which stands in the distance yonder: +It springs on a level of bowery lawn, +And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, +And it sings a song of undying love; +And yet, tho’[2] its voice be so clear and full, +You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; +So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; +It would shrink to the earth if you came in. + + [1] 1830. The poet’s mind. With this may be compared the opening + stanza of Gray’s _Installation Ode_: “Hence! avaunt! ’tis holy + ground,” and for the sentiments _cf_. Wordsworth’s _Poet’s Epitaph._ + + + [2] 1830 to 1851. Though. + + + + +The Sea Fairies + +First published in 1830 but excluded from all editions till its +restoration, when it was greatly altered, in 1853. I here give the text +as it appeared in 1830; where the present text is the same as that of +1830 asterisks indicate it. + +This poem is a sort of prelude to the _Lotos-Eaters_, the burthen being +the same, a siren song: “Why work, why toil, when all must be over so +soon, and when at best there is so little to reward?” + +Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw +Between the green brink and the running foam +White limbs unrobed in a chrystal air, +Sweet faces, etc. +... +middle sea. + + +SONG + + +Whither away, whither away, whither away? +Fly no more! +Whither away wi’ the singing sail? whither away wi’ the oar? +Whither away from the high green field and the happy blossoming shore? +Weary mariners, hither away, +One and all, one and all, +Weary mariners, come and play; +We will sing to you all the day; +Furl the sail and the foam will fall +From the prow! one and all +Furl the sail! drop the oar! +Leap ashore! +Know danger and trouble and toil no more. +Whither away wi’ the sail and the oar? +Drop the oar, +Leap ashore, +Fly no more! +Whither away wi’ the sail? whither away wi’ the oar? +Day and night to the billow, etc. +... +over the lea; +They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, +And thick with white bells the cloverhill swells +High over the full-toned sea. +Merrily carol the revelling gales +Over the islands free: +From the green seabanks the rose downtrails +To the happy brimmèd sea. +Come hither, come hither, and be our lords, +For merry brides are we: +We will kiss sweet kisses, etc. +... +With pleasure and love and revelry; +... +ridgèd sea. +Ye will not find so happy a shore +Weary mariners! all the world o’er; +Oh! fly no more! +Harken ye, harken ye, sorrow shall darken ye, +Danger and trouble and toil no more; +Whither away? +Drop the oar; +Hither away, +Leap ashore; +Oh! fly no more—no more. +Whither away, whither away, whither away with the sail and the oar? + +Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw, +Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, +Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest +To little harps of gold; and while they mused, +Whispering to each other half in fear, +Shrill music reach’d them on the middle sea. + +Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. +Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? +Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; +Down shower the gambolling waterfalls +From wandering over the lea: +Out of the live-green heart of the dells +They freshen the silvery-crimsoned shells, +And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells +High over the full-toned sea: +O hither, come hither and furl your sails, +Come hither to me and to me: +Hither, come hither and frolic and play; +Here it is only the mew that wails; +We will sing to you all the day: +Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, +For here are the blissful downs and dales, +And merrily merrily carol the gales, +And the spangle dances in bight[1] and bay, +And the rainbow forms and flies on the land +Over the islands free; +And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; +Hither, come hither and see; +And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, +And sweet is the colour of cove and cave, + +And sweet shall your welcome be: +O hither, come hither, and be our lords +For merry brides are we: +We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: +O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten +With pleasure and love and jubilee: +O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten +When the sharp clear twang of the golden cords +Runs up the ridged sea. +Who can light on as happy a shore +All the world o’er, all the world o’er? +Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more. + + [1] Bight is properly the coil of a rope; it then came to mean a bend, + and so a corner or bay. The same phrase occurs in the _Voyage of + Maledune_, v.: “and flung them in bight and bay”. + + + + +The Deserted House + +First printed in 1830, omitted in all the editions till 1848 when it +was restored. The poem is of course allegorical, and is very much in +the vein of many poems in Anglo-Saxon poetry. + +1 + + +Life and Thought have gone away +Side by side, +Leaving door and windows wide: + + +2 + + +All within is dark as night: +In the windows is no light; +And no murmur at the door, +So frequent on its hinge before. + +3 + + +Close the door, the shutters close, +Or thro’[1] the windows we shall see +The nakedness and vacancy +Of the dark deserted house. + +4 + + +Come away: no more of mirth +Is here or merry-making sound. +The house was builded of the earth, +And shall fall again to ground. + +5 + + +Come away: for Life and Thought +Here no longer dwell; +But in a city glorious— +A great and distant city—have bought +A mansion incorruptible. +Would they could have stayed with us! + + [1] 1848 and 1851. Through. + + + + +The Dying Swan + +First printed in 1830. + + +The superstition here assumed is so familiar from the Classics as well +as from modern tradition that it scarcely needs illustration or +commentary. But see Plato, _Phaedrus_, xxxi., and Shakespeare, _King +John_, v., 7. + +1 + + +The plain was grassy, wild and bare, +Wide, wild, and open to the air, +Which had built up everywhere +An under-roof of doleful gray.[1] +With an inner voice the river ran, +Adown it floated a dying swan, +And[2] loudly did lament. +It was the middle of the day. +Ever the weary wind went on, +And took the reed-tops as it went. + +2 + + +Some blue peaks in the distance rose, +And white against the cold-white sky, +Shone out their crowning snows. +One willow over the water[3] wept, +And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; +Above in the wind was[4] the swallow, +Chasing itself at its own wild will, +And far thro’[5] the marish green and still +The tangled water-courses slept, +Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. + +3 + + +The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul +Of that waste place with joy +Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear +The warble was low, and full and clear; +And floating about the under-sky, +Prevailing in weakness, the coronach[6] stole +Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; +But anon her awful jubilant voice, +With a music strange and manifold, +Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold; +As when a mighty people rejoice +With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, +And the tumult of their acclaim is roll’d +Thro’[7] the open gates of the city afar, +To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. +And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, +And the willow-branches hoar and dank, +And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, +And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, +And the silvery marish-flowers that throng +The desolate creeks and pools among, +Were flooded over with eddying song. + + [1] 1830. Grey. + + + [2] 1830 till 1848. Which. + + + [3] 1863. River. + + + [4] 1830. Sung. + + + [5] 1830. Through. + + + [6] A coronach is a funeral song or lamentation, from the Gaelic + _Corranach_. _Cf_. Scott’s _Waverley_, ch. xv., “Their wives and + daughters came clapping their hands and _crying the coronach_ and + shrieking”. + + + [7] 1830 till 1851. Through. + + + + +A Dirge + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Now is done thy long day’s work; +Fold thy palms across thy breast, +Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. +Let them rave. +Shadows of the silver birk[1] +Sweep the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +2 + + +Thee nor carketh[2] care nor slander; +Nothing but the small cold worm +Fretteth thine enshrouded form. +Let them rave. +Light and shadow ever wander +O’er the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +3 + + +Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; +Chaunteth not the brooding bee +Sweeter tones than calumny? +Let them rave. +Thou wilt never raise thine head +From the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +4 + + +Crocodiles wept tears for thee; +The woodbine and eglatere +Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear. +Let them rave. +Rain makes music in the tree +O’er the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +5 + + +Round thee blow, self-pleached[3] deep, +Bramble-roses, faint and pale, +And long purples[4] of the dale. +Let them rave. +These in every shower creep. +Thro’[5] the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +6 + + +The gold-eyed kingcups fine: +The frail bluebell peereth over +Rare broidry of the purple clover. +Let them rave. +Kings have no such couch as thine, +As the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + +7 + + +Wild words wander here and there; +God’s great gift of speech abused +Makes thy memory confused: +But let them rave. +The balm-cricket[6] carols clear +In the green that folds thy grave. +Let them rave. + + [1] Still used in the north of England for “birch”. + + + [2] Carketh. Here used transitively, “troubles,” though in Old English + it is generally intransitive, meaning to be careful or thoughtful; it + is from the Anglo-Saxon _Carian_; it became obsolete in the + seventeenth century. The substantive cark, trouble or anxiety, is + generally in Old English coupled with “care”. + + + [3] Self-pleached, self-entangled or intertwined. _Cf_. Shakespeare, + “pleached bower,” _Much Ado_, iii., i., 7. + + + [4] 1830. “_Long purples_,” thus marking that the phrase is borrowed + from Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, iv., vii., 169:— + +and _long purples_ +That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. +It is the purple-flowered orchis, _orchis mascula_. + + + [5] 1830. Through. + + + [6] Balm cricket, the tree cricket; _balm_ is a corruption of _baum_. + + + + +Love and Death + +First printed in 1830. + + +What time the mighty moon was gathering light[1] +Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, +And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes; +When, turning round a cassia, full in view +Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, +And talking to himself, first met his sight: +“You must begone,” said Death, “these walks are mine”. +Love wept and spread his sheeny vans[2] for flight; +Yet ere he parted said, “This hour is thine; +Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree +Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, +So in the light of great eternity +Life eminent creates the shade of death; +The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, +But I shall reign for ever over all”.[3] + + [1] The expression is Virgil’s, _Georg_., i., 427: “Luna revertentes + cum primum _colligit ignes_”. + + + [2] Vans used also for “wings” by Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ii., + 927-8:— + + His sail-broad _vans_ + He spreads for flight. + +So also Tasso, _Ger. Lib_., ix., 60: “Indi spiega al gran volo i +_vanni_ aurati”. + + + [3] _Cf. Lockley Hall Sixty Years After_: “Love will conquer at the + last”. + + + + +The Ballad of Oriana + +First published in 1830, not in 1833. + + +This fine ballad was evidently suggested by the old ballad of Helen of +Kirkconnel, both poems being based on a similar incident, and both +being the passionate soliloquy of the bereaved lover, though Tennyson’s +treatment of the subject is his own. Helen of Kirkconnel was one of the +poems which he was fond of reciting, and Fitzgerald says that he used +also to recite this poem, in a way not to be forgotten, at Cambridge +tables. _Life_, i., p. 77. + + +My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. +There is no rest for me below, Oriana. +When the long dun wolds are ribb’d with snow, +And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, +Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana. + +Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, +At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: +Winds were blowing, waters flowing, +We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana; +Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana. + +In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, +Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, +While blissful tears blinded my sight +By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, +I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana. + +She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: +She watch’d my crest among them all, Oriana: +She saw me fight, she heard me call, +When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, +Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana. + +The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: +The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana: +The damned arrow glanced aside, +And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana! +Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana! + +Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. +Loud, loud rung out the bugle’s brays, Oriana. +Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, +The battle deepen’d in its place, Oriana; +But I was down upon my face, Oriana. + +They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana! +How could I rise and come away, Oriana? +How could I look upon the day? +They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana +They should have trod me into clay, Oriana. + +O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana! +O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana! +Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, +And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: +What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana? + +I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. +Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. +I feel the tears of blood arise +Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. +Within my heart my arrow lies, Oriana. + +O cursed hand! O cursed blow! Oriana! +O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! +All night the silence seems to flow +Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. +A weary, weary way I go, Oriana. + +When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, +I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. +Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, +I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. +I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana. + + + + +Circumstance + +First published in 1830. + + +Two children in two neighbour villages +Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; +Two strangers meeting at a festival; +Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; +Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; +Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, +Wash’d with still rains and daisy-blossomed; +Two children in one hamlet born and bred; +So runs[1] the round of life from hour to hour. + + [1] 1830. Fill up. + + + + +The Merman + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Who would be +A merman bold, +Sitting alone, +Singing alone +Under the sea, +With a crown of gold, +On a throne? + +2 + + +I would be a merman bold; +I would sit and sing the whole of the day; +I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; +But at night I would roam abroad and play +With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, +Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; +And holding them back by their flowing locks +I would kiss them often under the sea, +And kiss them again till they kiss’d me +Laughingly, laughingly; +And then we would wander away, away +To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, +Chasing each other merrily. + +3 + + +There would be neither moon nor star; +But the wave would make music above us afar— +Low thunder and light in the magic night— +Neither moon nor star. +We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, +Call to each other and whoop and cry +All night, merrily, merrily; +They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, +Laughing and clapping their hands between, +All night, merrily, merrily: +But I would throw to them back in mine +Turkis and agate and almondine:[1] +Then leaping out upon them unseen +I would kiss them often under the sea, +And kiss them again till they kiss’d me +Laughingly, laughingly. +Oh! what a happy life were mine +Under the hollow-hung ocean green! +Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; +We would live merrily, merrily. + + [1] Almondine. This should be “almandine,” the word probably being a + corruption of alabandina, a gem so called because found at Alabanda in + Caria; it is a garnet of a violet or amethystine tint. _Cf._ Browning, + _Fefine at the Fair_, xv., “that string of mock-turquoise, these + _almandines_ of glass”. + + + + +The Mermaid + +First printed in 1830. + + +1 + + +Who would be +A mermaid fair, +Singing alone, +Combing her hair +Under the sea, +In a golden curl +With a comb of pearl, +On a throne? + +2 + + +I would be a mermaid fair; +I would sing to myself the whole of the day; +With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; +And still as I comb’d I would sing and say, +“Who is it loves me? who loves not me?” +I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, +Low adown, low adown, +From under my starry sea-bud crown +Low adown and around, +And I should look like a fountain of gold +Springing alone +With a shrill inner sound, +Over the throne +In the midst of the hall; +Till that[1] great sea-snake under the sea +From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps +Would slowly trail himself sevenfold +Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate +With his large calm eyes for the love of me. +And all the mermen under the sea +Would feel their[2] immortality +Die in their hearts for the love of me. + +3 + + +But at night I would wander away, away, +I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, +And lightly vault from the throne and play +With the mermen in and out of the rocks; +We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, +On the broad sea-wolds in the[3] crimson shells, +Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. +But if any came near I would call, and shriek, +And adown the steep like a wave I would leap +From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; +For I would not be kiss’d[4] by all who would list, +Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; +They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, +In the purple twilights under the sea; +But the king of them all would carry me, +Woo me, and win me, and marry me, +In the branching jaspers under the sea; +Then all the dry pied things that be +In the hueless mosses under the sea +Would curl round my silver feet silently, +All looking up for the love of me. +And if I should carol aloud, from aloft +All things that are forked, and horned, and soft +Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, +All looking down for the love of me. + + [1] Till 1857. The. + + + [2] Till 1857. The. + + + [3] 1830. ’I the. So till 1853. + + + [4] 1830 Kist. + + + + +Sonnet to J. M. K. + +First printed in 1830, not in 1833. + + +This sonnet was addressed to John Mitchell Kemble, the well-known +Editor of the _Beowulf_ and other Anglo-Saxon poems. He intended to go +into the Church, but was never ordained, and devoted his life to early +English studies. See memoir of him in _Dict, of Nat. Biography_. + + +My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be +A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest +To scare church-harpies from the master’s feast; +Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: +Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, +Distill’d from some worm-canker’d homily; +But spurr’d at heart with fieriest energy +To embattail and to wall about thy cause +With iron-worded proof, hating to hark +The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone +Half God’s good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk +Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne +Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark +Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark. + + + + +The Lady of Shalott + +First published in 1833. + + +This poem was composed in its first form as early as May, 1832 or 1833, +as we learn from Fitzgerald’s note—of the exact year he was not certain +(_Life of Tennyson_, i., 147). The evolution of the poem is an +interesting study. How greatly it was altered in the second edition of +1842 will be evident from the collation which follows. The text of 1842 +became the permanent text, and in this no subsequent material +alterations were made. The poem is more purely fanciful than Tennyson +perhaps was willing to own; certainly his explanation of the allegory, +as he gave it to Canon Ainger, is not very intelligible: “The new-born +love for something, for some one in the wide world from which she has +been so long excluded, takes her out of the region of shadows into that +of realities”. Poe’s commentary is most to the point: “Why do some +persons fatigue themselves in endeavours to unravel such phantasy +pieces as the _Lady of Shallot_? As well unweave the ventum +textilem”.—_Democratic Review_, Dec., 1844, quoted by Mr. Herne +Shepherd. Mr. Palgrave says (selection from the _Lyric Poems of +Tennyson_, p. 257) the poem was suggested by an Italian romance upon +the Donna di Scalotta. On what authority this is said I do not know, +nor can I identify the novel. In Novella, lxxxi., a collection of +novels printed at Milan in 1804, there is one which tells but very +briefly the story of Elaine’s love and death, “Qui conta come la +Damigella di scalot mori per amore di Lancealotto di Lac,” and as in +this novel Camelot is placed near the sea, this may be the novel +referred to. In any case the poem is a fanciful and possibly an +allegorical variant of the story of Elaine, Shalott being a form, +through the French, of Astolat. + + +Part I + + +On either side the river lie +Long fields of barley and of rye, +That clothe the wold and meet the sky; +And thro’ the field the road runs by +To many-tower’d Camelot; +And up and down the people go, +Gazing where the lilies blow +Round an island there below, +The island of Shalott.[1] + +Willows whiten, aspens quiver,[2] +Little breezes dusk and shiver +Thro’ the wave that runs for ever +By the island in the river +Flowing down to Camelot. +Four gray walls, and four gray towers, +Overlook a space of flowers, +And the silent isle imbowers +The Lady of Shalott. + +By the margin, willow-veil’d +Slide the heavy barges trail’d +By slow horses; and unhail’d +The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d +Skimming down to Camelot: +But who hath seen her wave her hand? +Or at the casement seen her stand? +Or is she known in all the land, +The Lady of Shalott?[3] + +Only reapers, reaping early +In among the bearded barley, +Hear a song that echoes cheerly +From the river winding clearly, +Down to tower’d Camelot: +And by the moon the reaper weary, +Piling sheaves in uplands airy, +Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairy +Lady of Shalott”.[4] + + +Part II + + +There she weaves by night and day +A magic web with colours gay. +She has heard a whisper say, +A curse is on her if she stay[5] +To look down to Camelot. +She knows not what the _curse_ may be, +And so[6] she weaveth steadily, +And little other care hath she, +The Lady of Shalott. + +And moving thro’ a mirror clear +That hangs before her all the year, +Shadows of the world appear. +There she sees the highway near +Winding down to Camelot: +There the river eddy whirls, +And there the surly village-churls,[7] +And the red cloaks of market girls, +Pass onward from Shalott. + +Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, +An abbot on an ambling pad, +Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, +Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, +Goes by to tower’d Camelot; +And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue +The knights come riding two and two: +She hath no loyal knight and true, +The Lady of Shalott. + +But in her web she still delights +To weave the mirror’s magic sights, +For often thro’ the silent nights +A funeral, with plumes and lights, +And music, went to Camelot:[8] +Or when the moon was overhead, +Came two young lovers lately wed; +“I am half-sick of shadows,” said +The Lady of Shalott.[9] + + +Part III + + +A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, +He rode between the barley sheaves, +The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves, +And flamed upon the brazen greaves +Of bold Sir Lancelot. +A redcross knight for ever kneel’d +To a lady in his shield, +That sparkled on the yellow field, +Beside remote Shalott. + +The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, +Like to some branch of stars we see +Hung in the golden Galaxy.[10] +The bridle bells rang merrily +As he rode down to[11] Camelot: +And from his blazon’d baldric slung +A mighty silver bugle hung, +And as he rode his armour rung, +Beside remote Shalott. + +All in the blue unclouded weather +Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather, +The helmet and the helmet-feather +Burn’d like one burning flame together, +As he rode down to Camelot.[12] +As often thro’ the purple night, +Below the starry clusters bright, +Some bearded meteor, trailing light, +Moves over still Shalott.[13] + +His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d; +On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode; +From underneath his helmet flow’d +His coal-black curls as on he rode, +As he rode down to Camelot.[14] +From the bank and from the river +He flashed into the crystal mirror, +“Tirra lirra,” by the river[15] +Sang Sir Lancelot. + +She left the web, she left the loom; +She made three paces thro’ the room, +She saw the water-lily[16] bloom, +She saw the helmet and the plume, +She look’d down to Camelot. +Out flew the web and floated wide; +The mirror crack’d from side to side; +“The curse is come upon me,” cried +The Lady of Shalott. + +Part IV + + +In the stormy east-wind straining, +The pale yellow woods were waning, +The broad stream in his banks complaining, +Heavily the low sky raining +Over tower’d Camelot; +Down she came and found a boat +Beneath a willow left afloat, +And round about the prow she wrote +_The Lady of Shalott_.[17] + +And down the river’s dim expanse— +Like some bold seër in a trance, +Seeing all his own mischance— +With a glassy countenance +Did she look to Camelot. +And at the closing of the day +She loosed the chain, and down she lay; +The broad stream bore her far away, +The Lady of Shalott. + +Lying, robed in snowy white +That loosely flew to left and right— +The leaves upon her falling light— +Thro’ the noises of the night +She floated down to Camelot; +And as the boat-head wound along +The willowy hills and fields among, +They heard her singing her last song, +The Lady of Shalott.[18] + +Heard a carol, mournful, holy, +Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, +Till her blood was frozen slowly, +And her eyes were darken’d wholly,[19] +Turn’d to tower’d Camelot; +For ere she reach’d upon the tide +The first house by the water-side, +Singing in her song she died, +The Lady of Shalott. + +Under tower and balcony, +By garden-wall and gallery, +A gleaming shape she floated by, +Dead-pale[20] between the houses high, +Silent into Camelot. +Out upon the wharfs they came, +Knight and burgher, lord and dame, +And round the prow they read her name, +_The Lady of Shalott_[21] + +Who is this? and what is here? +And in the lighted palace near +Died the sound of royal cheer; +And they cross’d themselves for fear, +All the knights at Camelot: +But Lancelot[22] mused a little space; +He said, “She has a lovely face; +God in his mercy lend her grace, +The Lady of Shalott”.[23] + + [1] 1833. + +To many towered Camelot +The yellow leaved water lily, +The green sheathed daffodilly, +Tremble in the water chilly, +Round about Shalott. + + + [2] 1833. + +... shiver, +The sunbeam-showers break and quiver +In the stream that runneth ever +By the island, etc. + + + [3] 1833. + +Underneath the bearded barley, +The reaper, reaping late and early, +Hears her ever chanting cheerly, +Like an angel, singing clearly, +O’er the stream of Camelot. +Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, +Beneath the moon, the reaper weary +Listening whispers, “’tis the fairy +Lady of Shalott”. + + + [4] 1833. + +The little isle is all inrailed +With a rose-fence, and overtrailed +With roses: by the marge unhailed +The shallop flitteth silkensailed, +Skimming down to Camelot. +A pearl garland winds her head: +She leaneth on a velvet bed, +Full royally apparelled, +The Lady of Shalott. + + + [5] 1833. + +No time hath she to sport and play: +A charmed web she weaves alway. +A curse is on her, if she stay +Her weaving, either night or day + + + [6] 1833. + +Therefore ... +Therefore ... +The Lady of Shalott. + + + [7] 1833. + +She lives with little joy or fear +Over the water running near, +The sheep bell tinkles in her ear, +Before her hangs a mirror clear, +Reflecting towered Camelot. +And, as the mazy web she whirls, +She sees the surly village-churls. + + + [8] 1833. Came from Camelot. + + + [9] In these lines are to be found, says the present Lord Tennyson, + the key to the mystic symbolism of the poem. But it is not easy to see + how death could be an advantageous exchange for fancy-haunted + solitude. The allegory is clearer in lines 114-115, for love will so + break up mere phantasy. + + + [10] 1833. Hung in the golden galaxy. + + + [11] 1833. From. + + + [12] 1833. From Camelot. + + + [13] 1833. Green Shalott. + + + [14] 1833. From Camelot. + + + [15] 1833. “Tirra lirra, tirra lirra.” + + + [16] 1833. Water flower. + + + [17] 1833. + +Outside the isle a shallow boat +Beneath a willow lay afloat, +Below the carven stern she wrote, +THE LADY OF SHALOTT. + + + [18] 1833. + +A cloud-white crown of pearl she dight, +All raimented in snowy white +That loosely flew (her zone in sight, +Clasped with one blinding diamond bright), +Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, +Though the squally eastwind keenly +Blew, with folded arms serenely +By the water stood the queenly +Lady of Shalott. + +With a steady, stony glance— +Like some bold seer in a trance, +Beholding all his own mischance, +Mute, with a glassy countenance— +She looked down to Camelot. +It was the closing of the day, +She loosed the chain, and down she lay, +The broad stream bore her far away, +The Lady of Shalott. + +As when to sailors while they roam, +By creeks and outfalls far from home, +Rising and dropping with the foam, +From dying swans wild warblings come, +Blown shoreward; so to Camelot +Still as the boat-head wound along +The willowy hills and fields among, +They heard her chanting her death song, +The Lady of Shalott. + + + [19] 1833. + +A long drawn carol, mournful, holy, +She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, +Till her eyes were darkened wholly, +And her smooth face sharpened slowly. + + + [20] “A corse” (1853) is a variant for the “Dead-pale” of 1857. + + + [21] 1833. + +A pale, pale corpse she floated by, +Dead cold, between the houses high, +Dead into towered Camelot. +Knight and burgher, lord and dame, +To the plankèd wharfage came: +Below the stern they read her name, +“The Lady of Shalott”. + + + [22] 1833. Spells it “Launcelot” all through. + + + [23] 1833. + +They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, +Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire and guest, +There lay a parchment on her breast, +That puzzled more than all the rest, +The well-fed wits at Camelot. +“_The web was woven curiously, +The charm is broken utterly, +Draw near and fear not—this is I, +The Lady of Shalott._” + + + + +Mariana in the South + +First printed in 1833. + + +This poem had been written as early as 1831 (see Arthur Hallam’s +letter, _Life_, i., 284-5, Appendix), and Lord Tennyson tells us that +it “came to my father as he was travelling between Narbonne and +Perpignan”; how vividly the characteristic features of Southern France +are depicted must be obvious to every one who is familiar with them. It +is interesting to compare it with the companion poem; the central +position is the same in both, desolate loneliness, and the mood is the +same, but the setting is far more picturesque and is therefore more +dwelt upon. The poem was very greatly altered when re-published in +1842, that text being practically the final one, there being no +important variants afterwards. + +In the edition of 1833 the poem opened with the following stanza, which +was afterwards excised and the stanza of the present text substituted. + +Behind the barren hill upsprung +With pointed rocks against the light, +The crag sharpshadowed overhung +Each glaring creek and inlet bright. +Far, far, one light blue ridge was seen, +Looming like baseless fairyland; +Eastward a slip of burning sand, +Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green, +Down in the dry salt-marshes stood +That house dark latticed. Not a breath +Swayed the sick vineyard underneath, +Or moved the dusty southernwood. +“Madonna,” with melodious moan +Sang Mariana, night and morn, +“Madonna! lo! I am all alone, +Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.” + + +With one black shadow at its feet, +The house thro’ all the level shines, +Close-latticed to the brooding heat, +And silent in its dusty vines: +A faint-blue ridge upon the right, +An empty river-bed before, +And shallows on a distant shore, +In glaring sand and inlets bright. +But “Ave Mary,” made she moan, +And “Ave Mary,” night and morn, +And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone, +To live forgotten, and love forlorn”. + +She, as her carol sadder grew, +From brow and bosom slowly down[1] +Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew +Her streaming curls of deepest brown +To left and right,[2] and made appear, +Still-lighted in a secret shrine, +Her melancholy eyes divine,[3] +The home of woe without a tear. +And “Ave Mary,” was her moan,[4] +“Madonna, sad is night and morn”; +And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone, +To live forgotten, and love forlorn”. + +Till all the crimson changed,[5] and past +Into deep orange o’er the sea, +Low on her knees herself she cast, +Before Our Lady murmur’d she; +Complaining, “Mother, give me grace +To help me of my weary load”. +And on the liquid mirror glow’d +The clear perfection of her face. +“Is this the form,” she made her moan, +“That won his praises night and morn?” +And “Ah,” she said, “but I wake alone, +I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn”.[6] + +Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, +Nor any cloud would cross the vault, +But day increased from heat to heat, +On stony drought and steaming salt; +Till now at noon she slept again, +And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass, +And heard her native breezes pass, +And runlets babbling down the glen. +She breathed in sleep a lower moan, +And murmuring, as at night and morn, +She thought, “My spirit is here alone, +Walks forgotten, and is forlorn”.[7] + +Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: +She felt he was and was not there,[8] +She woke: the babble of the stream +Fell, and without the steady glare +Shrank one sick willow[9] sere and small. +The river-bed was dusty-white; +And all the furnace of the light +Struck up against the blinding wall.[10] +She whisper’d, with a stifled moan +More inward than at night or morn, +“Sweet Mother, let me not here alone +Live forgotten, and die forlorn”.[11] + +[12]And rising, from her bosom drew +Old letters, breathing of her worth, +For “Love,” they said, “must needs be true, +To what is loveliest upon earth”. +An image seem’d to pass the door, +To look at her with slight, and say, +“But now thy beauty flows away, +So be alone for evermore”. +“O cruel heart,” she changed her tone, +“And cruel love, whose end is scorn, +Is this the end to be left alone, +To live forgotten, and die forlorn!” + +But sometimes in the falling day +An image seem’d to pass the door, +To look into her eyes and say, +“But thou shalt be alone no more”. +And flaming downward over all +From heat to heat the day decreased, +And slowly rounded to the east +The one black shadow from the wall. +“The day to night,” she made her moan, +“The day to night, the night to morn, +And day and night I am left alone +To live forgotten, and love forlorn.” + +At eve a dry cicala sung, +There came a sound as of the sea; +Backward the lattice-blind she flung, +And lean’d upon the balcony. +There all in spaces rosy-bright +Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears, +And deepening thro’ the silent spheres, +Heaven over Heaven rose the night. +And weeping then she made her moan, +“The night comes on that knows not morn, +When I shall cease to be all alone, +To live forgotten, and love forlorn”.[13] + + [1] 1833 From her warm brow and bosom down. + + + [2] 1833. On either side. + + + [3] Compare Keats, _Eve of St. Agnes_, “her maiden eyes divine”. + + + [4] 1833. “Madonna,” with melodious moan Sang Mariana, etc. + + + [5] 1833. When the dawncrimson changed. + + + [6] 1833. + +Unto our Lady prayed she. +She moved her lips, she prayed alone, +She praying disarrayed and warm +From slumber, deep her wavy form +In the dark-lustrous mirror shone. +“Madonna,” in a low clear tone +Said Mariana, night and morn, +Low she mourned, “I am all alone, +Love-forgotten, and love-forlorn”. + + + [7] 1833. + +At noon she slumbered. All along +The silvery field, the large leaves talked +With one another, as among +The spikèd maize in dreams she walked. +The lizard leapt: the sunlight played: +She heard the callow nestling lisp, +And brimful meadow-runnels crisp. +In the full-leavèd platan-shade. +In sleep she breathed in a lower tone, +Murmuring as at night and morn, +“Madonna! lo! I am all alone. +Love-forgotten and love-forlorn”. + + + [8] 1835. Most false: he was and was not there. + + + [9] 1833. The sick olive. So the text remained till 1850, when “one” + was substituted. + + + [10] 1833. + +From the bald rock the blinding light +Beat ever on the sunwhite wall. + + + [11] 1833. + +“Madonna, leave me not all alone, +To die forgotten and live forlorn.” + + + [12] This stanza and the next not in 1833. + + + [13] 1833. + +One dry cicala’s summer song +At night filled all the gallery. +Ever the low wave seemed to roll +Up to the coast: far on, alone +In the East, large Hesper overshone +The mourning gulf, and on her soul +Poured divine solace, or the rise +Of moonlight from the margin gleamed, +Volcano-like, afar, and streamed +On her white arm, and heavenward eyes. +Not all alone she made her moan, +Yet ever sang she, night and morn, +“Madonna! lo! I am all alone, +Love-forgotten and love-forlorn”. + + + + +Eleänore + +First printed in 1833. When reprinted in 1842 the alterations noted +were then made, and after that the text remained unchanged. + + +1 + + +Thy dark eyes open’d not, +Nor first reveal’d themselves to English air, +For there is nothing here, +Which, from the outward to the inward brought, +Moulded thy baby thought. +Far off from human neighbourhood, +Thou wert born, on a summer morn, +A mile beneath the cedar-wood. +Thy bounteous forehead was not fann’d +With breezes from our oaken glades, +But thou wert nursed in some delicious land +Of lavish lights, and floating shades: +And flattering thy childish thought +The oriental fairy brought, +At the moment of thy birth, +From old well-heads of haunted rills, +And the hearts of purple hills, +And shadow’d coves on a sunny shore, +The choicest wealth of all the earth, +Jewel or shell, or starry ore, +To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.[1] + + +2 + + +Or the yellow-banded bees,[2] +Thro’[3] half-open lattices +Coming in the scented breeze, +Fed thee, a child, lying alone, +With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull’d— +A glorious child, dreaming alone, +In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, +With the hum of swarming bees +Into dreamful slumber lull’d. + +3 + + +Who may minister to thee? +Summer herself should minister +To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded +On golden salvers, or it may be, +Youngest Autumn, in a bower +Grape-thicken’d from the light, and blinded +With many a deep-hued bell-like flower +Of fragrant trailers, when the air +Sleepeth over all the heaven, +And the crag that fronts the Even, +All along the shadowing shore, +Crimsons over an inland[4] mere,[5] +Eleänore! + +4 + + +How may full-sail’d verse express, +How may measured words adore +The full-flowing harmony +Of thy swan-like stateliness, +Eleänore? +The luxuriant symmetry +Of thy floating gracefulness, +Eleänore? +Every turn and glance of thine, +Every lineament divine, +Eleänore, +And the steady sunset glow, +That stays upon thee? For in thee +Is nothing sudden, nothing single; +Like two streams of incense free +From one censer, in one shrine, +Thought and motion mingle, +Mingle ever. Motions flow +To one another, even as tho’[6] +They were modulated so +To an unheard melody, +Which lives about thee, and a sweep +Of richest pauses, evermore +Drawn from each other mellow-deep; +Who may express thee, Eleänore? + + +5 + + +I stand before thee, Eleänore; +I see thy beauty gradually unfold, +Daily and hourly, more and more. +I muse, as in a trance, the while +Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, +Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.[7] I muse, as in a trance, whene’er +The languors of thy love-deep eyes +Float on to me. _I_ would _I_ were +So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, +To stand apart, and to adore, +Gazing on thee for evermore, +Serene, imperial Eleänore! + +6 + + +Sometimes, with most intensity +Gazing, I seem to see +Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, +Slowly awaken’d, grow so full and deep +In thy large eyes, that, overpower’d quite, +I cannot veil, or droop my sight, +But am as nothing in its light: +As tho’[8] a star, in inmost heaven set, +Ev’n while we gaze on it, +Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow +To a full face, there like a sun remain +Fix’d—then as slowly fade again, +And draw itself to what it was before; +So full, so deep, so slow, +Thought seems to come and go +In thy large eyes, imperial Eleänore. + +7 + + +As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, +Roof’d the world with doubt and fear,[9] +Floating thro’ an evening atmosphere, +Grow golden all about the sky; +In thee all passion becomes passionless, +Touch’d by thy spirit’s mellowness, +Losing his fire and active might +In a silent meditation, +Falling into a still delight, +And luxury of contemplation: +As waves that up a quiet cove +Rolling slide, and lying still +Shadow forth the banks at will:[10] +Or sometimes they swell and move, +Pressing up against the land, +With motions of the outer sea: +And the self-same influence +Controlleth all the soul and sense +Of Passion gazing upon thee. +His bow-string slacken’d, languid Love, +Leaning his cheek upon his hand,[11] +Droops both his wings, regarding thee, +And so would languish evermore, +Serene, imperial Eleänore. + +8 + + +But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, +While the amorous, odorous wind +Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; +Or, in a shadowy saloon, +On silken cushions half reclined; +I watch thy grace; and in its place +My heart a charmed slumber keeps,[12] +While I muse upon thy face; +And a languid fire creeps +Thro’ my veins to all my frame, +Dissolvingly and slowly: soon +From thy rose-red lips MY name +Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,[13] +With dinning sound my ears are rife, +My tremulous tongue faltereth, +I lose my colour, I lose my breath, +I drink the cup of a costly death, +Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warmest life. +I die with my delight, before +I hear what I would hear from thee; +Yet tell my name again to me, +I _would_[14] be dying evermore, +So dying ever, Eleänore. + + [1] With the picture of Eleänore may be compared the description which + Ibycus gives of Euryalus. See Bergk’s _Anthologia Lyrica_ (Ibycus), p. + 396. + + + [2] With yellow banded bees _cf_. Keats’s “yellow girted bees,” + _Endymion_, i. With this may be compared Pindar’s beautiful picture of + lamus, who was also fed on honey, _Olympian_, vi., 50-80. + + + [3] 1833 and 1842. Through. + + + [4] Till 1857. Island. + + + [5] 1833. Meer. + + + [6] 1842 and 1843. Though. + + + [7] Ambrosial, the Greek sense of ἀμβρόσιος, divine. + + + [8] 1833 to 1851. Though. + + + [9] 1833. Did roof noonday with doubt and fear. + + + [10] 1833. + +As waves that from the outer deep +Roll into a quiet cove, +There fall away, and lying still, +Having glorious dreams in sleep, +Shadow forth the banks at will. + + + [11] _Cf_. Horace, _Odes_, iii., xxvii., 66-8: + +Aderat querenti +Perfidum ridens Venus, et _remisso_ +Filius _arcu_. + + + [12] 1833. + +I gaze on thee the cloudless noon +Of mortal beauty. + + + [13] 1833. Then I faint, I swoon. The latter part of the eighth stanza + is little more than an adaptation of Sappho’s famous Ode, filtered + perhaps through the version of Catullus. + + + [14] It is curious that a poet so scrupulous as Tennyson should have + retained to the last the italics. + + + + +The Miller’s Daughter + +First published in 1833. It was greatly altered when republished in +1842, and in some respects, so Fitzgerald thought, not for the better. +No alterations of much importance were made in it after 1842. The +characters as well as the scenery were, it seems, purely imaginary. +Tennyson said that if he thought of any mill it was that of +Trumpington, near Cambridge, which bears a general resemblance to the +picture here given. + +In the first edition the poem opened with the following stanza, which +the _Quarterly_ ridiculed, and which was afterwards excised. Its +omission is surely not to be regretted, whatever Fitzgerald may have +thought. + +I met in all the close green ways, +While walking with my line and rod, +The wealthy miller’s mealy face, +Like the moon in an ivy-tod. +He looked so jolly and so good— +While fishing in the milldam-water, +I laughed to see him as he stood, +And dreamt not of the miller’s daughter. + + +I see the wealthy miller yet, +His double chin, his portly size, +And who that knew him could forget +The busy wrinkles round his eyes? +The slow wise smile that, round about +His dusty forehead drily curl’d, +Seem’d half-within and half-without, +And full of dealings with the world? + +In yonder chair I see him sit, +Three fingers round the old silver cup— +I see his gray eyes twinkle yet +At his own jest—gray eyes lit up +With summer lightnings of a soul +So full of summer warmth, so glad, +So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, +His memory scarce can make me[1] sad. + +Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: +My own sweet[2] Alice, we must die. +There’s somewhat in this world amiss +Shall be unriddled by and by. +There’s somewhat flows to us in life, +But more is taken quite away. +Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,[3] +That we may die the self-same day. + +Have I not found a happy earth? +I least should breathe a thought of pain. +Would God renew me from my birth +I’d almost live my life again. +So sweet it seems with thee to walk, +And once again to woo thee mine— +It seems in after-dinner talk +Across the walnuts and the wine—[4] + +To be the long and listless boy +Late-left an orphan of the squire, +Where this old mansion mounted high +Looks down upon the village spire:[5] +For even here,[6] where I and you +Have lived and loved alone so long, +Each morn my sleep was broken thro’ +By some wild skylark’s matin song. + +And oft I heard the tender dove +In firry woodlands making moan;[7] +But ere I saw your eyes, my love, +I had no motion of my own. +For scarce my life with fancy play’d +Before I dream’d that pleasant dream— +Still hither thither idly sway’d +Like those long mosses[8] in the stream. + +Or from the bridge I lean’d to hear +The milldam rushing down with noise, +And see the minnows everywhere +In crystal eddies glance and poise, +The tall flag-flowers when[9] they sprung +Below the range of stepping-stones, +Or those three chestnuts near, that hung +In masses thick with milky cones.[10] + +But, Alice, what an hour was that, +When after roving in the woods +(’Twas April then), I came and sat +Below the chestnuts, when their buds +Were glistening to the breezy blue; +And on the slope, an absent fool, +I cast me down, nor thought of you, +But angled in the higher pool.[11] + +A love-song I had somewhere read, +An echo from a measured strain, +Beat time to nothing in my head +From some odd corner of the brain. +It haunted me, the morning long, +With weary sameness in the rhymes, +The phantom of a silent song, +That went and came a thousand times. + +Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood +I watch’d the little circles die; +They past into the level flood, +And there a vision caught my eye; +The reflex of a beauteous form, +A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, +As when a sunbeam wavers warm +Within the dark and dimpled beck.[12] + +For you remember, you had set, +That morning, on the casement’s edge[13] +A long green box of mignonette, +And you were leaning from the ledge: +And when I raised my eyes, above +They met with two so full and bright— +Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, +That these have never lost their light.[14] + +I loved, and love dispell’d the fear +That I should die an early death: +For love possess’d the atmosphere, +And filled the breast with purer breath. +My mother thought, What ails the boy? +For I was alter’d, and began +To move about the house with joy, +And with the certain step of man. + +I loved the brimming wave that swam +Thro’ quiet meadows round the mill, +The sleepy pool above the dam, +The pool beneath it never still, +The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor, +The dark round of the dripping wheel, +The very air about the door +Made misty with the floating meal. + +And oft in ramblings on the wold, +When April nights begin to blow, +And April’s crescent glimmer’d cold, +I saw the village lights below; +I knew your taper far away, +And full at heart of trembling hope, +From off the wold I came, and lay +Upon the freshly-flower’d slope.[15] + +The deep brook groan’d beneath the mill; +And “by that lamp,” I thought “she sits!” +The white chalk-quarry[16] from the hill +Gleam’d to the flying moon by fits. +“O that I were beside her now! +O will she answer if I call? +O would she give me vow for vow, +Sweet Alice, if I told her all?”[17] + +Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; +And, in the pauses of the wind, +Sometimes I heard you sing within; +Sometimes your shadow cross’d the blind. +At last you rose and moved the light, +And the long shadow of the chair +Flitted across into the night, +And all the casement darken’d there. + +But when at last I dared to speak, +The lanes, you know, were white with may, +Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek +Flush’d like the coming of the day;[18] +And so it was—half-sly, half-shy,[19] +You would, and would not, little one! +Although I pleaded tenderly, +And you and I were all alone. + +And slowly was my mother brought +To yield consent to my desire: +She wish’d me happy, but she thought +I might have look’d a little higher; +And I was young—too young to wed: +“Yet must I love her for your sake; +Go fetch your Alice here,” she said: +Her eyelid quiver’d as she spake. + +And down I went to fetch my bride: +But, Alice, you were ill at ease; +This dress and that by turns you tried, +Too fearful that you should not please. +I loved you better for your fears, +I knew you could not look but well; +And dews, that would have fall’n in tears, +I kiss’d away before they fell.[20] + +I watch’d the little flutterings, +The doubt my mother would not see; +She spoke at large of many things, +And at the last she spoke of me; +And turning look’d upon your face, +As near this door you sat apart, +And rose, and, with a silent grace +Approaching, press’d you heart to heart.[21] + +Ah, well—but sing the foolish song +I gave you, Alice, on the day[22] +When, arm in arm, we went along, +A pensive pair, and you were gay, +With bridal flowers—that I may seem, +As in the nights of old, to lie +Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, +While those full chestnuts whisper by.[23] + +It is the miller’s daughter, +And she is grown so dear, so dear, +That I would be the jewel +That trembles at[24] her ear: +For hid in ringlets day and night, +I’d touch her neck so warm and white. + +And I would be the girdle +About her dainty, dainty waist, +And her heart would beat against me, +In sorrow and in rest: +And I should know if it beat right, +I’d clasp it round so close and tight.[25] + +And I would be the necklace, +And all day long to fall and rise[26] +Upon her balmy bosom, +With her laughter or her sighs, +And I would lie so light, so light,[27] +I scarce should be[28] unclasp’d at night. + +A trifle, sweet! which true love spells +True love interprets—right alone. +His light upon the letter dwells, +For all the spirit is his own.[29] +So, if I waste words now, in truth +You must blame Love. His early rage +Had force to make me rhyme in youth +And makes me talk too much in age.[30] + +And now those vivid hours are gone, +Like mine own life to me thou art, +Where Past and Present, wound in one, +Do make a garland for the heart: +So sing[31] that other song I made, +Half anger’d with my happy lot, +The day, when in the chestnut shade +I found the blue Forget-me-not.[32] + +Love that hath us in the net,[33] +Can he pass, and we forget? +Many suns arise and set. +Many a chance the years beget. +Love the gift is Love the debt. +Even so. +Love is hurt with jar and fret. +Love is made a vague regret. +Eyes with idle tears are wet. +Idle habit links us yet. +What is love? for we forget: +Ah, no! no![34] + +Look thro’ mine eyes with thine. True wife, +Round my true heart thine arms entwine; +My other dearer life in life, +Look thro’ my very soul with thine! +Untouch’d with any shade of years, +May those kind eyes for ever dwell! +They have not shed a many tears, +Dear eyes, since first I knew them well. + +Yet tears they shed: they had their part +Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, +The still affection of the heart +Became an outward breathing type, +That into stillness past again, +And left a want unknown before; +Although the loss that brought us pain, +That loss but made us love the more. + +With farther lookings on. The kiss, +The woven arms, seem but to be +Weak symbols of the settled bliss, +The comfort, I have found in thee: +But that God bless thee, dear—who wrought +Two spirits to one equal mind— +With blessings beyond hope or thought, +With blessings which no words can find. + +Arise, and let us wander forth, +To yon old mill across the wolds; +For look, the sunset, south and north,[35] +Winds all the vale in rosy folds, +And fires your narrow casement glass, +Touching the sullen pool below: +On the chalk-hill the bearded grass +Is dry and dewless. Let us go. + + [1] 1833. Scarce makes me. + + + [2] 1833. Darling. + + + [3] 1833. Own sweet wife. + + + [4] This stanza was added in 1842. + + + [5] 1833. + +My father’s mansion, mounted high +Looked down upon the village spire. +I was a long and listless boy, +And son and heir unto the squire. + + + [6] 1833. In these dear walls. + + + [7] 1833. + +I often heard the cooing dove +In firry woodlands mourn alone. + + + [8] 1833. The long mosses. + + + [9] 1842-1851. Where. + + + [10] This stanza was added in 1842, taking the place of the following + which was excised:— + +Sometimes I whistled in the wind, +Sometimes I angled, thought and deed +Torpid, as swallows left behind +That winter ’neath the floating weed: +At will to wander every way +From brook to brook my sole delight, +As lithe eels over meadows gray +Oft shift their glimmering pool by night. + +In 1833 this stanza ran thus:— + +I loved from off the bridge to hear +The rushing sound the water made, +And see the fish that everywhere +In the back-current glanced and played; +Low down the tall flag-flower that sprung +Beside the noisy stepping-stones, +And the massed chestnut boughs that hung +Thick-studded over with white cones, + + + [11] In 1833 the following took the place of the above stanza which + was added in 1842:— + +How dear to me in youth, my love, +Was everything about the mill, +The black and silent pool above, +The pool beneath that ne’er stood still, +The meal sacks on the whitened floor, +The dark round of the dripping wheel, +The very air about the door— +Made misty with the floating meal! + +Thus in 1833:— + +Remember you that pleasant day +When, after roving in the woods, +(’Twas April then) I came and lay +Beneath those gummy chestnut bud +That glistened in the April blue, +Upon the slope so smooth and cool, +I lay and never thought of _you_, +But angled in the deep mill pool. + + + [12] Thus in 1833:— + +A water-rat from off the bank +Plunged in the stream. With idle care, +Downlooking thro’ the sedges rank, +I saw your troubled image there. +Upon the dark and dimpled beck +It wandered like a floating light, +A full fair form, a warm white neck, +And two white arms—how rosy white! + + + [13] 1872. Casement-edge. + + + [14] Thus in 1833:— + +If you remember, you had set +Upon the narrow casement-edge +A long green box of mignonette, +And you were leaning from the ledge. +I raised my eyes at once: above +They met two eyes so blue and bright, +Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, +That they have never lost their light. + +After this stanza the following was inserted in 1833 but excised in +1842:— + +That slope beneath the chestnut tall +Is wooed with choicest breaths of air: +Methinks that I could tell you all +The cowslips and the kingcups there. +Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, +Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, +Each quaintly-folded cuckoo pint, +And silver-paly cuckoo flower. + + + [15] Thus in 1833:— + +In rambling on the eastern wold, +When thro’ the showery April nights +Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, +From all the other village lights +I knew your taper far away. +My heart was full of trembling hope, +Down from the wold I came and lay +Upon the dewy-swarded slope. + + + [16] Mr. Cuming Walters in his interesting volume _In Tennyson Land_, + p. 75, notices that the white chalk quarry at Thetford can be seen + from Stockworth Mill, which seems to show that if Tennyson did take + the mill from Trumpington he must also have had his mind on Thetford + Mill. Tennyson seems to have taken delight in baffling those who + wished to localise his scenes. He went out of his way to say that the + topographical studies of Messrs. Church and Napier were the only ones + which could be relied upon. But Mr. Cuming Walters’ book is far more + satisfactory than their thin studies. + + + [17] Thus in 1833:— + +The white chalk quarry from the hill +Upon the broken ripple gleamed, +I murmured lowly, sitting still, +While round my feet the eddy streamed: +“Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes, +The mirror where her sight she feeds, +The song she sings, the air she breathes, +The letters of the books she reads”. + + + [18] 1833. + +I loved, but when I dared to speak +My love, the lanes were white with May +Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek +Flushed like the coming of the day. + + + [19] 1833. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy. + + + [20] Cf. Milton, _Paradise Lost_;— + +Two other precious drops that ready stood +He, ere they fell, kiss’d. + + + [21] These three stanzas were added in 1842, the following being + excised:— + +Remember you the clear moonlight, +That whitened all the eastern ridge, +When o’er the water, dancing white, +I stepped upon the old mill-bridge. +I heard you whisper from above +A lute-toned whisper, “I am here”; +I murmured, “Speak again, my love, +The stream is loud: I cannot hear”. + +I heard, as I have seemed to hear, +When all the under-air was still, +The low voice of the glad new year +Call to the freshly-flowered hill. +I heard, as I have often heard +The nightingale in leavy woods +Call to its mate, when nothing stirred +To left or right but falling floods. + + + [22] 1842. I gave you on the joyful day. + + + [23] In 1833 the following stanza took the place of the one here + substituted in 1842:— + +Come, Alice, sing to me the song +I made you on our marriage day, +When, arm in arm, we went along +Half-tearfully, and you were gay +With brooch and ring: for I shall seem, +The while you sing that song, to hear +The mill-wheel turning in the stream, +And the green chestnut whisper near. + +In 1833 the song began thus, the present stanza taking its place in +1842:— + +I wish I were her earring, +Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek, +(So might my shadow tremble +Over her downy cheek), +Hid in her hair, all day and night, +Touching her neck so warm and white. + + + [24] 1872. In. + + + [25] 1833. + +I wish I were the girdle +Buckled about her dainty waist, +That her heart might beat against me, +In sorrow and in rest. +I should know well if it beat right, +I’d clasp it round so close and tight. + +This stanza bears so close a resemblance to a stanza in Joshua +Sylvester’s _Woodman’s Bear_ (see Sylvester’s _Works_, ed. 1641, p. +616) that a correspondent asked Tennyson whether Sylvester had +suggested it. Tennyson replied that he had never seen Sylvester’s lines +(_Life of Tennyson_, iii., 51). The lines are:— + +But her slender virgin waste +Made mee beare her girdle spight +Which the same by day imbrac’t +Though it were cast off by night +That I wisht, I dare not say, +To be girdle night and day. + +For other parallels see the present Editor’s _Illustrations of +Tennyson_, p. 39. + + + [26] 1833. + +I wish I were her necklace, +So might I ever fall and rise. + + + [27] 1833. So warm and light. + + + [28] 1833. I would not be. + + + [29] 1833. + +For o’er each letter broods and dwells, +(Like light from running waters thrown +On flowery swaths) the blissful flame +Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night, +With pulses thrilling thro’ his frame +Do inly tremble, starry bright. + + + [30] Thus in 1833:— + +How I waste language—yet in truth +You must blame love, whose early rage +Made me a rhymster in my youth, +And over-garrulous in age. + + + [31] 1833. Sing me. + + + [32] 1833. + +When in the breezy limewood-shade. +I found the blue forget-me-not. + + + [33] In 1833 the following song took the place of the song in the + text:— + +All yesternight you met me not, +My ladylove, forget me not. +When I am gone, regret me not. +But, here or there, forget me not. +With your arched eyebrow threat me not, +And tremulous eyes, like April skies, +That seem to say, “forget me not,” +I pray you, love, forget me not. + +In idle sorrow set me not; +Regret me not; forget me not; +Oh! leave me not: oh, let me not +Wear quite away;—forget me not. +With roguish laughter fret me not. +From dewy eyes, like April skies, +That ever _look_, “forget me not”. +Blue as the blue forget-me-not. + + + [34] These two stanzas were added in 1842. + + + [35] 1833. + +I’ve half a mind to walk, my love, +To the old mill across the wolds +For look! the sunset from above, + + + + +Fatima + +First printed in 1833. + + +The 1833 edition has no title but this quotation from Sappho prefixed:— + +φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θεοῖσιν +Ἔμμεν ἀνήρ.—SAPPHO. + + +The title was prefixed in 1842; it is a name taken from _The Arabian +Nights_ or from the Moallâkat. The poem was evidently inspired by +Sappho’s great ode. _Cf._ also Fragment I. of Ibycus. In the intensity +of the passion it stands alone among Tennyson’s poems. + + +O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! +O sun, that from[1] thy noonday height +Shudderest when I strain my sight, +Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light, +Lo, falling from my constant mind, +Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind, +I whirl like leaves in roaring wind. + +Last night I wasted hateful hours +Below the city’s eastern towers: +I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: +I roll’d among the tender flowers: +I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth: +I look’d athwart the burning drouth +Of that long desert to the south.[2] + +Last night, when some one spoke his name,[3] +From my swift blood that went and came +A thousand little shafts of flame. +Were shiver’d in my narrow frame +O Love, O fire! once he drew +With one long kiss, my whole soul thro’ +My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.[4]> + +Before he mounts the hill, I know +He cometh quickly: from below +Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow +Before him, striking on my brow. +In my dry brain my spirit soon, +Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, +Faints like a dazzled morning moon. + +The wind sounds like a silver wire, +And from beyond the noon a fire +Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher +The skies stoop down in their desire; +And, isled in sudden seas of light, +My heart, pierced thro’ with fierce delight, +Bursts into blossom in his sight. + +My whole soul waiting silently, +All naked in a sultry sky, +Droops blinded with his shining eye: +I _will_ possess him or will die. +I will grow round him in his place, +Grow, live, die looking on his face, +Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace. + + [1] 1833. At. + + + [2] This stanza was added in 1842. + + + [3] _Cf._ Byron, _Occasional Pieces_:— + +They name thee before me +A knell to mine ear, +A shudder comes o’er me, +Why wert thou so dear? + + + [4] _Cf,_ Achilles Tatius, _Clitophon and Leucippe_, bk. i., I: ἡδε + (ψυχή) ταραχθεῖσα τῷ φιλήματι πάλλεται, εἰ δὲ μὴ τοῖς σπλάγχνοις ἦν + δεδεμένη ἠκολούθησεν ἄν ἑλκυθεῖσα ἄνω τοῖς φιλήμασιν + +(Her soul, distracted by the kiss, throbs, and had it not been close +bound by the flesh would have followed, drawn upward by the kisses.) + + + + +Œnone + +First published in 1833, On being republished in 1842 this poem was +practically rewritten, the alterations and additions so transforming +the poem as to make it almost a new work. I have therefore printed a +complete transcript of the edition of 1833, which the reader can +compare. The final text is, with the exception of one alteration which +will be noticed, precisely that of 1842, so there is no trouble with +variants. _Œnone_ is the first of Tennyson’s fine classical studies. +The poem is modelled partly on the Alexandrian Idyll, such an Idyll for +instance as the second Idyll of Theocritus or the _Megara_ or _Europa_ +of Moschus, and partly perhaps on the narratives in the _Metamorphoses_ +of Ovid, to which the opening bears a typical resemblance. It is +possible that the poem may have been suggested by Beattie’s _Judgment +of Paris_ which tells the same story, and tells it on the same lines on +which it is told here, though it is not placed in the mouth of Œnone. +Beattie’s poem opens with an elaborate description of Ida and of Troy +in the distance. Paris, the husband of Œnone, is one afternoon +confronted with the three goddesses who are, as in Tennyson’s Idyll, +elaborately delineated as symbolising what they here symbolise. Each +makes her speech and each offers what she has to offer, worldly +dominion, wisdom, sensual pleasure. There is, of course, no comparison +in point of merit between the two poems, Beattie’s being in truth +perfectly commonplace. In its symbolic aspect the poem may be compared +with the temptations to which Christ is submitted in _Paradise +Regained_. See books iii. and iv. + + +There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier[1] +Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. +The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, +Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, +And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand +The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down +Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars +The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine +In cataract after cataract to the sea. +Behind the valley topmost Gargarus[2]> +Stands up and takes the morning: but in front +The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal +Troas and Ilion’s column’d citadel, +The crown of Troas. + +Hither came at noon +Mournful Œnone, wandering forlorn +Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. +Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck +Floated her hair or seem’d to float in rest. +She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, +Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade +Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. + +“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d[3] Ida, +Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:[4] +The grasshopper is silent in the grass; +The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,[5] +Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.[6] +The purple flowers droop: the golden bee +Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. +My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, +My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,[7] +And I am all aweary of my life. + +“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, +Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves +That house the cold crown’d snake! O mountain brooks, +I am the daughter of a River-God,[8] +Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all +My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls +Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[9] +A cloud that gather’d shape: for it may be +That, while I speak of it, a little while +My heart may wander from its deeper woe. + +“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, +Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +I waited underneath the dawning hills, +Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, +And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: +Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, +Leading a jet-black goat white-horn’d, white-hooved, +Came up from reedy Simois[10] all alone. + +“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Far-off the torrent call’d me from the cleft: +Far up the solitary morning smote +The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes +I sat alone: white-breasted like a star +Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin +Droop’d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair +Cluster’d about his temples like a God’s; +And his cheek brighten’d as the foam-bow brightens +When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart +Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came. + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm +Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, +That smelt ambrosially, and while I look’d +And listen’d, the full-flowing river of speech +Came down upon my heart. + +“‘My own Œnone, +Beautiful-brow’d Œnone, my own soul, +Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n +“For the most fair,” would seem to award it thine, +As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt +The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace +Of movement, and the charm of married brows.’[11] + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, +And added ‘This was cast upon the board, +When all the full-faced presence of the Gods +Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon +Rose feud, with question unto whom ’twere due: +But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, +Delivering, that to me, by common voice +Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, +Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each +This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave +Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, +Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard +Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’ + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud +Had lost his way between the piney sides +Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, +Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, +And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,[12] +Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, +Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, +And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, +This way and that, in many a wild festoon +Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs +With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. + +“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. +On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, +And o’er him flow’d a golden cloud, and lean’d +Upon him, slowing dropping fragrant dew. +Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom +Coming thro’ Heaven, like a light that grows +Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods +Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made +Proffer of royal power, ample rule +Unquestion’d, overflowing revenue +Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale +And river-sunder’d champaign clothed with corn, +Or labour’d mines undrainable of ore. +Honour,’ she said, ‘and homage, tax and toll, +From many an inland town and haven large, +Mast-throng’d beneath her shadowing citadel +In glassy bays among her tallest towers.’ + +“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Still she spake on and still she spake of power, +‘Which in all action is the end of all; +Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred +And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns +Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand +Fail from the sceptre staff. Such boon from me, +From me, Heaven’s Queen, Paris to thee king-born, +A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, +Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power +Only, are likest gods, who have attain’d +Rest in a happy place and quiet seats +Above the thunder, with undying bliss +In knowledge of their own supremacy.’ + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit +Out at arm’s-length, so much the thought of power +Flatter’d his spirit; but Pallas where she stood +Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs +O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear +Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, +The while, above, her full and earnesteye +Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek[13] +Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. + +“‘Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, +These three alone lead life to sovereign power. +Yet not for power, (power of herself +Would come uncall’d for) but to live by law, +Acting the law we live by without fear; +And, because right is right, to follow right[14] +Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’ + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Again she said: ‘I woo thee not with gifts. +Sequel of guerdon could not alter me +To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, +So shalt thou find me fairest. + +Yet indeed, +If gazing on divinity disrobed +Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, +Unbiass’d by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure +That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, +So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood,[15] +Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God’s, +To push thee forward thro’ a life of shocks, +Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow +Sinew’d with action, and the full-grown will. +Circled thro’ all experiences, pure law, +Commeasure perfect freedom.’ + +“Here she ceased, +And Paris ponder’d, and I cried, ‘O Paris, +Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, +Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! + +“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida. +Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, +Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian[16] wells, +With rosy slender fingers backward drew +From her warm brows and bosom[17] her deep hair +Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat +And shoulder: from the violets her light foot +Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form +Between the shadows of the vine-bunches +Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. + +“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. +She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, +The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh +Half-whisper’d in his ear, ‘I promise thee +The fairest and most loving wife in Greece’. +She spoke and laugh’d: I shut my sight for fear: +But when I look’d, Paris had raised his arm, +And I beheld great Herè’s angry eyes, +As she withdrew into the golden cloud, +And I was left alone within the bower; +And from that time to this I am alone, +And I shall be alone until I die. + +“Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. +Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? +My love hath told me so a thousand times. +Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, +When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, +Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail +Crouch’d fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? +Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms +Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest +Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew +Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains +Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. + +“O mother, hear me yet before I die. +They came, they cut away my tallest pines, +My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge +High over the blue gorge, and all between +The snowy peak and snow-white cataract +Foster’d the callow eaglet—from beneath +Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn +The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat +Low in the valley. Never, never more +Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist +Sweep thro’ them; never see them overlaid +With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, +Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. + +“O mother, here me yet before I die. +I wish that somewhere in the ruin’d folds, +Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, +Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, +The Abominable,[18] that uninvited came +Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall, +And cast the golden fruit upon the board, +And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, +And tell her to her face how much I hate +Her presence, hated both of Gods and men. + +“O mother, here me yet before I die. +Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, +In this green valley, under this green hill, +Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? +Seal’d it with kisses? water’d it with tears? +O happy tears, and how unlike to these! +O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? +O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? +O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, +There are enough unhappy on this earth, +Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: +I pray thee, pass before my light of life, +And shadow all my soul, that I may die. +Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, +Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. + +“O mother, hear me yet before I die. +I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts +Do shape themselves within me, more and more, +Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear +Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, +Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see +My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother +Conjectures of the features of her child +Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes +Across me: never child be born of me, +Unblest, to vex me with his father’s eyes! + +“O mother, hear me yet before I die. +Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, +Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me +Walking the cold and starless road of Death +Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love +With the Greek woman.[19] I will rise and go +Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth +Talk with the wild Cassandra,[20] for she says +A fire dances before her, and a sound +Rings ever in her ears of armed men. +What this may be I know not, but I know +That, wheresoe’er I am by night and day, +All earth and air seem only burning fire.” + +1833 + +There is a dale in Ida, lovelier +Than any in old Ionia, beautiful +With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean +Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn +A path thro’ steepdown granite walls below +Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front +The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. +Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall +And many a snowycolumned range divine, +Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, +The work of Gods—bright on the dark-blue sky +The windy citadel of Ilion +Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came +Mournful Œnone wandering forlorn +Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, +Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, +Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. +She, leaning on a vine-entwinèd stone, +Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow +Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. + +“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, +Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +The grasshopper is silent in the grass, +The lizard with his shadow on the stone +Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged[21] +Cicala in the noonday leapeth not +Along the water-rounded granite-rock. +The purple flower droops: the golden bee +Is lilycradled: I alone awake. +My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, +My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim, +And I am all aweary of my life. + +“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, +Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves +That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks, +I am the daughter of a River-God, +Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all +My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls +Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, +A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be +That, while I speak of it, a little while +My heart may wander from its deeper woe. + +“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, +Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, +And dewydark aloft the mountain pine; +Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, +Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved, +Came up from reedy Simois all alone. + +“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +I sate alone: the goldensandalled morn +Rosehued the scornful hills: I sate alone +With downdropt eyes: white-breasted like a star +Fronting the dawn he came: a leopard skin +From his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hair +Clustered about his temples like a God’s: +And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens +When the wind blows the foam; and I called out, +‘Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo, +Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo’. + +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +He, mildly smiling, in his milk-white palm +Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright +With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven +Ambrosially smelling. From his lip, +Curved crimson, the full-flowing river of speech +Came down upon my heart. + +“‘My own Œnone, +Beautifulbrowed Œnone, mine own soul, +Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n +“For the most fair,” in aftertime may breed +Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sore +Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion; +And all the colour of my afterlife +Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day +Herè and Pallas and the floating grace +Of laughter-loving Aphrodite meet +In manyfolded Ida to receive +This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand +Award the palm. Within the green hillside, +Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, +Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar +And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein +Thou unbeholden may’st behold, unheard +Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’ + +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud +Had lost his way between the piney hills. +They came—all three—the Olympian goddesses. +Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower, +Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed +Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, +Shadowed with singing-pine; and all the while, +Above, the overwandering ivy and vine +This way and that in many a wild festoon +Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs +With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. +On the treetops a golden glorious cloud +Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. +How beautiful they were, too beautiful +To look upon! but Paris was to me +More lovelier than all the world beside. + +“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +First spake the imperial Olympian +With archèd eyebrow smiling sovranly, +Fulleyèd here. She to Paris made +Proffer of royal power, ample rule +Unquestioned, overflowing revenue +Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale +And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, +Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine— +Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll, +From many an inland town and haven large, +Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadel +In glassy bays among her tallest towers.’ + +“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Still she spake on and still she spake of power +‘Which in all action is the end of all. +Power fitted to the season, measured by +The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn +And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns +Alliance and allegiance evermore. Such boon from me +Heaven’s Queen to thee kingborn, +A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn, +Should come most welcome, seeing men, in this +Only are likest gods, who have attained +Rest in a happy place and quiet seats +Above the thunder, with undying bliss +In knowledge of their own supremacy; +The changeless calm of undisputed right, +The highest height and topmost strength of power.’ + +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit +Out at arm’s length, so much the thought of power +Flattered his heart: but Pallas where she stood +Somewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbs +O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear +Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold; +The while, above, her full and earnest eye +Over her snowcold breast and angry cheek +Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. + +“‘Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrol +Are the three hinges of the gates of Life, +That open into power, everyway +Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud. +Yet not for power (power of herself +Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law +Acting the law we live by without fear, +And, because right is right, to follow right +Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence. + +(Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.) +Not as men value gold because it tricks +And blazons outward Life with ornament, +But rather as the miser, for itself. +Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood. +The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect +Each other, bound in one with hateful love. +So both into the fountain and the stream +A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me, +And look upon me and consider me, +So shall thou find me fairest, so endurance, +Like to an athlete’s arm, shall still become +Sinewed with motion, till thine active will +(As the dark body of the Sun robed round +With his own ever-emanating lights) +Be flooded o’er with her own effluences, +And thereby grow to freedom.’ + +“Here she ceased +And Paris pondered. I cried out, ‘Oh, Paris, +Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, +Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me! + +“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, +Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Idalian Aphrodite oceanborn, +Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, +With rosy slender fingers upward drew +From her warm brow and bosom her dark hair +Fragrant and thick, and on her head upbound +In a purple band: below her lucid neck +Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot +Gleamed rosywhite, and o’er her rounded form +Between the shadows of the vine-bunches +Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved. + +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, +The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh +Half-whispered in his ear, ‘I promise thee +The fairest and most loving wife in Greece’. +I only saw my Paris raise his arm: +I only saw great Herè’s angry eyes, +As she withdrew into the golden cloud, +And I was left alone within the bower; +And from that time to this I am alone. +And I shall be alone until I die. + +“Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? +My love hath told me so a thousand times. +Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, +When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, +Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail +Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? +Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms +Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest +Close-close to thine in that quickfalling dew +Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains +Flash in the pools of whirling Simois. + +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +They came, they cut away my tallest pines— +My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge +High over the blue gorge, or lower down +Filling greengulphèd Ida, all between +The snowy peak and snowwhite cataract +Fostered the callow eaglet—from beneath +Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark +The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat +Low in the valley. Never, nevermore +Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist +Sweep thro’ them—never see them overlaid +With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, +Between the loud stream and the trembling stars. + +“Oh! mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, +In this green valley, under this green hill, +Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? +Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears? +Oh happy tears, and how unlike to these! +Oh happy Heaven, how can’st thou see my face? +Oh happy earth, how can’st thou bear my weight? +O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, +There are enough unhappy on this earth, +Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: +I pray thee, pass before my light of life. +And shadow all my soul, that I may die. +Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, +Weigh heavy on my eyelids—let me die. + +“Yet, mother Ida, hear me ere I die. +I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts +Do shape themselves within me, more and more, +Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear +Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, +Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see +My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother +Conjectures of the features of her child +Ere it is born. I will not die alone. +“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. +Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, +Lest their shrill, happy laughter, etc. +(Same as last stanza of subsequent editions.) + + [1] Tennyson, as we learn from his _Life_ (vol. i., p. 83), began + _Œnone_ while he and Arthur Hallam were in Spain, whither they went + with money for the insurgent allies of Torrigos in the summer of 1830. + He wrote part of it in the valley of Cauteretz in the Pyrenees, the + picturesque beauty of which fascinated him and not only suggested the + scenery of this Idyll, but inspired many years afterwards the poem + _All along the valley_. The exquisite scene with which the Idyll opens + bears no resemblance at all to Mount Ida and the Troad. + + + [2] Gargarus or Gargaron is the highest peak of the Ida range, rising + about 4650 feet above the level of the sea. + + + [3] The epithet many-fountain’d πλπῖδαοξ is Homer’s stock epithet for + Ida. _Cf. Iliad_, viii., 47; xiv., 283, etc., etc. + + + [4] A literal translation from a line in Callimachus, _Lavacrum + Palladis_, 72: μεσαμβρινὴ δ’ ἔιχ’ ὅρος ἡσυχία (noonday quiet held the + hill). + + + [5] So Theocritus, _Idyll_, vii., 22:— +Ανίκα δὴ καὶ σαῦρος ἐφ’ αἱμασιᾶισι καθεύδει. +(When indeed the very lizard is sleeping on the loose stones of the +wall.) + + + [6] This extraordinary mistake in natural history (the cicala being of + course loudest in mid noonday when the heat is greatest) Tennyson + allowed to stand, till securing accuracy at the heavy price of a + pointless pleonasm, he substituted in 1884 “and the winds are dead”. + + + [7] An echo from _Henry VI._, part ii., act ii., se. iii.:— + +Mine eyes arc full of tears, my heart of grief. + + + [8] Œnone was the daughter of the River-God Kebren. + + + [9] For the myth here referred to see Ovid, _Heroides_, xvi., 179-80:— + +Ilion aspicies, firmataque turribus altis Moenia, +Phoeboeae; structa canore lyrae. + +It was probably an application of the Theban legend of Amphion, and +arose from the association of Apollo with Poseidon in founding Troy. + +A fabric huge _Rose like an exhalation,_ + +(Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, i., 710-11.) + +_Cf. Gareth and Lynette_, 254-7. + + + [10] The river Simois, so often referred to in the _Iliad_, had its + origin in Mount Cotylus, and passing by Ilion joined the Scamander + below the city. + + + [11] _Cf._ the σύνοφρυς κόρα (the maid of the meeting brows) of + Theocritus, _Id._, viii., 72. This was considered a great beauty among + the Greeks, Romans and Orientals. Ovid, _Ars. Amat_., iii., 201, + speaks of women effecting this by art: “Arte, supercilii confinia nuda + repletis”. + + + [12] The whole of this gorgeous passage is taken, with one or two + additions and alterations in the names of the flowers, from _Iliad_, + xiv., 347-52, with a reminiscence no doubt of Milton, _Paradise Lost_, + iv., 695-702. + + + [13] The “_angry_ cheek” is a fine touch. + + + [14] This fine sentiment is, of course, a commonplace among ancient + philosophers, but it may be interesting to put beside it a passage + from Cicero, _De Finibus_, ii., 14, 45: “Honestum id intelligimus quod + tale est ut, detractâ omni utilitate, sine ullis præmiis fructibusve + per se ipsum possit jure laudari”. We are to understand by the truly + honourable that which, setting aside all consideration of utility, may + be rightly praised in itself, exclusive of any prospect of reward or + compensation. + + + [15] This passage is very obscurely expressed, but the general meaning + is clear: “Until endurance grow sinewed with action, and the + full-grown will, circled through all experiences grow or become law, + be identified with law, and commeasure perfect freedom”. The true + moral ideal is to bring the will into absolute harmony with law, so + that virtuous action becomes an instinct, the will no longer rebelling + against the law, “service” being in very truth “perfect freedom”. + + + [16] The Paphos referred to is the old Paphos which was sacred to + Aphrodite; it was on the south-west extremity of Cyprus. + + + [17] Adopted from a line excised in _Mariana in the South_. See + _supra_. + + + [18] This was Eris. + + + [19] Helen. + + + [20] With these verses should be compared Schiller’s fine lyric + _Kassandra_, and with the line, “All earth and air seem only burning + fire,” from Webster’s _Duchess of Malfi_:— + +The heaven o’er my head seems made of molten brass, +The earth of flaming sulphur. + + + [21] In the Pyrenees, where part of this poem was written, I saw a + very beautiful species of Cicala, which had scarlet wings spotted with + black. Probably nothing of the kind exists in Mount Ida. + + + + +The Sisters + +First published in 1833. + + +The only alterations which have been made in it since have simply +consisted in the alteration of “‘an’” for “and” in the third line of +each stanza, and “through and through” for “thro’ and thro’” in line +29, and “wrapt” for “wrapped” in line 34. It is curious that in 1842 +the original “bad” was altered to “bade,” but all subsequent editions +keep to the original. It has been said that this poem was founded on +the old Scotch ballad “The Twa Sisters” (see for that ballad Sharpe’s +_Ballad Book_, No. x., p. 30), but there is no resemblance at all +between the ballad and this poem beyond the fact that in each there are +two sisters who are both loved by a certain squire, the elder in +jealousy pushing the younger into a river and drowning her. + + +We were two daughters of one race: +She was the fairest in the face: +The wind is blowing in turret and tree. +They were together and she fell; +Therefore revenge became me well. +O the Earl was fair to see! + +She died: she went to burning flame: +She mix’d her ancient blood with shame. +The wind is howling in turret and tree. +Whole weeks and months, and early and late, +To win his love I lay in wait: +O the Earl was fair to see! + +I made a feast; I bad him come; +I won his love, I brought him home. +The wind is roaring in turret and tree. +And after supper, on a bed, +Upon my lap he laid his head: +O the Earl was fair to see! + +I kiss’d his eyelids into rest: +His ruddy cheek upon my breast. +The wind is raging in turret and tree. +I hated him with the hate of hell, +But I loved his beauty passing well. +O the Earl was fair to see! + +I rose up in the silent night: +I made my dagger sharp and bright. +The wind is raving in turret and tree. +As half-asleep his breath he drew, +Three times I stabb’d him thro’ and thro’. +O the Earl was fair to see! + +I curl’d and comb’d his comely head, +He look’d so grand when he was dead. +The wind is blowing in turret and tree. +I wrapt his body in the sheet, +And laid him at his mother’s feet. +O the Earl was fair to see! + + + + +To—— + +with the following poem. + + +I have not been able to ascertain to whom this dedication was +addressed. Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that he thinks it was an +imaginary person. The dedication explains the allegory intended. The +poem appears to have been suggested, as we learn from _Tennyson’s Life_ +(vol. i., p. 150), by a remark of Trench to Tennyson when they were +undergraduates at Trinity: “We cannot live in art”. It was the +embodiment Tennyson added of his belief “that the God-like life is with +man and for man”. _Cf._ his own lines in _Love and Duty_:— + +For a man is not as God, +But then most God-like being most a man. + + +It is a companion poem to the _Vision of Sin_; in that poem is traced +the effect of indulgence in the grosser pleasures of sense, in this the +effect of the indulgence in the more refined pleasures of sense. + + +I send you here a sort of allegory, +(For you will understand it) of a soul,[1] +A sinful soul possess’d of many gifts, +A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, +A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, +That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen +In all varieties of mould and mind) +And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, +Good only for its beauty, seeing not +That beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters +That doat upon each other, friends to man, +Living together under the same roof, +And never can be sunder’d without tears. +And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be +Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie +Howling in outer darkness. Not for this +Was common clay ta’en from the common earth, +Moulded by God, and temper’d with the tears +Of angels to the perfect shape of man. + + [1] 1833. + +I send you, Friend, a sort of allegory, +(You are an artist and will understand +Its many lesser meanings) of a soul. + + + + +The Palace of Art + +First published in 1833, but altered so extensively on its +republication in 1842 as to be practically rewritten. The alterations +in it after 1842 were not numerous, consisting chiefly in the deletion +of two stanzas after line 192 and the insertion of the three stanzas +which follow in the present text, together with other minor verbal +corrections, all of which have been noted. No alterations were made in +the text after 1853. The allegory Tennyson explains in the dedicatory +verses, but the framework of the poem was evidently suggested by +_Ecclesiastes_ ii. 1-17. The position of the hero is precisely that of +Solomon. Both began by assuming that man is self-sufficing and the +world sufficient; the verdict of the one in consequence being “vanity +of vanities, all is vanity,” of the other what the poet here records. +An admirable commentary on the poem is afforded by Matthew Arnold’s +picture of the Romans before Christ taught the secret of the only real +happiness possible to man. See _Obermann Once More_. The teaching of +the poem has been admirably explained by Spedding. It “represents +allegorically the condition of a mind which, in the love of beauty and +the triumphant consciousness of knowledge and intellectual supremacy, +in the intense enjoyment of its own power and glory, has lost sight of +its relation to man and God”. See _Tennyson’s Life_, vol. i., p. 226. + + +I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house +Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. +I said, “O Soul, make merry and carouse, +Dear soul, for all is well”. + +A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish’d brass, +I chose. The ranged ramparts bright +From level meadow-bases of deep grass[1] +Suddenly scaled the light. + +Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf +The rock rose clear, or winding stair. +My soul would live alone unto herself +In her high palace there. + +And “while the world[2] runs round and round,” I said, +“Reign thou apart, a quiet king, +Still as, while Saturn[3] whirls, his stedfast[4] shade +Sleeps on his luminous[5] ring.” + +To which my soul made answer readily: +“Trust me, in bliss I shall abide +In this great mansion, that is built for me, +So royal-rich and wide” + +... + +Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, +In each a squared lawn, wherefrom +The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth +A flood of fountain-foam.[6] + +And round the cool green courts there ran a row +Of cloisters, branch’d like mighty woods, +Echoing all night to that sonorous flow +Of spouted fountain-floods.[6] + +And round the roofs a gilded gallery +That lent broad verge to distant lands, +Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky +Dipt down to sea and sands.[6] + +From those four jets four currents in one swell +Across the mountain stream’d below +In misty folds, that floating as they fell +Lit up a torrent-bow.[6] + +And high on every peak a statue seem’d +To hang on tiptoe, tossing up +A cloud of incense of all odour steam’d +From out a golden cup.[6] + +So that she thought, “And who shall gaze upon +My palace with unblinded eyes, +While this great bow will waver in the sun, +And that sweet incense rise?”[6] + +For that sweet incense rose and never fail’d, +And, while day sank or mounted higher, +The light aerial gallery, golden-rail’d, +Burnt like a fringe of fire.[6] + +Likewise the deep-set windows, stain’d and traced, +Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires +From shadow’d grots of arches interlaced, +And tipt with frost-like spires.[6] + +... + +Full of long-sounding corridors it was, +That over-vaulted grateful gloom,[7] +Thro’ which the livelong day my soul did pass, +Well-pleased, from room to room. + +Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, +All various, each a perfect whole +From living Nature, fit for every mood[8] +And change of my still soul. + +For some were hung with arras green and blue, +Showing a gaudy summer-morn, +Where with puff’d cheek the belted hunter blew +His wreathed bugle-horn.[9] + +One seem’d all dark and red—a tract of sand, +And some one pacing there alone, +Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, +Lit with a low large moon.[10]> + +One show’d an iron coast and angry waves. +You seem’d to hear them climb and fall +And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, +Beneath the windy wall.[11] + +And one, a full-fed river winding slow +By herds upon an endless plain, +The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, +With shadow-streaks of rain.[11] + +And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. +In front they bound the sheaves. Behind +Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, +And hoary to the wind.[11] + +And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, +Beyond, a line of heights, and higher +All barr’d with long white cloud the scornful crags, +And highest, snow and fire.[12] + +And one, an English home—gray twilight pour’d +On dewy pastures, dewy trees, +Softer than sleep—all things in order stored, +A haunt of ancient Peace.[13] + +Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, +As fit for every mood of mind, +Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, +Not less than truth design’d.[14] + +... + +Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, +In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, +Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx +Sat smiling, babe in arm.[15] + +Or in a clear-wall’d city on the sea, +Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair +Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; +An angel look’d at her. + +Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, +A group of Houris bow’d to see +The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes +That said, We wait for thee.[16] + +Or mythic Uther’s deeply-wounded son +In some fair space of sloping greens +Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, +And watch’d by weeping queens.[17] + +Or hollowing one hand against his ear, +To list a foot-fall, ere he saw +The wood-nymph, stay’d the Ausonian king to hear +Of wisdom and of law.[18] + +Or over hills with peaky tops engrail’d, +And many a tract of palm and rice, +The throne of Indian Cama[19] slowly sail’d +A summer fann’d with spice. + +Or sweet Europa’s[20] mantle blew unclasp’d, +From off her shoulder backward borne: +From one hand droop’d a crocus: one hand grasp’d +The mild bull’s golden horn.[21] + +Or else flush’d Ganymede, his rosy thigh +Half-buried in the Eagle’s down, +Sole as a flying star shot thro’ the sky +Above[22] the pillar’d town. + +Nor[23] these alone: but every[24] legend fair +Which the supreme Caucasian mind[25] +Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, +Not less than life, design’d.[26] + +Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, +Moved of themselves, with silver sound; +And with choice paintings of wise men I hung +The royal dais round. + +For there was Milton like a seraph strong, +Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; +And there the world-worn Dante grasp’d his song, +And somewhat grimly smiled.[27] + +And there the Ionian father of the rest;[28] +A million wrinkles carved his skin; +A hundred winters snow’d upon his breast, +From cheek and throat and chin.[29] + +Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately set +Many an arch high up did lift, +And angels rising and descending met +With interchange of gift.[29] + +Below was all mosaic choicely plann’d +With cycles of the human tale +Of this wide world, the times of every land +So wrought, they will not fail.[29] + +The people here, a beast of burden slow, +Toil’d onward, prick’d with goads and stings; +Here play’d, a tiger, rolling to and fro +The heads and crowns of kings;[29] + +Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind +All force in bonds that might endure, +And here once more like some sick man declined, +And trusted any cure.[29] + +But over these she trod: and those great bells +Began to chime. She took her throne: +She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, +To sing her songs alone.[29] + +And thro’ the topmost Oriels’ colour’d flame +Two godlike faces gazed below; +Plato the wise, and large-brow’d Verulam, +The first of those who know.[29] + +And all those names, that in their motion were +Full-welling fountain-heads of change, +Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon’d fair +In diverse raiment strange:[30] + +Thro’ which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, +Flush’d in her temples and her eyes, +And from her lips, as morn from Memnon,[31] drew +Rivers of melodies. + +No nightingale delighteth to prolong +Her low preamble all alone, +More than my soul to hear her echo’d song +Throb thro’ the ribbed stone; + +Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, +Joying to feel herself alive, +Lord over Nature, Lord of[32] the visible earth, +Lord of the senses five; + +Communing with herself: “All these are mine, +And let the world have peace or wars, +’Tis one to me”. She—when young night divine +Crown’d dying day with stars, + +Making sweet close of his delicious toils— +Lit light in wreaths and anadems, +And pure quintessences of precious oils +In hollow’d moons of gems, + +To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, +“I marvel if my still delight +In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, +Be flatter’d to the height.[33] + +“O all things fair to sate my various eyes! +O shapes and hues that please me well! +O silent faces of the Great and Wise, +My Gods, with whom I dwell![34] + +“O God-like isolation which art mine, +I can but count thee perfect gain, +What time I watch the darkening droves of swine +That range on yonder plain.[34] + +“In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, +They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; +And oft some brainless devil enters in, +And drives them to the deep.”[34] + +Then of the moral instinct would she prate, +And of the rising from the dead, +As hers by right of full-accomplish’d Fate; +And at the last she said: + +“I take possession of man’s mind and deed. +I care not what the sects may brawl, +I sit as God holding no form of creed, +But contemplating all.”[35] + +Full oft[36] the riddle of the painful earth +Flash’d thro’ her as she sat alone, +Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, +And intellectual throne. + +And so she throve and prosper’d: so three years +She prosper’d: on the fourth she fell,[37] +Like Herod,[38] when the shout was in his ears, +Struck thro’ with pangs of hell. + +Lest she should fail and perish utterly, +God, before whom ever lie bare +The abysmal deeps of Personality,[39] +Plagued her with sore despair. + +When she would think, where’er she turn’d her sight, +The airy hand confusion wrought, +Wrote “Mene, mene,” and divided quite +The kingdom of her thought.[40] + +Deep dread and loathing of her solitude +Fell on her, from which mood was born +Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood +Laughter at her self-scorn.[41] + +“What! is not this my place of strength,” she said, +“My spacious mansion built for me, +Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid +Since my first memory?” + +But in dark corners of her palace stood +Uncertain shapes; and unawares +On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, +And horrible nightmares, + +And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, +And, with dim fretted foreheads all, +On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, +That stood against the wall. + +A spot of dull stagnation, without light +Or power of movement, seem’d my soul, +’Mid onward-sloping[42] motions infinite +Making for one sure goal. + +A still salt pool, lock’d in with bars of sand; +Left on the shore; that hears all night +The plunging seas draw backward from the land +Their moon-led waters white. + +A star that with the choral starry dance +Join’d not, but stood, and standing saw +The hollow orb of moving Circumstance +Roll’d round by one fix’d law. + +Back on herself her serpent pride had curl’d. +“No voice,” she shriek’d in that lone hall, +“No voice breaks thro’ the stillness of this world: +One deep, deep silence all!” + +She, mouldering with the dull earth’s mouldering sod, +Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, +Lay there exiled from eternal God, +Lost to her place and name; + +And death and life she hated equally, +And nothing saw, for her despair, +But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, +No comfort anywhere; + +Remaining utterly confused with fears, +And ever worse with growing time, +And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, +And all alone in crime: + +Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round +With blackness as a solid wall, +Far off she seem’d to hear the dully sound +Of human footsteps fall. + +As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, +In doubt and great perplexity, +A little before moon-rise hears the low +Moan of an unknown sea; + +And knows not if it be thunder or a sound +Of rocks[43] thrown down, or one deep cry +Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, “I have found +A new land, but I die”. + +She howl’d aloud, “I am on fire within. +There comes no murmur of reply. +What is it that will take away my sin, +And save me lest I die?” + +So when four years were wholly finished, +She threw her royal robes away. +“Make me a cottage in the vale,” she said, +“Where I may mourn and pray.[44] + +“Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are +So lightly, beautifully built: +Perchance I may return with others there +When I have purged my guilt.”[45] + + [1] 1833. + +I chose, whose ranged ramparts bright +From great broad meadow bases of deep grass. + + + [2] 1833. “While the great world.” + + + [3] “The shadow of Saturn thrown upon the bright ring that surrounds + the planet appears motionless, though the body of the planet revolves. + Saturn rotates on its axis in the short period of ten and a half + hours, but the shadow of this swiftly whirling mass shows no more + motion than is seen in the shadow of a top spinning so rapidly that it + seems to be standing still.” Rowe and Webb’s note, which I gladly + borrow. + + + [4] 1833 and 1842. Steadfast. + + + [5] After this stanza in 1833 this, deleted in 1842:— + +“And richly feast within thy palace hall, +Like to the dainty bird that sups, +Lodged in the lustrous crown-imperial, +Draining the honey cups.” + + + [6] + + + + +In 1833 these eight stanzas were inserted after the stanza beginning, +“I take possession of men’s minds and deeds”; in 1842 they were +transferred, greatly altered, to their present position. For the +alterations on them see _infra._ + + + [7] 1833. + +Gloom, +Roofed with thick plates of green and orange glass +Ending in stately rooms. + + + [8] 1833. + +All various, all beautiful, +Looking all ways, fitted to every mood. + + + [9] Here in 1833 was inserted the stanza, “One showed an English + home,” afterwards transferred to its present position 85-88. + + + [10] 1833. + +Some were all dark and red, a glimmering land +Lit with a low round moon, +Among brown rocks a man upon the sand +Went weeping all alone. + + + [11] + +These three stanzas were added in 1842. + + + [12] Thus in 1833:— + +One seemed a foreground black with stones and slags, +Below sun-smitten icy spires +Rose striped with long white cloud the scornful crags, +Deep trenched with thunder fires. + + + [13] Not inserted here in 1833, but the following in its place:— + +Some showed far-off thick woods mounted with towers, +Nearer, a flood of mild sunshine +Poured on long walks and lawns and beds and bowers +Trellised with bunchy vine. + + + [14] Inserted in 1842. + + + [15] Thus in 1833, followed by the note:— + +Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, +In yellow pastures sunny-warm, +Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx, +Sat smiling, babe in arm. + +When I first conceived the plan of the Palace of Art, I intended to +have introduced both sculptures and paintings into it; but it is the +most difficult of all things to _devise_ a statue in verse. Judge +whether I have succeeded in the statues of Elijah and Olympias. + +One was the Tishbite whom the raven fed, +As when he stood on Carmel steeps, +With one arm stretched out bare, and mocked and said, +“Come cry aloud-he sleeps”. + +Tall, eager, lean and strong, his cloak wind-borne +Behind, his forehead heavenly bright +From the clear marble pouring glorious scorn, +Lit as with inner light. + +One, was Olympias: the floating snake +Rolled round her ancles, round her waist +Knotted, and folded once about her neck, +Her perfect lips to taste. + +Round by the shoulder moved: she seeming blythe +Declined her head: on every side +The dragon’s curves melted and mingled with +The woman’s youthful pride +Of rounded limbs. + +Or Venus in a snowy shell alone, +Deep-shadowed in the glassy brine, +Moonlike glowed double on the blue, and shone +A naked shape divine. + + + [16] Inserted in 1842. + + + [17] Thus in 1833:— + +Or that deep-wounded child of Pendragon +Mid misty woods on sloping greens +Dozed in the valley of Avilion, +Tended by crowned queens. + +The present reading is that of 1842. The reference is, of course, to +King Arthur, the supposed son of Uther Pendragon. + +In 1833 the following stanza, excised in 1842, followed:— + +Or blue-eyed Kriemhilt from a craggy hold, +Athwart the light-green rows of vine, +Poured blazing hoards of Nibelungen gold, +Down to the gulfy Rhine. + + + [18] Inserted in 1842 thus:— + +Or hollowing one hand against his ear, +To listen for a footfall, ere he saw +The wood-nymph, stay’d the Tuscan king to hear +Of wisdom and of law. + +List a footfall, 1843. Ausonian for Tuscan, 1850. The reference is to +Egeria and Numa Pompilius. _Cf._ Juvenal, iii., 11-18:— + +Hic ubi nocturnæ +Numa constituebat amicæ +... +In vallem Ægeriæ descendimus et speluneas +Dissimiles veris. + +and the beautiful passage in Byron’s _Childe Harold_, iv., st. +cxv.-cxix. + + + [19] This is Camadev or Camadeo, the Cupid or God of Love of the Hindu + mythology. + + + [20] This picture of Europa seems to have been suggested by Moschus, + _Idyll_, ii., 121-5:— + + + ἡ δ’ αρ’ ἐφεζομένη Ζηνὸς βόεοις ἐπὶ νώτόις + τῇ μεν ἔχεν ταύρου δολιχὸν κέρας, ἐν χερὶ δ’ ἄλλῃ + εἴρυε πορφυρεας κόλπου πτύχας. + + +“Then, seated on the back of the divine bull, with one hand did she +grasp the bull’s long horn and with the other she was catching up the +purple folds of her garment, and the robe on her shoulders was swelled +out.” See, too, the beautiful picture of the same scene in Achilles +Tatius, _Clitophon and Leucippe_, lib. i., _ad init._; and in +Politian’s finely picturesque poem. + + + [21] In 1833 thus:— + +Europa’s scarf blew in an arch, unclasped, +From her bare shoulder backward borne. + +Off inserted in 1842. Here in 1833 follows a stanza, excised in 1842:— + +He thro’ the streaming crystal swam, and rolled +Ambrosial breaths that seemed to float +In light-wreathed curls. She from the ripple cold +Updrew her sandalled foot. + + + [22] 1833. Over. + + + [23] 1833. Not. + + + [24] 1833. Many a. + + + [25] The Caucasian range forms the north-west margin of the great + tableland of Western Asia, and as it was the home of those races who + afterwards peopled Europe and Western Asia and so became the fathers + of civilisation and culture, the “Supreme Caucasian mind” is a + historically correct but certainly recondite expression for the + intellectual flower of the human race, for the perfection of human + ability. + + + [26] 1833. Broidered in screen and blind. + +In the edition of 1833 appear the following stanzas, excised in 1842:— + +So that my soul beholding in her pride +All these, from room to room did pass; +And all things that she saw, she multiplied, +A many-faced glass. + +And, being both the sower and the seed, +Remaining in herself became +All that she saw, Madonna, Ganymede, +Or the Asiatic dame— + +Still changing, as a lighthouse in the night +Changeth athwart the gleaming main, +From red to yellow, yellow to pale white, +Then back to red again. + +“From change to change four times within the womb +The brain is moulded,” she began, +“So thro’ all phases of all thought I come +Into the perfect man. + +“All nature widens upward: evermore +The simpler essence lower lies, +More complex is more perfect, owning more +Discourse, more widely wise. + +“I take possession of men’s minds and deeds. +I live in all things great and small. +I dwell apart, holding no forms of creeds, +But contemplating all.” + +Four ample courts there were, East, West, South, North, +In each a squarèd lawn where from +A golden-gorged dragon spouted forth +The fountain’s diamond foam. + +All round the cool green courts there ran a row +Of cloisters, branched like mighty woods, +Echoing all night to that sonorous flow +Of spouted fountain floods. + +From those four jets four currents in one swell +Over the black rock streamed below +In steamy folds, that, floating as they fell, +Lit up a torrent bow. + +And round the roofs ran gilded galleries +That gave large view to distant lands, +Tall towns and mounds, and close beneath the skies +Long lines of amber sands. + +Huge incense-urns along the balustrade, +Hollowed of solid amethyst, +Each with a different odour fuming, made +The air a silver mist. + +Far-off ’twas wonderful to look upon +Those sumptuous towers between the gleam +Of that great foam-bow trembling in the sun, +And the argent incense-steam; + +And round the terraces and round the walls, +While day sank lower or rose higher, +To see those rails with all their knobs and balls, +Burn like a fringe of fire. + +Likewise the deepset windows, stained and traced. +Burned, like slow-flaming crimson fires, +From shadowed grots of arches interlaced, +And topped with frostlike spires. + + + [27] 1833. + +There deep-haired Milton like an angel tall +Stood limnèd, Shakspeare bland and mild, +Grim Dante pressed his lips, and from the wall +The bald blind Homer smiled. + +Recast in its present form in 1842. After this stanza in 1833 appear +the following stanzas, excised in 1842:— + +And underneath fresh carved in cedar wood, +Somewhat alike in form and face, +The Genii of every climate stood, +All brothers of one race: + +Angels who sway the seasons by their art, +And mould all shapes in earth and sea; +And with great effort build the human heart +From earliest infancy. + +And in the sun-pierced Oriels’ coloured flame +Immortal Michæl Angelo +Looked down, bold Luther, large-browed Verulam, +The King of those who know.[A] + +Cervantes, the bright face of Calderon, +Robed David touching holy strings, +The Halicarnassean, and alone, +Alfred the flower of kings. + +Isaiah with fierce Ezekiel, +Swarth Moses by the Coptic sea, +Plato, Petrarca, Livy, and Raphael, +And eastern Confutzer. + + + [A] Il maëstro di color chi sanno.—Dante, _Inf._, iii. + + + [28] Homer. _Cf._ Pope’s _Temple of Fame_, 183-7:— + +Father of verse in holy fillets dress’d, +His silver beard wav’d gently o’er his breast, +Though blind a boldness in his looks appears, +In years he seem’d but not impaired by years. + + + [29] + + + + +All these stanzas were added in 1842. In 1833 appear the following +stanzas, excised in 1842:— + +As some rich tropic mountain, that infolds +All change, from flats of scattered palms +Sloping thro’ five great zones of climate, holds +His head in snows and calms— + +Full of her own delight and nothing else, +My vain-glorious, gorgeous soul +Sat throned between the shining oriels, +In pomp beyond control; + +With piles of flavorous fruits in basket-twine +Of gold, upheaped, crushing down +Musk-scented blooms—all taste—grape, gourd or pine— +In bunch, or single grown— + +Our growths, and such as brooding Indian heats +Make out of crimson blossoms deep, +Ambrosial pulps and juices, sweets from sweets +Sun-changed, when sea-winds sleep. + +With graceful chalices of curious wine, +Wonders of art—and costly jars, +And bossed salvers. Ere young night divine +Crowned dying day with stars, + +Making sweet close of his delicious toils, +She lit white streams of dazzling gas, +And soft and fragrant flames of precious oils +In moons of purple glass + +Ranged on the fretted woodwork to the ground. +Thus her intense untold delight, +In deep or vivid colour, smell and sound, +Was nattered day and night.[A] + + + [A] If the poem were not already too long, I should have inserted in + the text the following stanzas, expressive of the joy wherewith the + soul contemplated the results of astronomical experiment. In the + centre of the four quadrangles rose an immense tower. + + +Hither, when all the deep unsounded skies +Shuddered with silent stars she clomb, +And as with optic glasses her keen eyes +Pierced thro’ the mystic dome, + +Regions of lucid matter taking forms, +Brushes of fire, hazy gleams, +Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like swarms +Of suns, and starry streams. + +She saw the snowy poles of moonless Mars, +That marvellous round of milky light +Below Orion, and those double stars +Whereof the one more bright +Is circled by the other, etc. + + + [30] Thus in 1833:— + +And many more, that in their lifetime were +Full-welling fountain heads of change, +Between the stone shafts glimmered, blazoned fair +In divers raiment strange. + + + [31] The statue of Memnon near Thebes in Egypt when first struck by + the rays of the rising sun is said to have become vocal, to have + emitted responsive sounds. See for an account of this _Pausanias_, i., + 42; Tacitus, _Annals_, ii., 61; and Juvenal, _Sat._, xv., 5: + +“Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone Chordæ,” + +and compare Akenside’s verses, _Plea. of Imag._, i., 109-113:— + +Old Memnon’s image, long renown’d +By fabling Nilus: to the quivering touch +Of Titan’s ray, with each repulsive string +Consenting, sounded thro’ the warbling air +Unbidden strains. + + + [32] 1833. O’. + + + [33] Here added in 1842 and remaining till 1851 when they were excised + are two stanzas:— + +“From shape to shape at first within the womb +The brain is modell’d,” she began, +“And thro’ all phases of all thought I come +Into the perfect man. +“All nature widens upward. Evermore +The simpler essence lower lies: +More complex is more perfect, owning more +Discourse, more widely wise.” + + + [34] + +These stanzas were added in 1851. + + + [35] Added in 1842, with the following variants which remained till + 1851, when the present text was substituted:— + +“I take possession of men’s minds and deeds. +I live in all things great and small. +I sit apart holding no forms of creeds, +But contemplating all.” + + + [36] 1833. Sometimes. + + + [37] And intellectual throne + +Of full-sphered contemplation. So three years +She throve, but on the fourth she fell. + +And so the text remained till 1850, when the present reading was +substituted. + + + [38] For the reference to Herod see _Acts_ xii. 21-23. + + + [39] Cf. Hallam’s _Remains_, p. 132: “That, _i. e._ Redemption,” is in + the power of God’s election with whom alone rest _the abysmal secrets + of personality_. + + + [40] See _Daniel_ v. 24-27. + + + [41] In 1833 the following stanza, excised in 1842:— + +“Who hath drawn dry the fountains of delight, +That from my deep heart everywhere +Moved in my blood and dwelt, as power and might +Abode in Sampson’s hair?” + + + [42] 1833. Downward-sloping. + + + [43] 1833. + +Or the sound +Of stones. + +So till 1851, when “a sound of rocks” was substituted. + + + [44] 1833. “Dying the death I die?” Present reading substituted in + 1842. + + + [45] Because intellectual and æsthetic pleasures are _abused_ and + their purpose and scope mistaken, there is no reason why they should + not be enjoyed. See the allegory in _In Memoriam_, ciii., stanzas + 12-13. + + + + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere + +Though this is placed among the poems published in 1833 it first +appeared in print in 1842. The subsequent alterations were very slight, +and after 1848 none at all were made. + + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +Of me you shall not win renown: +You thought to break a country heart +For pastime, ere you went to town. +At me you smiled, but unbeguiled +I saw the snare, and I retired: +The daughter of a hundred Earls, +You are not one to be desired. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +I know you proud to bear your name, +Your pride is yet no mate for mine, +Too proud to care from whence I came. +Nor would I break for your sweet sake +A heart that doats on truer charms. +A simple maiden in her flower +Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +Some meeker pupil you must find, +For were you queen of all that is, +I could not stoop to such a mind. +You sought to prove how I could love, +And my disdain is my reply. +The lion on your old stone gates +Is not more cold to you than I. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +You put strange memories in my head. +Not thrice your branching limes have blown +Since I beheld young Laurence dead. +Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: +A great enchantress you may be; +But there was that across his throat +Which you hardly cared to see. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +When thus he met his mother’s view, +She had the passions of her kind, +She spake some certain truths of you. + +Indeed I heard one bitter word +That scarce is fit for you to hear; +Her manners had not that repose +Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, +There stands a spectre in your hall: +The guilt of blood is at your door: +You changed a wholesome heart to gall. +You held your course without remorse, +To make him trust his modest worth, +And, last, you fix’d a vacant stare, +And slew him with your noble birth. + +Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, +From yon blue heavens above us bent +The grand old gardener and his wife[1] +Smile at the claims of long descent. +Howe’er it be, it seems to me, +’Tis only noble to be good. +Kind hearts are more than coronets, +And simple faith than Norman blood. + +I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: +You pine among your halls and towers: +The languid light of your proud eyes +Is wearied of the rolling hours. +In glowing health, with boundless wealth, +But sickening of a vague disease, +You know so ill to deal with time, +You needs must play such pranks as these. + +Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, +If Time be heavy on your hands, +Are there no beggars at your gate, +Nor any poor about your lands? +Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, +Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, +Pray Heaven for a human heart, +And let the foolish yoeman go. + + [1] 1842 and 1843. “The gardener Adam and his wife.” In 1845 it was + altered to the present text. + + + + +The May Queen + +The first two parts were first published in 1833. + + +The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald’s phrase, it is +all Lincolnshire inland, as _Locksley Hall_ is seaboard. + + +You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; +To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad[1] New-year; +Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; +For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; +There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline: +But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, +So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, +If you[2] do not call me loud when the day begins to break: +But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, +For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, +But Robin[3] leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? +He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,— +But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, +And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. +They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, +For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be: +They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me? +There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day, +And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, +And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; +For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, +And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers, +And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; +And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows +gray, +And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, +And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; +There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day, +And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still, +And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, +And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play, +For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + +So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, +To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: +To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, +For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. + + [1] 1833. “Blythe” for “glad”. + + + [2] 1883. Ye. + + + [3] 1842. Robert. This is a curious illustration of Tennyson’s + scrupulousness about trifles: in 1833 it was “Robin,” in 1842 + “Robert,” then in 1843 and afterwards he returned to “Robin”. + + + + +New Year’s Eve + +If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, +For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. +It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, +Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me. + +To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind +The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; +And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see +The blossom on[1] the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. + +Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; +Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; +And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, +Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. + +There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: +I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: +I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: +I long to see a flower so before the day I die. + +The building rook’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, +And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, +And the swallow’ll come back again with summer o’er the wave. +But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. + +Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, +In the early, early morning the summer sun’ll shine, +Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, +When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. + +When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light +You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; +When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool +On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. + +You’ll bury me,[2] my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, +And you’ll come[3] sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. +I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,[4] +With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. + +I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive[5] me now; +You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;[6] +Nay, nay, you must not weep,[7] nor let your grief be wild, +You should not fret for me, mother, you[8] have another child. + +If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; +Tho’ you’ll[9] not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; +Tho’ I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you[10] say, +And be often, often with you when you think[11] I’m far away. + +Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, +And you[12] see me carried out from the threshold of the door; +Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: +She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been. + +She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: +Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: +But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I set +About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. + +Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.[13]> +All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; +But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, +So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. + + [1] 1833. The may upon. + + + [2] 1833. Ye’ll bury me. + + + [3] 1833. And ye’ll come. + + + [4] 1833. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass. + + + [5] 1833. But ye’ll forgive. + + + [6] 1833. Ye’ll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow. 1850. + And foregive me ere I go. + + + [7] 1833. Ye must not weep. + + + [8] 1833. Ye ... ye. + + + [9] 1833. Ye’ll. + + + [10] 1833. Ye. + + + [11] 1833. Ye when ye think. + + + [12] 1833. Ye. + + + [13] 1833. Call me when it begins to dawn. 1842. Before the day is + born. + + + + +Conclusion + +Added in 1842. + + + + +I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; +And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. +How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! +To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here. + +O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, +And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise, +And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, +And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. + +It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, +And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! +But still I think it can’t be long before I find release; +And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.[1] + +O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! +And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! +O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! +A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. + +He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d[2] me all the sin. +Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in: +Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, +For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. + +I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, +There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: +But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, +And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. + +All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; +It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; +The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, +And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. + +For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; +I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; +With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d, +And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. + +I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, +And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said; +For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, +And up the valley came again the music on the wind. + +But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine”. +And if it comes[3] three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. +And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, +Then seem’d to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. + +So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know +The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. +And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. +But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away. + +And say to Robin[4] a kind word, and tell him not to fret; +There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. +If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; +But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. + +O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; +He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. +And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine— +Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. + +O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done +The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun— +For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— +And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? + +For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— +And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come— +To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast— +And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. + + [1] 1842. + +But still it can’t be long, mother, before I find release; +And that good man, the clergyman, he preaches words of peace. + +Present reading 1843. + + + [2] 1842-1848. + +He show’d me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin. +Now, though, etc. + +1850. For show’d he me all the sin. + + + [3] 1889. Come. + + + [4] 1842. Robert. 1843. Robin restored. + + + + +The Lotos Eaters + +First published in 1833, but when republished in 1842 the alterations +in the way of excision, alteration, and addition were very extensive. +The text of 1842 is practically the final text. + +This charming poem is founded on _Odyssey_, ix., 82 _seq._ + +“On the tenth day we set foot on the land of the lotos-eaters who eat a +flowery food. So we stepped ashore and drew water.... When we had +tasted meat and drink I sent forth certain of my company to go and make +search what manner of men they were who here live upon the earth by +bread.... Then straightway they went and mixed with the men of the +lotos-eaters, and so it was that the lotos-eaters devised not death for +our fellows but gave them of the lotos to taste. Now whosoever of them +did eat the honey-sweet fruit of the lotos had no more wish to bring +tidings nor to come back, but there he chose to abide with the +lotos-eating men ever feeding on the lotos and forgetful of his +homeward way. Therefore I led them back to the ships weeping and sore +against their will ... lest haply any should eat of the lotos and be +forgetful of returning.” (Lang and Butcher’s translation.) But in the +details of his poem Tennyson has laid many other poets under +contribution, notably Moschus, _Idyll_, v.; Bion, _Idyll_, v.; Spenser, +_Faerie Queen_, II. vi. (description of the _Idle Lake_), and Thomson’s +_Castle of Indolence_. + + +“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, +“This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” +In the afternoon they came unto a land, +In which it seemed always afternoon. +All round the coast the languid air did swoon, +Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. +Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;[1] +And like a downward smoke, the slender stream +Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. + +A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, +Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; +And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, +Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. +They saw the gleaming river seaward flow[2] +From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, +Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,[3] +Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, +Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. + +The charmed sunset linger’d low adown +In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale +Was seen far inland, and the yellow down +Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale +And meadow, set with slender galingale; +A land where all things always seem’d the same! +And round about the keel with faces pale, +Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, +The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. + +Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, +Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave +To each, but whoso did receive of them, +And taste, to him the gushing of the wave +Far far away did seem to mourn and rave +On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, +His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; +And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, +And music in his ears his beating heart did make. + +They sat them down upon the yellow sand, +Between the sun and moon upon the shore; +And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, +Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore +Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, +Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. +Then some one said, “We will return no more”; +And all at once they sang, “Our island home +Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam”. + +Choric Song + +1 + + +There is sweet music here that softer falls +Than petals from blown roses on the grass, +Or night-dews on still waters between walls +Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; +Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, +Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; +Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. +Here are cool mosses deep, +And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, +And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, +And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. + +2 + + +Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, +And utterly consumed with sharp distress, +While all things else have rest from weariness? +All things have rest: why should we toil alone, +We only toil, who are the first of things, +And make perpetual moan, +Still from one sorrow to another thrown: +Nor ever fold our wings, +And cease from wanderings, +Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; +Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, +“There is no joy but calm!” +Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? + +3 + + +Lo! in the middle of the wood, +The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud +With winds upon the branch, and there +Grows green and broad, and takes no care, +Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon +Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow +Falls, and floats adown the air. +Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, +The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, +Drops in a silent autumn night. +All its allotted length of days, +The flower ripens in its place, +Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, +Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. + +4 + + +Hateful is the dark-blue sky, +Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.[4] +Death is the end of life; ah, why +Should life all labour be? +Let us alone. +Time driveth onward fast, +And in a little while our lips are dumb. +Let us alone. +What is it that will last? +All things are taken from us, and become +Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. +Let us alone. +What pleasure can we have +To war with evil? Is there any peace +In ever climbing up the climbing wave?[5] +All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave[6] +In silence; ripen, fall and cease: +Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. + +5 + + +How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, +With half-shut eyes ever to seem +Falling asleep in a half-dream! +To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, +Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; +To hear each other’s whisper’d speech: +Eating the Lotos day by day, +To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, +And tender curving lines of creamy spray; +To lend our hearts and spirits wholly +To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; +To muse and brood and live again in memory, +With those[7] old faces of our infancy +Heap’d over with a mound of grass, +Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! + +6 + + +Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, +And dear the last embraces of our wives +And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change; +For surely now our household hearths are cold: +Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: +And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. +Or else the island princes over-bold +Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings +Before them of the ten-years’ war in Troy, +And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. +Is there confusion in the little isle?[8] +Let what is broken so remain. +The Gods are hard to reconcile: +’Tis hard to settle order once again. +There _is_ confusion worse than death, +Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, +Long labour unto aged breath, +Sore task to hearts worn out with[9] many wars +And eyes grow dim with gazing on the pilot-stars[10] + +7 + + +But, propt on beds[11] of amaranth and moly, +How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) +With half-dropt eyelids still, +Beneath a heaven dark and holy, +To watch the long bright river drawing slowly +His waters from the purple hill— +To hear the dewy echoes calling +From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine— +To watch[12] the emerald-colour’d water falling +Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine! +Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, +Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine. + +8 + + +The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:[13] +The Lotos blows by every winding creek: +All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: +Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone +Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. +We have had enough of action, and of motion we, +Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething +free, +Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. +Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, +In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined +On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. +For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d +Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d +Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: +Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, +Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery +sands, +Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying +hands. +But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song +Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, +Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; +Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, +Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, +Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; +Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell +Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, +Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. +Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore +Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; +Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.[14] + + [1] 1883. Above the valley burned the golden moon. + + + [2] 1883. River’s seaward flow. + + + [3] 1833. Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow. + + + [4] _Cf._ Virgil, Æn., iv., 451:— + +Tædet cæli convexa tueri. + +Paraphrased from Moschus, _Idyll_, v., 11-15. + + + [5] For climbing up the wave _cf._ Virgil, _Æn._, i., 381: “Conscendi + navilus æquor,” and _cf._ generally Bion, _Idyll_, v., 11-15. + + + [6] From Moschus, _Idyll_, v.,_passim_. + + + [7] 1833. The. + + + [8] The little isle, _i. e._, Ithaca. + + + [9] 1863 By. + + + [10] Added in 1842. + + + [11] 1833. Or, propt on lavish beds. + + + [12] 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Hear. + + + [13] 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Flowery peak. + + + [14] In 1833 we have the following, which in 1842 was excised and the + present text substituted:— + +We have had enough of motion, +Weariness and wild alarm, +Tossing on the tossing ocean, +Where the tusked sea-horse walloweth +In a stripe of grass-green calm, +At noontide beneath the lee; +And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth +His foam-fountains in the sea. +Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry. +This is lovelier and sweeter, +Men of Ithaca, this is meeter, +In the hollow rosy vale to tarry, +Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater! +We will eat the Lotos, sweet +As the yellow honeycomb, +In the valley some, and some +On the ancient heights divine; +And no more roam, +On the loud hoar foam, +To the melancholy home +At the limit of the brine, +The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day’s decline. +We’ll lift no more the shattered oar, +No more unfurl the straining sail; +With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale +We will abide in the golden vale +Of the Lotos-land till the Lotos fail; +We will not wander more. +Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat +On the solitary steeps, +And the merry lizard leaps, +And the foam-white waters pour; +And the dark pine weeps, +And the lithe vine creeps, +And the heavy melon sleeps +On the level of the shore: +Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more, +Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore +Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar, +Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more. + +The fine picture in the text of the gods of Epicurus was no doubt +immediately suggested by _Lucretius_, iii., 15 _seq._, while the +_Icaromenippus_ of Lucian furnishes an excellent commentary on +Tennyson’s picture of those gods and what they see. _Cf._ too the Song +of the Parcae in Goethe’s _Iphigenie auf Tauris_, iv., 5. + + + + +A Dream of Fair Women + +First published in 1833 but very extensively altered on its +republication in 1842. It had been written by June, 1832, and appears +to have been originally entitled _Legend of Fair Women_ (see Spedding’s +letter dated 21st June, 1832, _Life_, i., 116). In nearly every edition +between 1833 and 1853 it was revised, and perhaps no poem proves more +strikingly the scrupulous care which Tennyson took to improve what he +thought susceptible of improvement. The work which inspired it, +Chaucer’s _Legend of Good Women_, was written about 1384, thus +“preluding” by nearly two hundred years the “spacious times of great +Elizabeth”. There is no resemblance between the poems beyond the fact +that both are visions and both have as their heroines illustrious women +who have been unfortunate. Cleopatra is the only one common to the two +poems. Tennyson’s is an exquisite work of art—the transition from the +anarchy of dreams to the dreamland landscape and to the sharply penned +figures—the skill with which the heroines (what could be more perfect +that Cleopatra and Jephtha’s daughter?) are chosen and contrasted—the +wonderful way in which the Iphigenia of Euripides and Lucretius and the +Cleopatra of Shakespeare are realised are alike admirable. + +The poem opened in 1833 with the following strangely irrelevant verses, +excised in 1842, which as Fitzgerald observed “make a perfect poem by +themselves without affecting the ‘dream’”:— + + +As when a man, that sails in a balloon, +Downlooking sees the solid shining ground +Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon, +Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound: + +And takes his flags and waves them to the mob, +That shout below, all faces turned to where +Glows ruby-like the far up crimson globe, +Filled with a finer air: + +So lifted high, the Poet at his will +Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all, +Higher thro’ secret splendours mounting still, +Self-poised, nor fears to fall. + +Hearing apart the echoes of his fame. +While I spoke thus, the seedsman, memory, +Sowed my deepfurrowed thought with many a name, +Whose glory will not die. + +I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, +_“The Legend of Good Women,”_ long ago +Sung by the morning star[1] of song, who made +His music heard below; + +Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath +Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill +The spacious times of great Elizabeth +With sounds that echo still. + +And, for a while, the knowledge of his art +Held me above the subject, as strong gales +Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho’ my heart, +Brimful of those wild tales, + +Charged both mine eyes with tears. +In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, +Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand +The downward slope to death.[2] + +Those far-renowned brides of ancient song +Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, +And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, +And trumpets blown for wars; + +And clattering flints batter’d with clanging hoofs: +And I saw crowds in column’d sanctuaries; +And forms that pass’d[3] at windows and on roofs +Of marble palaces; + +Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall +Dislodging pinnacle and parapet +Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;[4] +Lances in ambush set; + +And high shrine-doors burst thro’ with heated blasts +That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; +White surf wind-scatter’d over sails and masts, +And ever climbing higher; + +Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, +Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, +Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, +And hush’d seraglios. + +So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land +Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, +Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, +Torn from the fringe of spray. + +I started once, or seem’d to start in pain, +Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, +As when a great thought strikes along the brain, +And flushes all the cheek. + +And once my arm was lifted to hew down, +A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, +That bore a lady from a leaguer’d town; +And then, I know not how, + +All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought +Stream’d onward, lost their edges, and did creep +Roll’d on each other, rounded, smooth’d and brought +Into the gulfs of sleep. + +At last methought that I had wander’d far +In an old wood: fresh-wash’d in coolest dew, +The maiden splendours of the morning star +Shook in the steadfast[5] blue. + +Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean +Upon the dusky brushwood underneath +Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, +New from its silken sheath. + +The dim red morn had died, her journey done, +And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, +Half-fall’n across the threshold of the sun, +Never to rise again. + +There was no motion in the dumb dead air, +Not any song of bird or sound of rill; +Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre +Is not so deadly still + +As that wide forest. +Growths of jasmine turn’d +Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,[6] +And at the root thro’ lush green grasses burn’d +The red anemone. + +I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew +The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn +On those long, rank, dark wood-walks, drench’d in dew, +Leading from lawn to lawn. + +The smell of violets, hidden in the green, +Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame +The times when I remember to have been +Joyful and free from blame. + +And from within me a clear under-tone +Thrill’d thro’ mine ears in that unblissful clime +“Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own, +Until the end of time”. + +At length I saw a lady[7] within call, +Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there; +A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,[8] +And most divinely fair. + +Her loveliness with shame and with surprise +Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face +The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, +Spoke slowly in her place. + +“I had great beauty: ask thou not my name: +No one can be more wise than destiny. +Many drew swords and died. +Where’er I came I brought calamity.” + +“No marvel, sovereign lady[9]: in fair field +Myself for such a face had boldly died,”[10] +I answer’d free; and turning I appeal’d +To one[11] that stood beside. + +But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, +To her full height her stately stature draws; +“My youth,” she said, “was blasted with a curse: +This woman was the cause. + +“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,[12] +Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears:[13] +My father held his hand upon his face; +I, blinded with my tears, + +“Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs +As in a dream. Dimly I could descry +The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, +Waiting to see me die. + +“The high masts flicker’d as they lay afloat; +The crowds, the temples, waver’d, and the shore; +The bright death quiver’d at the victim’s throat; +Touch’d; and I knew no more.”[14] + +Whereto the other with a downward brow: +“I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam,[15] +Whirl’d by the wind, had roll’d me deep below, +Then when I left my home.” + +Her slow full words sank thro’ the silence drear, +As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: +Sudden I heard a voice that cried, “Come here, +That I may look on thee”. + +I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, +One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll’d; +A queen, with swarthy cheeks[16] and bold black eyes, +Brow-bound with burning gold. + +She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: +“I govern’d men by change, and so I sway’d +All moods. Tis long since I have seen a man. +Once, like the moon, I made + +“The ever-shifting currents of the blood +According to my humour ebb and flow. +I have no men to govern in this wood: +That makes my only woe. + +“Nay—yet it chafes me that I could not bend +One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye +That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, +Where is Mark Antony?[17] + +“The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime +On Fortune’s neck: we sat as God by God: +The Nilus would have risen before his time +And flooded at our nod.[18] + +“We drank the Libyan[19] Sun to sleep, and lit +Lamps which outburn’d Canopus. O my life +In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, +The flattery and the strife,[20] + +“And the wild kiss, when fresh from war’s alarms,[21] +My Hercules, my Roman Antony, +My mailèd Bacchus leapt into my arms, +Contented there to die! + +“And there he died: and when I heard my name +Sigh’d forth with life, I would not brook my fear[22] +Of the other: with a worm I balk’d his fame. +What else was left? look here!” + +(With that she tore her robe apart, and half +The polish’d argent of her breast to sight +Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, +Showing the aspick’s bite.) + +“I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found[23] +Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, +A name for ever!—lying robed and crown’d, +Worthy a Roman spouse.” + +Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range +Struck[24] by all passion, did fall down and glance +From tone to tone, and glided thro’ all change +Of liveliest utterance. + +When she made pause I knew not for delight; +Because with sudden motion from the ground +She raised her piercing orbs, and fill’d with light +The interval of sound. + +Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts; +As once they drew into two burning rings +All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts +Of captains and of kings. + +Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard +A noise of some one coming thro’ the lawn, +And singing clearer than the crested bird, +That claps his wings at dawn. + +“The torrent brooks of hallow’d Israel +From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, +Sound all night long, in falling thro’ the dell, +Far-heard beneath the moon. + +“The balmy moon of blessed Israel +Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: +All night the splinter’d crags that wall the dell +With spires of silver shine.” + +As one that museth where broad sunshine laves +The lawn by some cathedral, thro’ the door +Hearing the holy organ rolling waves +Of sound on roof and floor, + +Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied +To where he stands,—so stood I, when that flow +Of music left the lips of her that died +To save her father’s vow; + +The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,[25] +A maiden pure; as when she went along +From Mizpeh’s tower’d gate with welcome light, +With timbrel and with song. + +My words leapt forth: “Heaven heads the count of crimes +With that wild oath”. She render’d answer high: +“Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times +I would be born and die. + +“Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root +Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, +Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit +Changed, I was ripe for death. + +“My God, my land, my father—these did move +Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, +Lower’d softly with a threefold cord of love +Down to a silent grave. + +“And I went mourning, ‘No fair Hebrew boy +Shall smile away my maiden blame among +The Hebrew mothers’—emptied of all joy, +Leaving the dance and song, + +“Leaving the olive-gardens far below, +Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, +The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow +Beneath the battled tower + +“The light white cloud swam over us. Anon +We heard the lion roaring from his den;[26] +We saw the large white stars rise one by one, +Or, from the darken’d glen, + +“Saw God divide the night with flying flame, +And thunder on the everlasting hills. +I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became +A solemn scorn of ills. + +“When the next moon was roll’d into the sky, +Strength came to me that equall’d my desire. +How beautiful a thing it was to die +For God and for my sire! + +“It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, +That I subdued me to my father’s will; +Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, +Sweetens the spirit still. + +“Moreover it is written that my race +Hew’d Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer[27] +On Arnon unto Minneth.” Here her face +Glow’d, as I look’d at her. + +She lock’d her lips: she left me where I stood: +“Glory to God,” she sang, and past afar, +Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, +Toward the morning-star. + +Losing her carol I stood pensively, +As one that from a casement leans his head, +When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, +And the old year is dead. + +“Alas! alas!” a low voice, full of care, +Murmur’d beside me: “Turn and look on me: +I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, +If what I was I be. + +“Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! +O me, that I should ever see the light! +Those dragon eyes of anger’d Eleanor +Do haunt me, day and night.” + +She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: +To whom the Egyptian: “O, you tamely died! +You should have clung to Fulvia’s waist, and thrust +The dagger thro’ her side”. + +With that sharp sound the white dawn’s creeping beams, +Stol’n to my brain, dissolved the mystery +Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams +Ruled in the eastern sky. + +Morn broaden’d on the borders of the dark, +Ere I saw her, who clasp’d in her last trance +Her murder’d father’s head, or Joan of Arc,[28] +A light of ancient France; + +Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, +Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, +Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,[29] +Sweet as new buds in Spring. + +No memory labours longer from the deep +Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore +That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep +To gather and tell o’er + +Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain +Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike +Into that wondrous track of dreams again! +But no two dreams are like. + +As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, +Desiring what is mingled with past years, +In yearnings that can never be exprest +By sighs or groans or tears; + +Because all words, tho’ cull’d[30] with choicest art, +Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, +Wither beneath the palate, and the heart +Faints, faded by its heat. + + [1] Suggested apparently by Denham, _Verses on Cowley’s Death_:— + +Old Chaucer, like the morning star +To us discovers +Day from far. + + + [2] Here follow in 1833 two stanzas excised in 1842:— + +In every land I thought that, more or less, +The stronger sterner nature overbore +The softer, uncontrolled by gentleness +And selfish evermore: + +And whether there were any means whereby, +In some far aftertime, the gentler mind +Might reassume its just and full degree +Of rule among mankind. + + + [3] 1833. Screamed. + + + [4] The Latin _testudo_ formed of the shields of soldiers held over + their heads. + + + [5] 1883 to 1848 inclusive. Stedfast. + + + [6] 1833. + +Clasping jasmine turned +Its twined arms festooning tree to tree. + +Altered to present reading, 1842. + + + [7] A lady, _i. e._, Helen. + + + [8] Tennyson has here noticed what is so often emphasised by Greek + writers, that tallness was a great beauty in women. See Aristotle, + _Ethics_, iv., 3, and Homer, _passim, Odyssey_, viii., 416; xviii., + 190 and 248; xxi., 6. So Xenophon in describing Panthea emphasises her + tallness, _Cyroped._, v. + + + [9] 1883. Sovran lady. + + + [10] As the old men say, _Iliad_, iii., 156-8. + + + [11] The one is Iphigenia. + + + [12] Aulis. + + + [13] It was not till 1884 that this line was altered to the reading of + the final edition, _i. e._, “Which men called Aulis in those iron + years”. For the “iron years” of that reading _cf._ Thomson, _Spring_, + 384, “_iron_ times”. + + + [14] From 1833 till 1853 this stanza ran:— + “The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat, + The temples and the people and the shore, + One drew a sharp knife thro’ my tender throat + Slowly,—and nothing more”. +It is curious that Tennyson should have allowed the last line to stand +so long; possibly it may have been to defy Lockhart’s sarcastic +commentary: “What touching simplicity, what pathetic resignation—he cut +my throat, nothing more!” With Tennyson’s picture should be compared +Æschylus, _Agamem._, 225-49, and Lucretius, i., 85-100. For the bold +and picturesque substitution of the effect for the cause in the “bright +death quiver’d” _cf._ Sophocles, _Electra_, 1395, νεακόνητον αἷμα +χειροῖν ἔχων, “with the newly-whetted blood on his hands”. So “vulnus” +is frequently used by Virgil, and _cf._ Silius Italicus, _Punica_, ix., +368-9:— +Per pectora _sævas_ +Exceptat _mortes_. + + + [15] She expresses the same wish in _Iliad_, iii., 73-4. + + + [16] Cleopatra. The skill with which Tennyson has here given us, in + quintessence as it were, Shakespeare’s superb creation needs no + commentary, but it is somewhat surprising to find an accurate scholar + like Tennyson guilty of the absurdity of representing Cleopatra as of + gipsy complexion. The daughter of Ptolemy Aulates and a lady of + Pontus, she was of Greek descent, and had no taint at all of African + intermixtures. See Peacock’s remarks in _Gryll Grange_, p. 206, 7th + edit., 1861. + + + [17] After this in 1833 and in 1842 are the following stanzas, + afterwards excised:— + +“By him great Pompey dwarfs and suffers pain, +A mortal man before immortal Mars; +The glories of great Julius lapse and wane, +And shrink from suns to stars. + +“That man of all the men I ever knew +Most touched my fancy. +O! what days and nights +We had in Egypt, ever reaping new +Harvest of ripe delights. + +“Realm-draining revels! Life was one long feast, +What wit! what words! what sweet words, only made +Less sweet by the kiss that broke ’em, liking best +To be so richly stayed! + +“What dainty strifes, when fresh from war’s alarms, +My Hercules, my gallant Antony, +My mailed captain leapt into my arms, +Contented there to die! + +“And in those arms he died: I heard my name +Sighed forth with life: then I shook off all fear: +Oh, what a little snake stole Caesar’s fame! +What else was left? look here!” + +“With that she tore her robe apart,” etc. + + + [18] This stanza was added in 1843. + + + [19] 1845-1848. Lybian. + + + [20] Added in 1845 as a substitute for + +“What nights we had in Egypt! I could hit +His humours while I crossed them: +O the life I led him, and the dalliance and the wit, +The flattery and the strife, + +which is the reading of 1843. Canopus is a star in Argo, not visible in +the West, but a conspicuous feature in the sky when seen from Egypt, as +Pliny notices, _Hist. Nat._, vi., xxiv. + +“Fatentes Canopum noctibus sidus ingens et clarum”. + +_Cf._ Manilius, _Astron._, i., 216-17, + +“Nusquam invenies fulgere Canopum donec Niliacas per pontum veneris +oras,” + +and Lucan, _Pharsal._, viii., 181-3. + + + [21] Substituted in 1843 for the reading of 1833 and 1842. + + + [22] Substituted in 1845 for the reading of 1833, 1842, 1843, which + ran as recorded _supra_. 1845 to 1848. Lybian. And for the reading of + 1843 + +Sigh’d forth with life I had no further fear, +O what a little worm stole Caesar’s fame! + + + [23] A splendid transfusion of Horace’s lines about her, Ode I., + xxxvii. + +Invidens Privata deduci superto +Non humilis mulier triumpho. + + + [24] 1833 and 1842. Touched. + + + [25] For the story of Jephtha’s daughter see Judges, chap. xi. + + + [26] All editions up to and including 1851. In his den. + + + [27] For reference see Judges xi, 33. + + + [28] 1833. + +Ere I saw her, that in her latest trance +Clasped her dead father’s heart, or Joan of Arc. + +The reference is, of course, to the well-known story of Margaret Roper, +the daughter of Sir Thomas More, who is said to have taken his head +when he was executed and preserved it till her death. + + + [29] Eleanor, the wife of Edward I., is said to have thus saved his + life when he was stabbed at Acre with a poisoned dagger. + + + [30] The earliest and latest editions, _i. e._, 1833 and 1853, have + “tho’,” and all the editions between “though”. “Though culled,” etc. + + + + +Margaret + +First printed in 1833. + + +Another of Tennyson’s delicious fancy portraits, the twin sister to +Adeline. + + +1 + + +O sweet pale Margaret, +O rare pale Margaret, +What lit your eyes with tearful power, +Like moonlight on a falling shower? +Who lent you, love, your mortal dower +Of pensive thought and aspect pale, +Your melancholy sweet and frail +As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? +From the westward-winding flood, +From the evening-lighted wood, +From all things outward you have won +A tearful grace, as tho’[1] you stood +Between the rainbow and the sun. +The very smile before you speak, +That dimples your transparent cheek, +Encircles all the heart, and feedeth +The senses with a still delight +Of dainty sorrow without sound, +Like the tender amber round, +Which the moon about her spreadeth, +Moving thro’ a fleecy night. + +2 + + +You love, remaining peacefully, +To hear the murmur of the strife, +But enter not the toil of life. +Your spirit is the calmed sea, +Laid by the tumult of the fight. +You are the evening star, alway +Remaining betwixt dark and bright: +Lull’d echoes of laborious day +Come to you, gleams of mellow light +Float by you on the verge of night. + +3 + + +What can it matter, Margaret, +What songs below the waning stars +The lion-heart, Plantagenet,[2] +Sang looking thro’ his prison bars? +Exquisite Margaret, who can tell +The last wild thought of Chatelet,[3] +Just ere the falling axe did part +The burning brain from the true heart, +Even in her sight he loved so well? + +4 + + +A fairy shield your Genius made +And gave you on your natal day. +Your sorrow, only sorrow’s shade, +Keeps real sorrow far away. +You move not in such solitudes, +You are not less divine, +But more human in your moods, +Than your twin-sister, Adeline. +Your hair is darker, and your eyes +Touch’d with a somewhat darker hue, +And less aerially blue, +But ever trembling thro’ the dew[4] +Of dainty-woeful sympathies. + +5 + + +O sweet pale Margaret, +O rare pale Margaret, +Come down, come down, and hear me speak: +Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: +The sun is just about to set. +The arching lines are tall and shady, +And faint, rainy lights are seen, +Moving in the leavy beech. +Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, +Where all day long you sit between +Joy and woe, and whisper each. +Or only look across the lawn, +Look out below your bower-eaves, +Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn +Upon me thro’ the jasmine-leaves.[5] + + [1] All editions except 1833 and 1853. Though. + + + [2] 1833. Lion-souled Plantagenet. For songs supposed to have been + composed by Richard I. during the time of his captivity see Sismondi, + _Littérature du Midi de l’Europe_, vol. i., p. 149, and _La Tour + Ténébreuse_ (1705), which contains a poem said to have been written by + Richard and Blondel in mixed Romance and Provençal, and a love-song in + Norman French, which have frequently been reprinted. See, too, + Barney’s _Hist. of Music_, vol. ii., p. 238, and Walpole’s _Royal and + Noble Authors_, sub.-tit. “Richard I.,” and the fourth volume of + Reynouard’s _Choix des Poésies des Troubadours_. All these poems are + probably spurious. + + + [3] Chatelet was a poet-squire in the suite of the Marshal Damville, + who was executed for a supposed intrigue with Mary Queen of Scots. See + Tytler, _History of Scotland_, vi., p. 319, and Mr. Swinburne’s + tragedy. + + + [4] 1833. + +And more aërially blue, +And ever trembling thro’ the dew. + + + [5] 1833. Jasmin-leaves. + + + + +The Blackbird + +Not in 1833. +This is another poem placed among the poems of 1833, but not printed +till 1842. + + +The espaliers and the standards all +Are thine; the range of lawn and park: +The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, +All thine, against the garden wall. + +Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,[1] +Thy sole delight is, sitting still, +With that gold dagger of thy bill +To fret the summer jenneting.[2] + +A golden bill! the silver tongue, +Cold February loved, is dry: +Plenty corrupts the melody +That made thee famous once, when young: + +And in the sultry garden-squares,[3] +Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, +I hear thee not at all,[4] or hoarse +As when a hawker hawks his wares. + +Take warning! he that will not sing +While yon sun prospers in the blue, +Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, +Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. + + [1] 1842. Yet, though I spared thee kith and kin. And so till 1853, + when it was altered to the present reading. + + + [2] 1842 to 1851. Jennetin, altered in 1853 to present reading. + + + [3] 1842. I better brook the drawling stares. Altered, 1843. + + + [4] 1842. Not hearing thee at all. Altered, 1843. + + + + +The Death of the Old Year + +First printed in 1833. + + +Only one alteration has been made in this poem, in line 41, where in +1842 “one’ was altered to” twelve”. + + +Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, +And the winter winds are wearily sighing: +Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, +And tread softly and speak low, +For the old year lies a-dying. +Old year, you must not die; +You came to us so readily, +You lived with us so steadily, +Old year, you shall not die. + +He lieth still: he doth not move: +He will not see the dawn of day. +He hath no other life above. +He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love, +And the New-year will take ’em away. +Old year, you must not go; +So long as you have been with us, +Such joy as you have seen with us, +Old year, you shall not go. + +He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; +A jollier year we shall not see. +But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, +And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, +He was a friend to me. +Old year, you shall not die; +We did so laugh and cry with you, +I’ve half a mind to die with you, +Old year, if you must die. + +He was full of joke and jest, +But all his merry quips are o’er. +To see him die, across the waste +His son and heir doth ride post-haste, +But he’ll be dead before. +Every one for his own. +The night is starry and cold, my friend, +And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, +Comes up to take his own. + +How hard he breathes! over the snow +I heard just now the crowing cock. +The shadows flicker to and fro: +The cricket chirps: the light burns low: +’Tis nearly twelve[1] o’clock. +Shake hands, before you die. +Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: +What is it we can do for you? +Speak out before you die. + +His face is growing sharp and thin. +Alack! our friend is gone. +Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: +Step from the corpse, and let him in +That standeth there alone, +And waiteth at the door. +There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, +And a new face at the door, my friend, +A new face at the door. + + [1] 1833. One. + + + + +To J. S. + +First published in 1833. + + +This beautiful poem was addressed to James Spedding on the death of his +brother Edward. + + +The wind, that beats the mountain, blows +More softly round the open wold,[1] +And gently comes the world to those +That are cast in gentle mould. + +And me this knowledge bolder made, +Or else I had not dared to flow[2] +In these words toward you, and invade +Even with a verse your holy woe. + +’Tis strange that those we lean on most, +Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, +Fall into shadow, soonest lost: +Those we love first are taken first. + +God gives us love. Something to love +He lends us; but, when love is grown +To ripeness, that on which it throve +Falls off, and love is left alone. + +This is the curse of time. Alas! +In grief I am not all unlearn’d; +Once thro’ mine own doors Death did pass;[3] +One went, who never hath return’d. + +He will not smile—nor speak to me +Once more. Two years his chair is seen +Empty before us. That was he +Without whose life I had not been. + +Your loss is rarer; for this star +Rose with you thro’ a little arc +Of heaven, nor having wander’d far +Shot on the sudden into dark. + +I knew your brother: his mute dust +I honour and his living worth: +A man more pure and bold[4] and just +Was never born into the earth. + +I have not look’d upon you nigh, +Since that dear soul hath fall’n asleep. +Great Nature is more wise than I: +I will not tell you not to weep. + +And tho’ mine own eyes fill with dew, +Drawn from the spirit thro’ the brain,[5] +I will not even preach to you, +“Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain”. + +Let Grief be her own mistress still. +She loveth her own anguish deep +More than much pleasure. Let her will +Be done—to weep or not to weep. + +I will not say “God’s ordinance +Of Death is blown in every wind”; +For that is not a common chance +That takes away a noble mind. + +His memory long will live alone +In all our hearts, as mournful light +That broods above the fallen sun,[6] +And dwells in heaven half the night. + +Vain solace! Memory standing near +Cast down her eyes, and in her throat +Her voice seem’d distant, and a tear +Dropt on the letters[7] as I wrote. + +I wrote I know not what. In truth, +How _should_ I soothe you anyway, +Who miss the brother of your youth? +Yet something I did wish to say: + +For he too was a friend to me: +Both are my friends, and my true breast +Bleedeth for both; yet it may be +That only[8] silence suiteth best. + +Words weaker than your grief would make +Grief more. ’Twere better I should cease; +Although myself could almost take[9] +The place of him that sleeps in peace. + +Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: +Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, +While the stars burn, the moons increase, +And the great ages onward roll. + +Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. +Nothing comes to thee new or strange. +Sleep full of rest from head to feet; +Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. + + [1] Possibly suggested by Tasso, _Gerus._, lib. xx., st. lviii.:— + +Qual vento a cui s’oppone o selva o colle +Doppía nella contesa i soffi e l’ ira; +Ma con fiato piu placido e più molle +Per le compagne libere poi spira. + + + [2] 1833. + +My heart this knowledge bolder made, +Or else it had not dared to flow. + +Altered in 1842. + + + [3] Tennyson’s father died in March, 1831. + + + [4] 1833. Mild. + + + [5] _Cf._ Gray’s Alcaic stanza on West’s death:— + + +O lacrymarum fons tenero sacros +_Ducentium ortus ex animo_. + + + [6] 1833. Sunken sun. Altered to present reading, 1842. The image may + have been suggested by Henry Vaughan, _Beyond the Veil_:— + +Their very memory is fair and bright, +... +It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast Like stars +... +Or those faint beams in which the hill is drest +After the sun’s remove. + + + [7] 1833, 1842, 1843. My tablets. This affected phrase was altered to + the present reading in 1845. + + + [8] 1833. Holy. Altered to “only,” 1842. + + + [9] 1833. Altho’ to calm you I would take. Altered to present reading, + 1842. + + + + +“You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease” + +This is another poem which, though included among those belonging to +1833, was not published till 1842. It is an interesting illustration, +like the next poem but one, of Tennyson’s political opinions; he was, +he said, “of the same politics as Shakespeare, Bacon and every sane +man”. He was either ignorant of the politics of Shakespeare and Bacon +or did himself great injustice by the remark. It would have been more +true to say—for all his works illustrate it—that he was of the same +politics as Burke. He is here, and in all his poems, a +Liberal-Conservative in the proper sense of the term. At the time this +trio of poems was written England was passing through the throes which +preceded, accompanied and followed the Reform Bill, and the lessons +which Tennyson preaches in them were particularly appropriate. He +belonged to the Liberal Party rather in relation to social and +religious than to political questions. Thus he ardently supported the +Anti-slavery Convention and advocated the measure for abolishing +subscription to the Thirty-nine Articles, but he was, as a politician, +on the side of Canning, Peel and the Duke of Wellington, regarding as +they did the new-born democracy with mingled feelings of apprehension +and perplexity. His exact attitude is indicated by some verses written +about this time published by his son (_Life_, i., 69-70). If Mr. Aubrey +de Vere is correct this and the following poem were occasioned by some +popular demonstrations connected with the Reform Bill and its rejection +by the House of Lords. See _Life of Tennyson_, vol. i., appendix. + + +You ask me, why, tho’[1] ill at ease, +Within this region I subsist, +Whose spirits falter in the mist,[2] +And languish for the purple seas? + +It is the land that freemen till, +That sober-suited Freedom chose, +The land, where girt with friends or foes +A man may speak the thing he will; + +A land of settled government, +A land of just and old renown, +Where Freedom broadens slowly down +From precedent to precedent: + +Where faction seldom gathers head, +But by degrees to fulness wrought, +The strength of some diffusive thought +Hath time and space to work and spread. + +Should banded unions persecute +Opinion, and induce a time +When single thought is civil crime, +And individual freedom mute; + +Tho’ Power should make from land to land[3] +The name of Britain trebly great— +Tho’ every channel[4] of the State +Should almost choke with golden sand— + +Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, +Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, +And I will see before I die +The palms and temples of the South. + + [1] 1842 and 1851. Though. + + + [2] 1842 to 1843. Whose spirits fail within the mist. Altered to + present reading in 1845. + + + [3] All editions up to and including 1851. Though Power, etc. + + + [4] 1842-1850. Though every channel. + + + + +“Of old sat Freedom on the heights” + +First published in 1842, but it seems to have been written in 1834. The +fourth and fifth stanzas are given in a postscript of a letter from +Tennyson to James Spedding, dated 1834. + + +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[1] she did rejoice, +Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind, +But 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 fullness of her face— + +Grave mother of majestic works, +From her isle-altar gazing down, +Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,[2] +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! + + [1] 1842 to 1850 inclusive. Within her place. Altered to present + reading, 1850. + + + [2] The “trisulci ignes” or “trisulca tela” of the Roman poets. + + + + +“Love thou thy land, with love far-brought” + +First published in 1842. + + +This poem had been written by 1834, for Tennyson sends it in a letter +dated that year to James Spedding (see _Life_, i., 173). + + +Love thou thy land, with love far-brought +From out the storied Past, and used +Within the Present, but transfused +Thro’ future time by power of thought. + +True love turn’d round on fixed poles, +Love, that endures not sordid ends, +For English natures, freemen, friends, +Thy brothers and immortal souls. + +But pamper not a hasty time, +Nor feed with crude imaginings +The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, +That every sophister can lime. + +Deliver not the tasks of might +To weakness, neither hide the ray +From those, not blind, who wait for day, +Tho’[1] sitting girt with doubtful light. + +Make knowledge[2] circle with the winds; +But let her herald, Reverence, fly +Before her to whatever sky +Bear seed of men and growth[3] of minds. + +Watch what main-currents draw the years: +Cut Prejudice against the grain: +But gentle words are always gain: +Regard the weakness of thy peers: + +Nor toil for title, place, or touch +Of pension, neither count on praise: +It grows to guerdon after-days: +Nor deal in watch-words overmuch; + +Not clinging to some ancient saw; +Not master’d by some modern term; +Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: +And in its season bring the law; + +That from Discussion’s lip may fall +With Life, that, working strongly, binds— +Set in all lights by many minds, +To close the interests of all. + +For Nature also, cold and warm, +And moist and dry, devising long, +Thro’ many agents making strong, +Matures the individual form. + +Meet is it changes should control +Our being, lest we rust in ease. +We all are changed by still degrees, +All but the basis of the soul. + +So let the change which comes be free +To ingroove itself with that, which flies, +And work, a joint of state, that plies +Its office, moved with sympathy. + +A saying, hard to shape an act; +For all the past of Time reveals +A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, +Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. + +Ev’n now we hear with inward strife +A motion toiling in the gloom— +The Spirit of the years to come +Yearning to mix himself with Life. + +A slow-develop’d strength awaits +Completion in a painful school; +Phantoms of other forms of rule, +New Majesties of mighty States— + +The warders of the growing hour, +But vague in vapour, hard to mark; +And round them sea and air are dark +With great contrivances of Power. + +Of many changes, aptly join’d, +Is bodied forth the second whole, +Regard gradation, lest the soul +Of Discord race the rising wind; + +A wind to puff your idol-fires, +And heap their ashes on the head; +To shame the boast so often made,[4] +That we are wiser than our sires. + +Oh, yet, if Nature’s evil star +Drive men in manhood, as in youth, +To follow flying steps of Truth +Across the brazen bridge of war—[5] + +If New and Old, disastrous feud, +Must ever shock, like armed foes, +And this be true, till Time shall close, +That Principles are rain’d in blood; + +Not yet the wise of heart would cease +To hold his hope thro’ shame and guilt, +But with his hand against the hilt, +Would pace the troubled land, like Peace; + +Not less, tho’ dogs of Faction bay,[6] +Would serve his kind in deed and word, +Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, +That knowledge takes the sword away— + +Would love the gleams of good that broke +From either side, nor veil his eyes; +And if some dreadful need should rise +Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke: + +To-morrow yet would reap to-day, +As we bear blossom of the dead; +Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed +Raw haste, half-sister to Delay. + + [1] 1842 and so till 1851. Though. + + + [2] 1842. Knowledge is spelt with a capital K. + + + [3] 1842. Or growth. + + + [4] 1842. The boasting words we said. + + + [5] Possibly suggested by Homer’s expression, ἀνὰ πτολέμοιο γεφύρας, + _Il_., viii., 549, and elsewhere; but Homer’s and Tennyson’s meaning + can hardly be the same. In Homer the “bridges of war” seem to mean the + spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in Tennyson the + meaning is probably the obvious one. + + + [6] All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of Faction + bay. + + + + +The Goose + +This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in +it. + + +This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation, +is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed +advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes. +The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the +goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such +advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to +confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price +which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting +from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free +Trade question. + + +I knew an old wife lean and poor, +Her rags scarce held together; +There strode a stranger to the door, +And it was windy weather. + +He held a goose upon his arm, +He utter’d rhyme and reason, +“Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, +It is a stormy season”. + +She caught the white goose by the leg, +A goose—’twas no great matter. +The goose let fall a golden egg +With cackle and with clatter. + +She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, +And ran to tell her neighbours; +And bless’d herself, and cursed herself, +And rested from her labours. + +And feeding high, and living soft, +Grew plump and able-bodied; +Until the grave churchwarden doff’d, +The parson smirk’d and nodded. + +So sitting, served by man and maid, +She felt her heart grow prouder: +But, ah! the more the white goose laid +It clack’d and cackled louder. + +It clutter’d here, it chuckled there; +It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle: +She shifted in her elbow-chair, +And hurl’d the pan and kettle. + +“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!” +Then wax’d her anger stronger: +“Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, +I will not bear it longer”. + +Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat; +Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. +The goose flew this way and flew that, +And fill’d the house with clamour. + +As head and heels upon the floor +They flounder’d all together, +There strode a stranger to the door, +And it was windy weather: + +He took the goose upon his arm, +He utter’d words of scorning; +“So keep you cold, or keep you warm, +It is a stormy morning”. + +The wild wind rang from park and plain, +And round the attics rumbled, +Till all the tables danced again, +And half the chimneys tumbled. + +The glass blew in, the fire blew out, +The blast was hard and harder. +Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, +And a whirlwind clear’d the larder; + +And while on all sides breaking loose +Her household fled the danger, +Quoth she, “The Devil take the goose, +And God forget the stranger!” + + + + +The Epic + +First published in 1842; “tho’” for “though” in line 44 has been the +only alteration made since 1850. + +This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after “The Epic” had been +composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse “the +faint Homeric echoes,” to give a reason for telling an old-world tale. +The poet “mouthing out his hollow oes and aes” is, we are told, a good +description of Tennyson’s tone and manner of reading. + + +At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas-eve,— +The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss’d +Beneath the sacred bush and past away— +The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, +The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, +Then half-way ebb’d: and there we held a talk, +How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, +Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games +In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out +With cutting eights that day upon the pond, +Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, +I bump’d the ice into three several stars, +Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard +The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, +Now harping on the church-commissioners,[1] +Now hawking at Geology and schism; +Until I woke, and found him settled down +Upon the general decay of faith +Right thro’ the world, “at home was little left, +And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, +To hold by”. Francis, laughing, clapt his hand +On Everard’s shoulder, with “I hold by him”. +“And I,” quoth Everard, “by the wassail-bowl.” +“Why, yes,” I said, “we knew your gift that way +At college: but another which you had, +I mean of verse (for so we held it then), +What came of that?” “You know,” said Frank, “he burnt +His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books”—[2] +And then to me demanding why? “Oh, sir, +He thought that nothing new was said, or else +Something so said ’twas nothing—that a truth +Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: +God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. +It pleased _me_ well enough.” “Nay, nay,” said Hall, +“Why take the style of those heroic times? +For nature brings not back the Mastodon, +Nor we those times; and why should any man +Remodel models? these twelve books of mine[3] +Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, +Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.” +“But I,” Said Francis, “pick’d the eleventh from this hearth, +And have it: keep a thing its use will come. +I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.” +He laugh’d, and I, though sleepy, like a horse +That hears the corn-bin open, prick’d my ears; +For I remember’d Everard’s college fame +When we were Freshmen: then at my request +He brought it; and the poet little urged, +But with some prelude of disparagement, +Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, +Deep-chested music, and to this result. + + [1] A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833. + + + [2] 1842 to 1844. “You know,” said Frank, “he flung His epic of King + Arthur in the fire!” The present reading, 1850. + + + [3] 1842, 1843.v + +Remodel models rather than the life? +And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth). + +Present reading, 1845. + + + + +Morte d’Arthur + +This is Tennyson’s first study from Malory’s _Morte d’Arthur_. We learn +from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for +in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, “out of a MS. +in a little red book,” and again we learn that he repeated some lines +of it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding “Not +bad that, Fitz., is it?” (_Life_, i., 184). It is here represented as +the eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, +though Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, +with what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, _The Idylls +of the King_. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth +and fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory’s _Romance_, +which is followed very closely. It is called “an Homeric echo,” but the +diction bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that +of Homer, though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It +is Tennyson’s masterpiece in “the grand style,” and is indeed as near +perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular +mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times +ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so noble and impressive +is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered +except in the spelling of “mere” and “though” in lines 37, 77, 147, +155, 162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:— + +“Across the ridge and pac’d beside the mere.” + + +So all day long the noise of battle roll’d +Among the mountains by the winter sea; +Until King Arthur’s table, man by man, +Had fall’n in Lyonness about their Lord, +King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, +The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, +Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, +And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,[1] +A broken chancel with a broken cross, +That stood on a dark strait of barren land. +On one side lay the Ocean, and on one +Lay a great water, and the moon was full. + Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: +“The sequel of to-day unsolders all +The goodliest fellowship of famous knights +Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep +They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we +Shall never more, at any future time, +Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, +Walking about the gardens and the halls +Of Camelot, as in the days that were. +I perish by this people which I made,— +Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again +To rule once more—but let what will be, be, +I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm +That without help I cannot last till morn. +Thou therefore take my brand[2] Excalibur, +Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how +In those old days, one summer noon, an arm +Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, +Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, +Holding the sword—and how I row’d across +And took it, and have worn it, like a king: +And, wheresoever I am sung or told +In aftertime, this also shall be known: +But now delay not: take Excalibur, +And fling him far into the middle mere: +Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.” + To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: +“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, +Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm. +A little thing may harm a wounded man. +Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, +Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.” + So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept +And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, +Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, +Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang +Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down +By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, +Came on the shining levels of the lake. + There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, +And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon, +Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth +And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: +For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,[3] +Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work +Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long +That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, +This way and that dividing the swift mind,[4] +In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d +Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d +There in the many-knotted waterflags, +That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. +So strode he back slow to the wounded king. + Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: +“Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave? +What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?” + And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: +“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,[5] +And the wild water lapping on the crag.” + To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: +“Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name, +Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d +Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight: +For surer sign had follow’d, either hand, +Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. +This is a shameful thing for men to lie. +Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again[6] +As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing +I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.” + Then went Sir Bedivere the second time +Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,[7] +Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought; +But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, +How curiously and strangely chased, he smote +His palms together, and he cried aloud, + “And if indeed I cast the brand away, +Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, +Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, +Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. +What good should follow this, if this were done? +What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, +Seeing obedience is the bond of rule, +Were it well to obey then, if a king demand +An act unprofitable against himself? +The king is sick, and knows not what he does. +What record, or what relic of my lord +Should be to aftertime, but empty breath +And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, +Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, +Some one might show it at a joust of arms, +Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, +Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. +Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps +Upon the hidden bases of the hills.” +So might some old man speak in the aftertime +To all the people, winning reverence. +But now much honour and much fame were lost.” + So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, +And hid Excalibur the second time, +And so strode back slow to the wounded King. + Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: +“What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?” +And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: +“I heard the water lapping on the crag, +And the long ripple washing in the reeds.” + To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: +“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,[8] +Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! +Authority forgets a dying king,[9] +Laid widow’d of the power in his eye +That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art, +For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, +In whom should meet the offices of all, +Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; +Either from lust of gold, or like a girl +Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. +Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, +And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: +But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, +I will arise and slay thee with my hands.” + Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,[10] +And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged +Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword, +And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand +Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, +And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch, +Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, +Seen where the moving isles of winter shock +By night, with noises of the northern sea. +So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur: +But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm +Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, +And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him +Three times, and drew him under in the mere. +And lightly went the other to the King. + Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: +‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. +Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?” + And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: +“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems +Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, +Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, +Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men, +So great a miracle as yonder hilt. +Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; +But when I look’d again, behold an arm, +Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, +That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him +Three times, and drew him under in the mere.” + And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: +“My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone. +Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, +And bear me to the margin; yet I fear[11] +My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.” + So saying, from the pavement he hath rose, +Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, +And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes +As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere +Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears, +And would have spoken, but he found not words, +Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, +O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, +And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs. + But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard, +Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed +When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King, +Muttering and murmuring at his ear +“Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die”. +But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, +Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d, +Larger than human on the frozen hills. +He heard the deep behind him, and a cry +Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. +Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves +And barren chasms, and all to left and right +The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based +His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang +Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels— +And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, +And the long glories of the winter moon. + Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,[12] +Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, +Beneath them; and descending they were ware +That all the decks were dense with stately forms +Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these +Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose +A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars, +And, as it were one voice, an agony +Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills +All night in a waste land, where no one comes, +Or hath come, since the making of the world. + Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,” +And to the barge they came. There those three Queens +Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. +But she, that rose the tallest of them all +And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, +And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands, +And call’d him by his name, complaining loud, +And dropping bitter tears against his brow +Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white +And colourless, and like the wither’d moon +Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; +And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops +Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls— +That made his forehead like a rising sun +High from the däis-throne—were parch’d with dust; +Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, +Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. +So like a shatter’d column lay the King; +Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, +From spur to plume a star of tournament, +Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged +Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. + Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,[13] +“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? +Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? +For now I see the true old times are dead, +When every morning brought a noble chance, +And every chance brought out a noble knight. +Such times have been not since the light that led +The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. +But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved +Which was an image of the mighty world; +And I, the last, go forth companionless. +And the days darken round me, and the years, +Among new men, strange faces, other minds.” + And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge: +“The old order changeth, yielding place to new, +And God fulfils Himself in many ways,[14] +Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. +Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? +I have lived my life, and that which I have done +May He within Himself make pure! but thou, +If thou shouldst never see my face again, +Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer +Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice +Rise like a fountain for me night and day. +For what are men better than sheep or goats +That nourish a blind life within the brain, +If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer +Both for themselves and those who call them friend? +For so the whole round earth is every way +Bound by gold chains[15] about the feet of God. +But now farewell. I am going a long way +With these thou seëst—if indeed I go— +(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) +To the island-valley of Avilion; +Where falls not hail, or rain,[16] or any snow, +Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies +Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns +And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,[17] +Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.” + So said he, and the barge with oar and sail +Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan +That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, +Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood +With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere +Revolving many memories, till the hull +Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn. +And on the mere the wailing died away. + + Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long +Had wink’d and threaten’d darkness, flared and fell: +At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, +And waked with silence, grunted “Good!” but we +Sat rapt: It was the tone with which he read— +Perhaps some modern touches here and there +Redeem’d it from the charge of nothingness— +Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; +I know not: but we sitting, as I said, +The cock crew loud; as at that time of year +The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: +Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used, +“There now—that’s nothing!” drew a little back, +And drove his heel into the smoulder’d log, +That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue; +And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem’d +To sail with Arthur under looming shores. +Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams +Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, +To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, +There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore, +King Arthur, like a modern gentleman +Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, +“Arthur is come again: he cannot die”. +Then those that stood upon the hills behind +Repeated—“Come again, and thrice as fair”; +And, further inland, voices echoed— +“Come With all good things, and war shall be no more”. +At this a hundred bells began to peal, +That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed +The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. + + [1] _Cf. Morte d’Arthur_, xxxi., iv.: + +“They led him betwixt them to a little chapel from the not far +seaside”. + + + [2] _Cf. Id._, v.: + +“‘Therefore,’ said Arthur, ‘take thou my good sword Excalibur and go +with it to yonder waterside. And when thou comest there I charge thee +throw my sword on that water and come again and tell me what thou there +seest.’ + +‘My lord,’ said Bedivere, ‘your commandment shall be done and lightly +will I bring thee word again.’ + +So Sir Bedivere departed and by the way he beheld that noble sword, +that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones, and then he +said to himself, ‘If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof +shall never come to good but harm and loss’. And then Sir Bedivere hid +Excalibur under a tree.” + + + [3] 1842-1853. Studs. + + + [4] Literally from Virgil (_Æn._, iv., 285). + +“Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc.” + + + [5] _Cf. Romance, Id._, v.: + +“‘I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan.’” + + + [6] _Romance, Id._, v.: + +“‘That is untruly said of thee,’ said the king, ‘therefore go thou +lightly again and do my command as thou to me art lief and dear; spare +not, but throw in.’ + +Then Sir Bedivere returned again and took the sword in his hand, and +then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword, and so +eft he hid the sword and returned again, and told the king that he had +been to the water and done his commandment.” + + + [7] This line was not inserted till 1853. + + + [8] _Romance, Id._, v.: + +“‘Ah, traitor untrue!’ said King Arthur, ‘now thou hast betrayed me +twice. Who would have weened that thou that hast been so lief and dear, +and thou that art named a noble knight, would betray me for the riches +of the sword. But now go again lightly.... And but if thou do not now +as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee I shall slay thee with mine own +hands.’” + + + [9] There is a curious illustration of this in an anecdote told of + Queen Elizabeth. “Cecil intimated that she must go to bed, if it were + only to satisfy her people. + +‘Must!’ she exclaimed; ‘is must a word to be addressed to princes? +Little man, little man, thy father if he had been alive durst not have +used that word, but thou hast grown presumptuous because thou knowest +that I shall die.’” + +Lingard, _Hist._, vol. vi., p. 316. + + + [10] _Romance, Id._, v.: + +“Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the sword and lightly took it +up and went to the waterside, and then he bound the girdle about the +hilt and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might, and +then came an arm and a hand above the water, and met it and caught it +and so shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away the +hand with the sword in the water.” + + + [11] _Romance, Id._, v.: + +“‘Alas,’ said the king, ‘help me hence for I dread me I have tarried +over long’. + +Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back and so went with him to +that water.” + + + [12] _Romance, Id_., v.: + +“And when they were at the waterside even fast by the bank hoved a +little barge and many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen +and all they had black hoods and all they wept and shrieked when they +saw King Arthur. ‘Now put me into the barge,’ said the king, and so +they did softly. And there received him three queens with great +mourning, and so they set him down and in one of their laps King Arthur +laid his head; and then that queen said: ‘Ah, dear brother, why have ye +tarried so long from me?’” + + + [13] _Romance, Id_., v.: + +“Then Sir Bedivere cried: ‘Ah, my Lord Arthur, what shall become of me +now ye go from me and leave me here alone among mine enemies?’ + +‘Comfort thyself,’ said the king, ‘and do as well as thou mayest, for +in me is no trust to trust in. For I will unto the vale of Avilion to +heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou never hear more of me, pray +for my soul.’” + + + [14] With this _cf_. Greene, _James IV_., v., 4:— + +“Should all things still remain in one estate +Should not in greatest arts some scars be found +Were all upright nor chang’d what world were this? +A chaos made of quiet, yet no world.” + +And _cf_. Shakespeare, _Coriolanus_, ii., iii.:— + +What custom wills in all things should we do it, +The dust on antique Time would be unswept, +And mountainous error too highly heaped +For Truth to overpeer. + + + [15] _Cf._ Archdeacon Hare’s “Sermon on the Law of Self-Sacrifice”. + +“This is the golden chain of love whereby the whole creation is bound +to the throne of the Creator.” + +For further illustrations see _Illust. of Tennyson_, p. 158. + + + [16] Paraphrased from _Odyssey_, vi., 42-5, or _Lucretius_, iii., + 18-22. + + + [17] The expression “_crowned_ with summer _sea_” from _Odyssey_, x., + 195: νῆσον τὴν πέρι πόντος απείριτος ἐσταφάνωται. + + + + +The Gardener’s Daughter +or, +The Pictures + +First published in 1842. + + +In the _Gardener’s Daughter_ we have the first of that delightful +series of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary +English life, and named appropriately _English Idylls_. The originator +of this species of poetry in England was Southey, in his _English +Eclogues_, written before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which +are in blank verse, Southey says: “The following eclogues, I believe, +bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of +composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt +it by an account of the German idylls given me in conversation.” +Southey’s eclogues are eight in number: _The Old Mansion House_, _The +Grandmother’s Tale_, _Hannah_, _The Sailor’s Mother_, _The Witch_, _The +Ruined Cottage_, _The Last of the Family_ and _The Alderman’s Funeral_. +Southey was followed by Wordsworth in _The Brothers_ and _Michael_. +Southey has nothing of the charm, grace and classical finish of his +disciple, but how nearly Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may +be seen by anyone who compares Tennyson’s studies with _The Ruined +Cottage_. But Tennyson’s real master was Theocritus, whose influence +pervades these poems not so much directly in definite imitation as +indirectly in colour and tone. + +_The Gardener’s Daughter_ was written as early as 1835, as it was read +to Fitzgerald in that year (_Life of Tennyson_, i., 182). Tennyson +originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled _The +Antechamber_, which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he +afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the _Life_, i., 233-4. This +poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with +ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the +subsequent editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form “tho’” is +substituted for “though”. + + +This morning is the morning of the day, +When I and Eustace from the city went +To see the Gardener’s Daughter; I and he, +Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete +Portion’d in halves between us, that we grew +The fable of the city where we dwelt. + My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; +So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. +He, by some law that holds in love, and draws +The greater to the lesser, long desired +A certain miracle of symmetry, +A miniature of loveliness, all grace +Summ’d up and closed in little;—Juliet, she[1] +So light of foot, so light of spirit—oh, she +To me myself, for some three careless moons, +The summer pilot of an empty heart +Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not +Such touches are but embassies of love, +To tamper with the feelings, ere he found +Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, +And said to me, she sitting with us then, +“When will _you_ paint like this?” and I replied, +(My words were half in earnest, half in jest), +“’Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived, +A more ideal Artist he than all, +Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes +Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair +More black than ashbuds in the front of March.” +And Juliet answer’d laughing, “Go and see +The Gardener’s daughter: trust me, after that, +You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece”. +And up we rose, and on the spur we went. + Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite +Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. +News from the humming city comes to it +In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; +And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear +The windy clanging of the minster clock; +Although between it and the garden lies +A league of grass, wash’d by a slow broad stream, +That, stirr’d with languid pulses of the oar, +Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, +Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge +Crown’d with the minster-towers. + +The fields between +Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder’d kine, +And all about the large lime feathers low, +The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.[2] + In that still place she, hoarded in herself, +Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived +Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard +Of Rose, the Gardener’s daughter? Where was he, +So blunt in memory, so old at heart, +At such a distance from his youth in grief, +That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, +So gross to express delight, in praise of her +Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, +And Beauty such a mistress of the world. + And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, +Would play with flying forms and images, +Yet this is also true, that, long before +I look’d upon her, when I heard her name +My heart was like a prophet to my heart, +And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, +That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, +Born out of everything I heard and saw, +Flutter’d about my senses and my soul; +And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm +To one that travels quickly, made the air +Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, +That verged upon them sweeter than the dream +Dream’d by a happy man, when the dark East, +Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. + And sure this orbit of the memory folds +For ever in itself the day we went +To see her. All the land in flowery squares, +Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, +Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud[3] +Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure +Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, +And May with me from head to heel. And now, +As tho’ ’twere yesterday, as tho’ it were +The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound +(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these), +Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, +And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, +Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, +And lowing to his fellows. From the woods +Came voices of the well-contented doves. +The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, +But shook his song together as he near’d +His happy home, the ground. To left and right, +The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; +The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; +The redcap[4] whistled;[5] and the nightingale +Sang loud, as tho’ he were the bird of day. + And Eustace turn’d, and smiling said to me, +“Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, +These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing +Like poets, from the vanity of song? +Or have they any sense of why they sing? +And would they praise the heavens for what they have?” +And I made answer, “Were there nothing else +For which to praise the heavens but only love, +That only love were cause enough for praise”. + Lightly he laugh’d, as one that read my thought, +And on we went; but ere an hour had pass’d, +We reach’d a meadow slanting to the North; +Down which a well-worn pathway courted us +To one green wicket in a privet hedge; +This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk +Thro’ crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; +And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew +Beyond us, as we enter’d in the cool. +The garden stretches southward. In the midst +A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. +The garden-glasses shone, and momently +The twinkling laurel scatter’d silver lights. + “Eustace,” I said, “This wonder keeps the house.” +He nodded, but a moment afterwards +He cried, “Look! look!” Before he ceased I turn’d, +And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. + For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, +That, flowering high, the last night’s gale had caught, +And blown across the walk. One arm aloft— +Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape— +Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. +A single stream of all her soft brown hair +Pour’d on one side: the shadow of the flowers +Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering +Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist— +Ah, happy shade—and still went wavering down, +But, ere it touch’d a foot, that might have danced +The greensward into greener circles, dipt, +And mix’d with shadows of the common ground! +But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d +Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, +And doubled his own warmth against her lips, +And on the bounteous wave of such a breast +As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, +She stood, a sight to make an old man young. + So rapt, we near’d the house; but she, a Rose +In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, +Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn’d +Into the world without; till close at hand, +And almost ere I knew mine own intent, +This murmur broke the stillness of that air +Which brooded round about her: + +“Ah, one rose, +One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull’d, +Were worth a hundred kisses press’d on lips +Less exquisite than thine.” + +She look’d: but all +Suffused with blushes—neither self-possess’d +Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, +Divided in a graceful quiet—paused, +And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound +Her looser hair in braid, and stirr’d her lips +For some sweet answer, tho’ no answer came, +Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, +And moved away, and left me, statue-like, +In act to render thanks. + +I, that whole day, +Saw her no more, altho’ I linger’d there +Till every daisy slept, and Love’s white star +Beam’d thro’ the thicken’d cedar in the dusk. + So home we went, and all the livelong way +With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. +“Now,” said he, “will you climb the top of Art; +You cannot fail but work in hues to dim +The Titianic Flora. Will you match +My Juliet? you, not you,—the Master, +Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.” + So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, +Reading her perfect features in the gloom, +Kissing the rose she gave me o’er and o’er, +And shaping faithful record of the glance +That graced the giving—such a noise of life +Swarm’d in the golden present, such a voice +Call’d to me from the years to come, and such +A length of bright horizon rimm’d the dark. +And all that night I heard the watchmen peal +The sliding season: all that night I heard +The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. +The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, +O’er the mute city stole with folded wings, +Distilling odours on me as they went +To greet their fairer sisters of the East. + Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, +Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm +Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. +Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a +Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, +To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream +Served in the weeping elm; and more and more +A word could bring the colour to my cheek; +A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; +Love trebled life within me, and with each +The year increased. + +The daughters of the year, +One after one, thro’ that still garden pass’d: +Each garlanded with her peculiar flower +Danced into light, and died into the shade; +And each in passing touch’d with some new grace +Or seem’d to touch her, so that day by day, +Like one that never can be wholly known,[6] +Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour +For Eustace, when I heard his deep “I will,” +Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold +From thence thro’ all the worlds: but I rose up +Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes +Felt earth as air beneath me,[7] till I reach’d +The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. + There sat we down upon a garden mound, +Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, +Between us, in the circle of his arms +Enwound us both; and over many a range +Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, +Across a hazy glimmer of the west, +Reveal’d their shining windows: from them clash’d +The bells; we listen’d; with the time we play’d; +We spoke of other things; we coursed about +The subject most at heart, more near and near, +Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round +The central wish, until we settled there.[8] + Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, +Requiring, tho’ I knew it was mine own, +Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, +Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, +A woman’s heart, the heart of her I loved; +And in that time and place she answer’d me, +And in the compass of three little words, +More musical than ever came in one, +The silver fragments of a broken voice, +Made me most happy, faltering[9] “I am thine”. + Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say +That my desire, like all strongest hopes, +By its own energy fulfilled itself, +Merged in completion? Would you learn at full +How passion rose thro’ circumstantial grades +Beyond all grades develop’d? and indeed +I had not staid so long to tell you all, +But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, +Holding the folded annals of my youth; +And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, +And with a flying finger swept my lips, +And spake, “Be wise: not easily forgiven +Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar +The secret bridal chambers of the heart. +Let in the day”. Here, then, my words have end. + Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells— +Of that which came between, more sweet than each, +In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves +That tremble round a nightingale—in sighs +Which perfect Joy, perplex’d for utterance, +Stole from her[10] sister Sorrow. Might I not tell +Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, +And vows, where there was never need of vows, +And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap +Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above +The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale +Sow’d all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; +Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, +Spread the light haze along the river-shores, +And in the hollows; or as once we met +Unheedful, tho’ beneath a whispering rain +Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, +And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. + But this whole hour your eyes have been intent +On that veil’d picture—veil’d, for what it holds +May not be dwelt on by the common day. +This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; +Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time +Is come to raise the veil. + +Behold her there, +As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, +My first, last love; the idol of my youth, +The darling of my manhood, and, alas! +Now the most blessed memory of mine age. + + [1] _Cf. Romeo and Juliet_, ii., vi.:— + +O so light a foot +Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint. + + + [2] _Cf._ Keats, _Ode to Nightingale_:— + +The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. + + + [3] _Cf_. Theocritus, _Id_., vii., 143:—παντ’ ὦσδεν θέρεος μάλα + πἰονος. + + + [4] Provincial name for the goldfinch. See Tennyson’s letter to the + Duke of Argyll, _Life_, ii., 221. + + + [5] This passage is imitated from Theocritus, vii., 143 _seqq_. + + + [6] This passage originally ran:— + +Her beauty grew till drawn in narrowing arcs +The southing autumn touch’d with sallower gleams +The granges on the fallows. At that time, +Tir’d of the noisy town I wander’d there. +The bell toll’d four, and by the time I reach’d +The wicket-gate I found her by herself. + +But Fitzgerald pointing out that the autumn landscape was taken from +the background of Titian (Lord Ellesmere’s _Ages of Man_) Tennyson +struck out the passage. If this was the reason he must have been in an +unusually scrupulous mood. See his _Life_, i., 232. + + + [7] So Massinger, _City Madam_, iii., 3:— + +I am sublim’d. +Gross earth +Supports me not. +_I walk on air_. + + + [8] _Cf._ Dante, _Inferno_, v., 81-83:— + +Quali columbe dal desio chiamatè, +Con l’ ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido +Volan. + + + [9] 1842-1850. Lisping. + + + [10] In privately printed volume 1842. His. + + + + +Dora + +First published in 1842. + + +This poem had been written as early as 1835, when it was read to +Fitzgerald and Spedding (_Life_, i., 182). No alterations were made in +the text after 1853. The story in this poem was taken even to the +minutest details from a prose story of Miss Mitford’s, namely, _The +Tale of Dora Creswell_ (_Our Village_, vol. in., 242-53), the only +alterations being in the names, Farmer Cresswell, Dora Creswell, Walter +Cresswell, and Mary Hay becoming respectively Allan, Dora, William, and +Mary Morrison. How carefully the poet has preserved the picturesque +touches of the original may be seen by comparing the following two +passages:— + +And Dora took the child, and went her way +Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound +That was unsown, where many poppies grew. +.... She rose and took +The child once more, and sat upon the mound; +And made a little wreath of all the flowers +That grew about, and tied it round his hat. + + +“A beautiful child lay on the ground at some distance, whilst a young +girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath +of enamelled cornflowers, brilliant poppies ... round its hat.” The +style is evidently modelled closely on that of the _Odyssey_. + + +With farmer Allan at the farm abode +William and Dora. William was his son, +And she his niece. He often look’d at them, +And often thought “I’ll make them man and wife”. +Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all, +And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, because +He had been always with her in the house, +Thought not of Dora. + +Then there came a day +When Allan call’d his son, and said, +“My son: I married late, but I would wish to see +My grandchild on my knees before I die: +And I have set my heart upon a match. +Now therefore look to Dora; she is well +To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. +She is my brother’s daughter: he and I +Had once hard words, and parted, and he died +In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred +His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; +For I have wish’d this marriage, night and day, +For many years.” But William answer’d short; +“I cannot marry Dora; by my life, +I will not marry Dora”. Then the old man +Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: +“You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! +But in my time a father’s word was law, +And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; +Consider, William: take a month to think, +And let me have an answer to my wish; +Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, +And never more darken my doors again.” +But William answer’d madly; bit his lips, +And broke away.[1] The more he look’d at her +The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; +But Dora bore them meekly. Then before +The month was out he left his father’s house, +And hired himself to work within the fields; +And half in love, half spite, he woo’d and wed +A labourer’s daughter, Mary Morrison. + Then, when the bells were ringing,Allan call’d +His niece and said: “My girl, I love you well; +But if you speak with him that was my son, +Or change a word with her he calls his wife, +My home is none of yours. My will is law.” +And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, +“It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!” + And days went on, and there was born a boy +To William; then distresses came on him; +And day by day he pass’d his father’s gate, +Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. +But Dora stored what little she could save, +And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know +Who sent it; till at last a fever seized +On William, and in harvest time he died. + Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat +And look’d with tears upon her boy, and thought +Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: + “I have obey’d my uncle until now, +And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ me +This evil came on William at the first. +But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone, +And for your sake, the woman that he chose, +And for this orphan, I am come to you: +You know there has not been for these five years +So full a harvest, let me take the boy, +And I will set him in my uncle’s eye +Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad +Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, +And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.” + And Dora took the child, and went her way +Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound +That was unsown, where many poppies grew. +Far off the farmer came into the field +And spied her not; for none of all his men +Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; +And Dora would have risen and gone to him, +But her heart fail’d her; and the reapers reap’d +And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. +But when the morrow came, she rose and took +The child once more, and sat upon the mound; +And made a little wreath of all the flowers +That grew about, and tied it round his hat +To make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye. +Then when the farmer passed into the field +He spied her, and he left his men at work, +And came and said: “Where were you yesterday? +Whose child is that? What are you doing here?” +So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, +And answer’d softly, “This is William’s child?” +“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not +Forbid you, Dora?” Dora said again: +“Do with me as you will, but take the child +And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!” +And Allan said: “I see it is a trick +Got up betwixt you and the woman there. +I must be taught my duty, and by you! +You knew my word was law, and yet you dared +To slight it. Well—for I will take the boy; +But go you hence, and never see me more.” + So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud +And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell +At Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands, +And the boy’s cry came to her from the field, +More and more distant. She bow’d down her head, +Remembering the day when first she came, +And all the things that had been. She bow’d down +And wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d, +And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. + Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood +Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy +Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise +To God, that help’d her in her widowhood. +And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy; +But, Mary, let me live and work with you: +He says that he will never see me more”. +Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be, +That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: +And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy, +For he will teach him hardness, and to slight +His mother; therefore thou and I will go, +And I will have my boy, and bring him home; +And I will beg of him to take thee back; +But if he will not take thee back again, +Then thou and I will live within one house, +And work for William’s child until he grows +Of age to help us.” + +So the women kiss’d +Each other, and set out, and reach’d the farm. +The door was off the latch: they peep’d, and saw +The boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees, +Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, +And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, +Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch’d out +And babbled for the golden seal, that hung +From Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. +Then they came in: but when the boy beheld +His mother, he cried out to come to her: +And Allan set him down, and Mary said: + “O Father!—if you let me call you so— +I never came a-begging for myself, +Or William, or this child; but now I come +For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. +O Sir, when William died, he died at peace +With all men; for I ask’d him, and he said, +He could not ever rue his marrying me— +I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said +That he was wrong to cross his father thus: +‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never know +The troubles I have gone thro’!’ Then he turn’d +His face and pass’d—unhappy that I am! +But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you +Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight +His father’s memory; and take Dora back, +And let all this be as it was before.” + So Mary said, and Dora hid her face +By Mary. There was silence in the room; +And all at once the old man burst in sobs: +“I have been to blame—to blame. I have kill’d my son. +I have kill’d him—but I loved him—my dear son. +May God forgive me!—I have been to blame. +Kiss me, my children.” + +Then they clung about +The old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times. +And all the man was broken with remorse; +And all his love came back a hundredfold; +And for three hours he sobb’d o’er William’s child, +Thinking of William. + +So those four abode +Within one house together; and as years +Went forward, Mary took another mate; +But Dora lived unmarried till her death. + + [1] In 1842 thus:— + +“Look to’t, +Consider: take a month to think, and give +An answer to my wish; or by the Lord +That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore +Darken my doors again.” And William heard, +And answered something madly; bit his lips, +And broke away. + +All editions previous to 1853 have + +“Look to’t. + + + + +Audley Court + +First published in 1842. + + +Only four alterations were made in the text after 1842, all of which +are duly noted. Tennyson told his son that the poem was partially +suggested by Abbey Park at Torquay where it was written, and that the +last lines described the scene from the hill looking over the bay. He +saw he said “a star of phosphorescence made by the buoy appearing and +disappearing in the dark sea,” but it is curious that the line +describing that was not inserted till long after the poem had been +published. The poem, though a trifle, is a triumph of felicitous +description and expression, whether we regard the pie or the moonlit +bay. + + +“The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room +For love or money. Let us picnic there +At Audley Court.” I spoke, while Audley feast +Humm’d like a hive all round the narrow quay, +To Francis, with a basket on his arm, +To Francis just alighted from the boat, +And breathing of the sea. “With all my heart,” +Said Francis. Then we shoulder’d thro’[1] the swarm, +And rounded by the stillness of the beach +To where the bay runs up its latest horn. +We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp’d +The flat red granite; so by many a sweep +Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach’d +The griffin-guarded gates and pass’d thro’ all +The pillar’d dusk[2] of sounding sycamores +And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge, +With all its casements bedded, and its walls +And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine. +There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid +A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, +Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, +And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, +Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, +Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks[3] +Imbedded and injellied; last with these, +A flask of cider from his father’s vats, +Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat +And talk’d old matters over; who was dead, +Who married, who was like to be, and how +The races went, and who would rent the hall: +Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was +This season; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm, +The fourfield system, and the price of grain;[4] +And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, +And came again together on the king +With heated faces; till he laugh’d aloud; +And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung +To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang— +“Oh! who would fight and march and counter-march, +Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, +And shovell’d up into a[5] bloody trench +Where no one knows? but let me live my life. +“Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, +Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool, +Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints +Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. +“Who’d serve the state? for if I carved my name +Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, +I might as well have traced it in the sands; +The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. +“Oh! who would love? I wooed a woman once, +But she was sharper than an eastern wind, +And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn +Turns from the sea: but let me live my life.” +He sang his song, and I replied with mine: +I found it in a volume, all of songs, +Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride, +His books—the more the pity, so I said— +Came to the hammer here in March—and this— +I set the words, and added names I knew. +“Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream of me: +Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm, +And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. +“Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm; +Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, +For thou art fairer than all else that is. +“Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: +Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: +I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. +“I go, but I return: I would I were +The pilot of the darkness and the dream. +Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.” +So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, +The farmer’s son who lived across the bay, +My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, +And in the fallow leisure of my life +A rolling stone of here and everywhere,[6] +Did what I would; but ere the night we rose +And saunter’d home beneath a moon that, just +In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf +Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d +The limit of the hills; and as we sank +From rock to rock upon the gloomy quay, +The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down +The bay was oily-calm: the harbour buoy +With one green sparkle ever and anon[7] +Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.[8] + + [1] 1842 to 1850. Through. + + + [2] _cf_. Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ix., 1106-7:— + +A pillar’d shade +High overarch’d. + + + [3] 1842. Golden yokes. + + + [4] That is planting turnips, barley, clover and wheat, by which land + is kept constantly fresh and vigorous. + + + [5] 1872. Some. + + + [6] Inserted in 1857. + + + [7] Here was inserted, in 1872, the line—Sole star of phosphorescence + in the calm. + + + [8] Like the shepherd in Homer at the moonlit landscape, γέγηθε δὲ τε + φρένα ποιμήν, _Il_., viii., 559. + + + + +Walking to the Mail + +First published in 1842. Not altered in any respect after 1853. + + +_John_. I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadows look +Above the river, and, but a month ago, +The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. +Is yon plantation where this byway joins +The turnpike?[1] + +_James_. Yes. + +_John_. And when does this come by? + +_James_. The mail? At one o’clock. + +_John_. What is it now? + +_James_. A quarter to. + +_John_. Whose house is that I see?[2] +No, not the County Member’s with the vane: +Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half +A score of gables. + +_James_. That? Sir Edward Head’s: +But he’s abroad: the place is to be sold. + +_John_. Oh, his. He was not broken? + +_James_. No, sir, he, +Vex’d with a morbid devil in his blood +That veil’d the world with jaundice, hid his face +From all men, and commercing with himself, +He lost the sense that handles daily life— +That keeps us all in order more or less— +And sick of home went overseas for change. + +_John_. And whither? + +_James_. Nay, who knows? he’s here and there. +But let him go; his devil goes with him, +As well as with his tenant, Jockey Dawes. + +_John_. What’s that? + +_James_. You saw the man—on Monday, was it?—[3] +There by the hump-back’d willow; half stands up +And bristles; half has fall’n and made a bridge; +And there he caught the younker tickling trout— +Caught in _flagrante_—what’s the Latin word?— +_Delicto_; but his house, for so they say, +Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook +The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors, +And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay’d: +The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, +And all his household stuff; and with his boy +Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, +Sets out,[4] and meets a friend who hails him, +“What! You’re flitting!” “Yes, we’re flitting,” says the ghost +(For they had pack’d the thing among the beds). +“Oh, well,” says he, “you flitting with us too— +Jack, turn the horses’ heads and home again”.[5] + +_John_. He left _his_ wife behind; for so I heard. + +_James_. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: +A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. + +_John_. Oh, yet, but I remember, ten years back— +’Tis now at least ten years—and then she was— +You could not light upon a sweeter thing: +A body slight and round and like a pear +In growing, modest eyes, a hand a foot +Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin +As clean and white as privet when it flowers. + +_James_. Ay, ay, the blossom fades and they that loved +At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. +She was the daughter of a cottager, +Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, +New things and old, himself and her, she sour’d +To what she is: a nature never kind! +Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. +Kind nature is the best: those manners next +That fit us like a nature second-hand; +Which are indeed the manners of the great. + +_John_. But I had heard it was this bill that past, +And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. + +_James_. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. +I once was near him, when his bailiff brought +A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince +As from a venomous thing: he thought himself +A mark for all, and shudder’d, lest a cry +Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes +Should see the raw mechanic’s bloody thumbs +Sweat on his blazon’d chairs; but, sir, you know +That these two parties still divide the world— +Of those that want, and those that have: and still +The same old sore breaks out from age to age +With much the same result. Now I myself,[6] +A Tory to the quick, was as a boy +Destructive, when I had not what I would. +I was at school—a college in the South: +There lived a flayflint near; we stole his fruit, +His hens, his eggs; but there was law for _us_; +We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She, +With meditative grunts of much content,[7] +Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud. +By night we dragg’d her to the college tower +From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair +With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow, +And on the leads we kept her till she pigg’d. +Large range of prospect had the mother sow, +And but for daily loss of one she loved, +As one by one we took them—but for this— +As never sow was higher in this world— +Might have been happy: but what lot is pure! +We took them all, till she was left alone +Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine, +And so return’d unfarrowed to her sty. + +_John_. They found you out? + +_James_. Not they. + +_John_. Well—after all—What know we of the secret of a man? +His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, +That we should mimic this raw fool the world, +Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, +As ruthless as a baby with a worm, +As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows +To Pity—more from ignorance than will, +But put your best foot forward, or I fear +That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes +With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand +As you shall see—three pyebalds and a roan. + + [1] 1842. + +_John_. I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the country looks! +Is yonder planting where this byway joins +The turnpike? + + + [2] Thus 1843 to 1850:— + +_John_. Whose house is that I see +Beyond the watermills? + +_James_. Sir Edward Head’s: But he’s abroad, etc. + + + [3] Thus 1842 to 1851:— + +_James_. You saw the man but yesterday: +He pick’d the pebble from your horse’s foot. +His house was haunted by a jolly ghost +That rummaged like a rat. + + + [4] 1842. Sets forth. Added in 1853. + + + [5] This is a folk-lore story which has its variants, Mr. Alfred Nutt + tells me, in almost every country in Europe. The Lincolnshire version + of it is given in Miss Peacock’s MS. collection of Lincolnshire + folk-lore, of which she has most kindly sent me a copy, and it runs + thus:— + “There is a house in East Halton which is haunted by a + hob-thrush.... Some years ago, it is said, a family who had lived + in the house for more than a hundred years were much annoyed by it, + and determined to quit the dwelling. They had placed their goods on + a waggon, and were just on the point of starting when a neighbour + asked the farmer whether he was leaving. On this the hobthrush put + his head out of the splash-churn, which was amongst the household + stuff, and said, ‘Ay, we’re flitting’. Whereupon the farmer decided + to give up the attempt to escape from it and remain where he was.” + The same story is told of a Cluricaune in Croker’s _Fairy Legends + and Traditions_ in the South of Ireland. See _The Haunted Cellar_ + in p. 81 of the edition of 1862, and as Tennyson has elsewhere in + _Guinevere_ borrowed a passage from the same story (see + _Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 152) it is probable that that was + the source of the story here, though there the Cluricaune uses the + expression, “Here we go altogether”. + + + [6] 1842 and 1843. I that am. Now, I that am. + + + [7] 1842. + +scored upon the part +Which cherubs want. + + + + +Edwin Morris, +or The Lake + +This poem first appeared in the seventh edition of the _Poems_, 1851. +It was written at Llanberis. Several alterations were made in the +eighth edition of 1853, since then none, with the exception of “breath” +for “breaths” in line 66. + + +O Me, my pleasant rambles by the lake, +My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year, +My one Oasis in the dust and drouth +Of city life! I was a sketcher then: +See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge, +Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built +When men knew how to build, upon a rock, +With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock: +And here, new-comers in an ancient hold, +New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires, +Here lived the Hills—a Tudor-chimnied bulk +Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers. +O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake +With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull +The curate; he was fatter than his cure. + +But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, +Long-learned names of agaric, moss and fern,[1] +Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, +Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, +Who read me rhymes elaborately good, +His own—I call’d him Crichton, for he seem’d +All-perfect, finish’d to the finger nail.[2] +And once I ask’d him of his early life, +And his first passion; and he answer’d me; +And well his words became him: was he not +A full-cell’d honeycomb of eloquence +Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke. + +“My love for Nature is as old as I; +But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, +And three rich sennights more, my love for her. +My love for Nature and my love for her, +Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew,[3] +Twin-sisters differently beautiful. +To some full music rose and sank the sun, +And some full music seem’d to move and change +With all the varied changes of the dark, +And either twilight and the day between; +For daily hope fulfill’d, to rise again +Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet +To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.”[4] + +Or this or something like to this he spoke. +Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, +“I take it, God made the woman for the man, +And for the good and increase of the world, +A pretty face is well, and this is well, +To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, +And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways +Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed +Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. +I say, God made the woman for the man, +And for the good and increase of the world.” + +“Parson,” said I, “you pitch the pipe too low: +But I have sudden touches, and can run +My faith beyond my practice into his: +Tho’ if, in dancing after Letty Hill, +I do not hear the bells upon my cap, +I scarce hear[5] other music: yet say on. +What should one give to light on such a dream?” +I ask’d him half-sardonically. + +“Give? Give all thou art,” he answer’d, and a light +Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek; +“I would have hid her needle in my heart, +To save her little finger from a scratch +No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear +Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth +The experience of the wise. I went and came; +Her voice fled always thro’ the summer land; +I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days! +The flower of each, those moments when we met, +The crown of all, we met to part no more.” + +Were not his words delicious, I a beast +To take them as I did? but something jarr’d; +Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem’d +A touch of something false, some self-conceit, +Or over-smoothness: howsoe’er it was, +He scarcely hit my humour, and I said:— + +“Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone +Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, +As in the Latin song I learnt at school, +Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left?[6] +But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein: +I have I think—Heaven knows—as much within; +Have or should have, but for a thought or two, +That like a purple beech[7] among the greens +Looks out of place: ’tis from no want in her: +It is my shyness, or my self-distrust, +Or something of a wayward modern mind +Dissecting passion. Time will set me right.” + +So spoke I knowing not the things that were. +Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull: +“God made the woman for the use of man, +And for the good and increase of the world”. +And I and Edwin laugh’d; and now we paused +About the windings of the marge to hear +The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms +And alders, garden-isles[8]; and now we left +The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran +By ripply shallows of the lisping lake, +Delighted with the freshness and the sound. + But, when the bracken rusted on their crags, +My suit had wither’d, nipt to death by him +That was a God, and is a lawyer’s clerk, +The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles.[9] + +’Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more: +She sent a note, the seal an _Elle vous suit_,[10] +The close “Your Letty, only yours”; and this +Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn +Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran +My craft aground, and heard with beating heart +The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel; +And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved, +Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers:[11] +Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she, +She turn’d, we closed, we kiss’d, swore faith, I breathed +In some new planet: a silent cousin stole +Upon us and departed: “Leave,” she cried, +“O leave me!” “Never, dearest, never: here +I brave the worst:” and while we stood like fools +Embracing, all at once a score of pugs +And poodles yell’d within, and out they came +Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. “What, with him! +“Go” (shrill’d the cottonspinning chorus) “him!” +I choked. Again they shriek’d the burthen “Him!” +Again with hands of wild rejection “Go!— +Girl, get you in!” She went—and in one month[12] +They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds, +To lands in Kent and messuages in York, +And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile +And educated whisker. But for me, +They set an ancient creditor to work: +It seems I broke a close with force and arms: +There came a mystic token from the king +To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy! +I read, and fled by night, and flying turn’d: +Her taper glimmer’d in the lake below: +I turn’d once more, close-button’d to the storm; +So left the place,[13] left Edwin, nor have seen +Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear. + Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago +I have pardon’d little Letty; not indeed, +It may be, for her own dear sake but this, +She seems a part of those fresh days to me; +For in the dust and drouth of London life +She moves among my visions of the lake, +While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then +While the gold-lily blows, and overhead +The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag. + + [1] Agaric (some varieties are deadly) is properly the fungus on the + larch; it then came to mean fungus generally. Minshew calls it “a + white soft mushroom”. See Halliwell, _Dict. of Archaic and Provincial + Words, sub vocent_. + + + [2] The Latin _factus ad unguem_. For Crichton, a half-mythical + figure, see Tytler’s _Life_ of him. + + + [3] 1851. Of different ages, like twin-sisters throve. + + + [4] 1853. To breathe, to wake. + + + [5] 1872. Have. + + + [6] The reference is to the _Acme_ and _Septimius_ of Catullus, xliv.— + +Hoc ut dixit, +Amor, sinistram, ut ante, +Dextram sternuit approbationem. + + + [7] 1851. That like a copper beech. + + + [8] 1851. + +garden-isles; and now we ran +By ripply shallows. + + + [9] 1851. The rainy isles. + + + [10] Cf. Byron, _Don Juan_, i., xcvii.:— + +The seal a sunflower—_elle vous suit partout_. + + + [11] _Cf_. Milton, _Par. Lost_, iv., 268-9:— + +Not that fair field +Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers +... +Was gather’d. + + + [12] 1851. + +“Go Sir!” Again they shrieked the burthen “Him!” +Again with hands of wild rejection “Go! +Girl, get you in” to her—and in one month, etc. + + + [13] 1851. + +I read and wish’d to crush the race of man, +And fled by night; turn’d once upon the hills; +Her taper glimmer’d in the lake; and then +I left the place, etc. + + + + +St Simon Stylites + +First published in 1842, reprinted in all the subsequent editions of +the poems but with no alterations in the text, except that in eighth +line from the end “my” was substituted for “mine” in 1846. Tennyson +informed a friend that it was not from the _Acta Sanctorum_, but from +Hone’s _Every-Day Book_, vol. i., pp. 35-36, that he got the material +for this poem, and a comparison with the narrative in Hone and the poem +seems to show that this was the case. + +It is not easy to identify the St. Simeon Stylites of Hone’s narrative +and Tennyson’s poem, whether he is to be identified with St. Simeon the +Elder, of whom there are three memoirs given in the _Acta Sanctorum_, +tom. i., 5th January, 261-286, or with St. Simeon Stylites, Junior, of +whom there is an elaborate biography in Greek by Nicephorus printed +with a Latin translation and notes in the _Acta Sanctorum_, tom. v., +24th May, 298-401. It seems clear that whoever compiled the account +popularised by Hone had read both and amalgamated them. The main lines +in the story of both saints are exactly the same. Both stood on +columns, both tortured themselves in the same ways, both wrought +miracles, and both died at their posts of penance. St. Simeon the Elder +was born at Sisan in Syria about A.D. 390, and was buried at Antioch in +A.D. 459 or 460. The Simeon the Younger was born at Antioch A. D. 521 +and died in A.D. 592. His life, which is of singular interest, is much +more elaborately related. + +This poem is not simply a dramatic study. It bears very directly on +Tennyson’s philosophy of life. In these early poems he has given us +four studies in the morbid anatomy of character: _The Palace of Art_, +which illustrates the abuse of æsthetic and intellectual enjoyment of +self; _The Vision of Sin_, which illustrates the effects of similar +indulgence in the grosser pleasures of the senses; _The Two Voices_, +which illustrates the mischief of despondent self-absorption, while the +present poem illustrates the equally pernicious indulgence in an +opposite extreme, asceticism affected for the mere gratification of +personal vanity. + + +Altho’ I be the basest of mankind, +From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin, +Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet +For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy, +I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold +Of saintdom, and to clamour, morn and sob, +Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer, +Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin. + Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God, +This not be all in vain that thrice ten years, +Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, +In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, +In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps, +A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, +Patient on this tall pillar I have borne +Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; +And I had hoped that ere this period closed +Thou wouldst have caught me up into Thy rest, +Denying not these weather-beaten limbs +The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm. + O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe, +Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. +Pain heap’d ten-hundred-fold to this, were still +Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, +Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush’d +My spirit flat before thee. + +O Lord, Lord, +Thou knowest I bore this better at the first, +For I was strong and hale of body then; +And tho’ my teeth, which now are dropt away, +Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard +Was tagg’d with icy fringes in the moon, +I drown’d the whoopings of the owl with sound +Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw +An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. +Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh; +I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am, +So that I scarce can hear the people hum +About the column’s base, and almost blind, +And scarce can recognise the fields I know; +And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; +Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, +While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, +Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone, +Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin. + O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, +Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? +Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? +Show me the man hath suffered more than I. +For did not all thy martyrs die one death? +For either they were stoned, or crucified, +Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn +In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here +To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. +Bear witness, if I could have found a way +(And heedfully I sifted all my thought) +More slowly-painful to subdue this home +Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, +I had not stinted practice, O my God. + For not alone this pillar-punishment,[1] +Not this alone I bore: but while I lived +In the white convent down the valley there, +For many weeks about my loins I wore +The rope that haled the buckets from the well, +Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose; +And spake not of it to a single soul, +Until the ulcer, eating thro’ my skin, +Betray’d my secret penance, so that all +My brethren marvell’d greatly. More than this +I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.[2] + Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, +I lived up there on yonder mountain side. +My right leg chain’d into the crag, I lay +Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; +Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice +Black’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes +Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, +Except the spare chance-gift of those that came +To touch my body and be heal’d, and live: +And they say then that I work’d miracles, +Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, +Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God, +Knowest alone whether this was or no. +Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin. + Then, that I might be more alone with thee,[3] +Three years I lived upon a pillar, high +Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; +And twice three years I crouch’d on one that rose +Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew +Twice ten long weary weary years to this, +That numbers forty cubits from the soil. + I think that I have borne as much as this— +Or else I dream—and for so long a time, +If I may measure time by yon slow light, +And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns— +So much—even so. + +And yet I know not well, +For that the evil ones comes here, and say, +“Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer’d long +For ages and for ages!” then they prate +Of penances I cannot have gone thro’, +Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall, +Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, +That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. + +But yet +Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints +Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men on earth +House in the shade of comfortable roofs, +Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, +And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, +I, ’tween the spring and downfall of the light, +Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, +To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints; +Or in the night, after a little sleep, +I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet +With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost. +I wear an undress’d goatskin on my back; +A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; +And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, +And strive and wrestle with thee till I die: +O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin. + O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; +A sinful man, conceived and born in sin: +’Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; +Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, +That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha! +They think that I am somewhat. What am I? +The silly people take me for a saint, +And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: +And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) +Have all in all endured as much, and more +Than many just and holy men, whose names +Are register’d and calendar’d for saints. + Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. +What is it I can have done to merit this? +I am a sinner viler than you all. +It may be I have wrought some miracles,[4] +And cured some halt and maim’d; but what of that? +It may be, no one, even among the saints, +May match his pains with mine; but what of that? +Yet do not rise: for you may look on me, +And in your looking you may kneel to God. +Speak! is there any of you halt or maim’d? +I think you know I have some power with Heaven +From my long penance: let him speak his wish. + Yes, I can heal. Power goes forth from me. +They say that they are heal’d. Ah, hark! they shout +“St. Simeon Stylites”. Why, if so, +God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, +God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, +Can I work miracles and not be saved? +This is not told of any. They were saints. +It cannot be but that I shall be saved; +Yea, crown’d a saint. They shout, “Behold a saint!” +And lower voices saint me from above. +Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis +Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death +Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now +Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all +My mortal archives. + +O my sons, my sons, +I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men; +I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; +I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes; +I, whose bald brows in silent hours become +Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now +From my high nest of penance here proclaim +That Pontius and Iscariot by my side +Show’d like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, +A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath +Made me boil over. Devils pluck’d my sleeve;[5] +Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me. +I smote them with the cross; they swarm’d again. +In bed like monstrous apes they crush’d my chest: +They flapp’d my light out as I read: I saw +Their faces grow between me and my book: +With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine +They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, +And by this way I’scaped them. Mortify +Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; +Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast +Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, +With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, +Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still +Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise: +God only thro’ his bounty hath thought fit, +Among the powers and princes of this world, +To make me an example to mankind, +Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say +But that a time may come—yea, even now, +Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs +Of life—I say, that time is at the doors +When you may worship me without reproach; +For I will leave my relics in your land, +And you may carve a shrine about my dust, +And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, +When I am gather’d to the glorious saints. + While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain +Ran shrivelling thro’ me, and a cloudlike change, +In passing, with a grosser film made thick +These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end! +Surely the end! What’s here? a shape, a shade, +A flash of light. Is that the angel there +That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come, +I know thy glittering face. I waited long; +My brows are ready. What! deny it now? +Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ! +’Tis gone: ’tis here again; the crown! the crown![6] +So now ’tis fitted on and grows to me, +And from it melt the dews of Paradise, +Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense. +Ah! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints: I trust +That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven. + Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, +Among you there, and let him presently +Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, +And climbing up into my airy home, +Deliver me the blessed sacrament; +For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, +I prophesy that I shall die to-night, +A quarter before twelve.[7] But thou, O Lord, +Aid all this foolish people; let them take +Example, pattern: lead them to thy light. + + [1] For this incident _cf. Acta_, v., 317: + +“Petit aliquando ab aliquo ad se invisente funem, acceptumque circa +corpus convolvit constringitque tam arete ut, exesâ carne, quæ istuc +mollis admodum ac tenera est, nudæ costæ exstarent”. + +The same is told also of the younger Stylites, where the incident of +concealing the torture is added, _Acta_, i., 265. + + + [2] For this retirement to a mountain see _Acta_, i., 270, and it is + referred to in the other lives: + +“Post hæc egressus occulte perrexit in montem non longe a monasterio, +ibique sibi clausulam de siccâ petrâ fecit, et stetit sic annos tres.” + + + [3] In accurate accordance with the third life, _Acta_, i., 277: + +“Primum quidem columna ad sex erecta cubitos est, deinde ad duodecim, +post ad vigenti extensa est”; + +but for the thirty-six cubits which is assigned as the height of the +last column Tennyson’s authority, drawing on another account (_Id._, +271), substitutes forty: + +“Fecerunt illi columnam habentem cubitos quadraginta”. + + + [4] For the miracles wrought by him see all the lives. + + + [5] These details seem taken from the well-known stories about Luther + and Bunyan. All that the _Acta_ say about St. Simeon is that he was + pestered by devils. + + + [6] The _Acta_ say nothing about the crown, but dwell on the + supernatural fragrance which exhaled from the saint. + + + [7] Tennyson has given a very poor substitute for the beautifully + pathetic account given of the death of St. Simeon in _Acta_, i., 168, + and again in the ninth chapter of the second Life, _Ibid_., 273. But + this is to be explained perhaps by the moral purpose of the poem. + + + + +The Talking Oak + +First published in 1842, and republished in all subsequent editions +with only two slight alterations: in line 113 a mere variant in +spelling, and in line 185, where in place of the present reading the +editions between 1842 and 1848 read, “For, ah! the Dryad-days were +brief”. + +Tennyson told Mr. Aubrey de Vere that the poem was an experiment meant +to test the degree in which it is in the power of poetry to humanise +external nature. Tennyson might have remembered that Ovid had made the +same experiment nearly two thousand years ago, while Goethe had +immediately anticipated him in his charming _Der Junggesett und der +Mühlbach_. There was certainly no novelty in such an attempt. The poem +is in parts charmingly written, but the oak is certainly “garrulously +given,” and comes perilously near to tediousness. + + +Once more the gate behind me falls; +Once more before my face +I see the moulder’d Abbey-walls, +That stand within the chace. + +Beyond the lodge the city lies, +Beneath its drift of smoke; +And ah! with what delighted eyes +I turn to yonder oak. + +For when my passion first began, +Ere that, which in me burn’d, +The love, that makes me thrice a man, +Could hope itself return’d; + +To yonder oak within the field +I spoke without restraint, +And with a larger faith appeal’d +Than Papist unto Saint. + +For oft I talk’d with him apart, +And told him of my choice, +Until he plagiarised a heart, +And answer’d with a voice. + +Tho’ what he whisper’d, under Heaven +None else could understand; +I found him garrulously given, +A babbler in the land. + +But since I heard him make reply +Is many a weary hour; +’Twere well to question him, and try +If yet he keeps the power. + +Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, +Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, +Whose topmost branches can discern +The roofs of Sumner-place! + +Say thou, whereon I carved her name, +If ever maid or spouse, +As fair as my Olivia, came +To rest beneath thy boughs.— + +“O Walter, I have shelter’d here +Whatever maiden grace +The good old Summers, year by year, +Made ripe in Sumner-chace: + +“Old Summers, when the monk was fat, +And, issuing shorn and sleek, +Would twist his girdle tight, and pat +The girls upon the cheek. + +“Ere yet, in scorn of Peter’s-pence, +And number’d bead, and shrift, +Bluff Harry broke into the spence,[1] +And turn’d the cowls adrift: + +“And I have seen some score of those +Fresh faces, that would thrive +When his man-minded offset rose +To chase the deer at five; + +“And all that from the town would stroll, +Till that wild wind made work +In which the gloomy brewer’s soul +Went by me, like a stork: + +“The slight she-slips of loyal blood, +And others, passing praise, +Strait-laced, but all too full in bud +For puritanic stays:[2]> + +“And I have shadow’d many a group +Of beauties, that were born +In teacup-times of hood and hoop, +Or while the patch was worn; + +“And, leg and arm with love-knots gay, +About me leap’d and laugh’d +The Modish Cupid of the day, +And shrill’d his tinsel shaft. + +“I swear (and else may insects prick +Each leaf into a gall) +This girl, for whom your heart is sick, +Is three times worth them all; + +“For those and theirs, by Nature’s law, +Have faded long ago; +But in these latter springs I saw +Your own Olivia blow, + +“From when she gamboll’d on the greens, +A baby-germ, to when +The maiden blossoms of her teens +Could number five from ten. + +“I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain +(And hear me with thine ears), +That, tho’ I circle in the grain +Five hundred rings of years— + +“Yet, since I first could cast a shade, +Did never creature pass +So slightly, musically made, +So light upon the grass: + +“For as to fairies, that will flit +To make the greensward fresh, +I hold them exquisitely knit, +But far too spare of flesh.” + +Oh, hide thy knotted knees in fern, +And overlook the chace; +And from thy topmost branch discern +The roofs of Sumner-place. + +But thou, whereon I carved her name, +That oft hast heard my vows, +Declare when last Olivia came +To sport beneath thy boughs. + +“O yesterday, you know, the fair +Was holden at the town; +Her father left his good arm-chair, +And rode his hunter down. + +“And with him Albert came on his. +I look’d at him with joy: +As cowslip unto oxlip is, +So seems she to the boy. + +“An hour had past—and, sitting straight +Within the low-wheel’d chaise, +Her mother trundled to the gate +Behind the dappled grays. + +“But, as for her, she stay’d[3] at home, +And on the roof she went, +And down the way you use to come, +She look’d with discontent. + +“She left the novel half-uncut +Upon the rosewood shelf; +She left the new piano shut: +She could not please herself. + +“Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, +And livelier than a lark +She sent her voice thro’ all the holt +Before her, and the park. + +“A light wind chased her on the wing, +And in the chase grew wild, +As close as might be would he cling +About the darling child: + +“But light as any wind that blows +So fleetly did she stir, +The flower she touch’d on dipt and rose, +And turn’d to look at her. + +“And here she came, and round me play’d, +And sang to me the whole +Of those three stanzas that you made +About my ‘giant bole’; + +“And in a fit of frolic mirth +She strove to span my waist: +Alas, I was so broad of girth, +I could not be embraced. + +“I wish’d myself the fair young beech +That here beside me stands, +That round me, clasping each in each, +She might have lock’d her hands. + +“Yet seem’d the pressure thrice as sweet +As woodbine’s fragile hold, +Or when I feel about my feet +The berried briony fold.” + +O muffle round thy knees with fern, +And shadow Sumner-chace! +Long may thy topmost branch discern +The roofs of Sumner-place! + +But tell me, did she read the name +I carved with many vows +When last with throbbing heart I came +To rest beneath thy boughs? + +“O yes, she wander’d round and round +These knotted knees of mine, +And found, and kiss’d the name she found, +And sweetly murmur’d thine. + +“A teardrop trembled from its source, +And down my surface crept. +My sense of touch is something coarse, +But I believe she wept. + +“Then flush’d her cheek with rosy light, +She glanced across the plain; +But not a creature was in sight: +She kiss’d me once again. + +“Her kisses were so close and kind, +That, trust me on my word, +Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind, +But yet my sap was stirr’d: + +“And even into my inmost ring +A pleasure I discern’d +Like those blind motions of the Spring, +That show the year is turn’d. + +“Thrice-happy he that may caress +The ringlet’s waving balm +The cushions of whose touch may press +The maiden’s tender palm. + +“I, rooted here among the groves, +But languidly adjust +My vapid vegetable loves[4] +With anthers and with dust: + +“For, ah! my friend, the days were brief[5] +Whereof the poets talk, +When that, which breathes within the leaf, +Could slip its bark and walk. + +“But could I, as in times foregone, +From spray, and branch, and stem, +Have suck’d and gather’d into one +The life that spreads in them, + +“She had not found me so remiss; +But lightly issuing thro’, +I would have paid her kiss for kiss +With usury thereto.” + +O flourish high, with leafy towers, +And overlook the lea, +Pursue thy loves among the bowers, +But leave thou mine to me. + +O flourish, hidden deep in fern, +Old oak, I love thee well; +A thousand thanks for what I learn +And what remains to tell. + +“’Tis little more: the day was warm; +At last, tired out with play, +She sank her head upon her arm, +And at my feet she lay. + +“Her eyelids dropp’d their silken eaves. +I breathed upon her eyes +Thro’ all the summer of my leaves +A welcome mix’d with sighs. + +“I took the swarming sound of life— +The music from the town— +The murmurs of the drum and fife +And lull’d them in my own. + +“Sometimes I let a sunbeam slip, +To light her shaded eye; +A second flutter’d round her lip +Like a golden butterfly; + +“A third would glimmer on her neck +To make the necklace shine; +Another slid, a sunny fleck, +From head to ancle fine. + +“Then close and dark my arms I spread, +And shadow’d all her rest— +Dropt dews upon her golden head, +An acorn in her breast. + +“But in a pet she started up, +And pluck’d it out, and drew +My little oakling from the cup, +And flung him in the dew. + +“And yet it was a graceful gift— +I felt a pang within +As when I see the woodman lift +His axe to slay my kin. + +“I shook him down because he was +The finest on the tree. +He lies beside thee on the grass. +O kiss him once for me. + +“O kiss him twice and thrice for me, +That have no lips to kiss, +For never yet was oak on lea +Shall grow so fair as this.” + +Step deeper yet in herb and fern, +Look further thro’ the chace, +Spread upward till thy boughs discern +The front of Sumner-place. + +This fruit of thine by Love is blest, +That but a moment lay +Where fairer fruit of Love may rest +Some happy future day. + +I kiss it twice, I kiss it thrice, +The warmth it thence shall win +To riper life may magnetise +The baby-oak within. + +But thou, while kingdoms overset, +Or lapse from hand to hand, +Thy leaf shall never fail, nor yet +Thine acorn in the land. + +May never saw dismember thee, +Nor wielded axe disjoint, +That art the fairest-spoken tree +From here to Lizard-point. + +O rock upon thy towery top +All throats that gurgle sweet! +All starry culmination drop +Balm-dews to bathe thy feet! + +All grass of silky feather grow— +And while he sinks or swells +The full south-breeze around thee blow +The sound of minster bells. + +The fat earth feed thy branchy root, +That under deeply strikes! +The northern morning o’er thee shoot +High up, in silver spikes! + +Nor ever lightning char thy grain, +But, rolling as in sleep, +Low thunders bring the mellow rain, +That makes thee broad and deep! + +And hear me swear a solemn oath, +That only by thy side +Will I to Olive plight my troth, +And gain her for my bride. + +And when my marriage morn may fall, +She, Dryad-like, shall wear +Alternate leaf and acorn-ball +In wreath about her hair. + +And I will work in prose and rhyme, +And praise thee more in both +Than bard has honour’d beech or lime, +Or that Thessalian growth,[6] + +In which the swarthy ringdove sat, +And mystic sentence spoke; +And more than England honours that, +Thy famous brother-oak, + +Wherein the younger Charles abode +Till all the paths were dim, +And far below the Roundhead rode, +And humm’d a surly hymn. + + [1] Spence is a larder and buttery. In the _Promptorium Parverum_ it + is defined as “cellarium promptuarium”. + + + [2] Cf. Burns’ “godly laces,” _To the Unco Righteous_. + + + [3] All editions previous to 1853 have ‘staid’. + + + [4] The phrase is Marvell’s. _Cf. To his Coy Mistress_ (a favourite + poem of Tennyson’s), “my vegetable loves should grow”. + + + [5] 1842 to 1850. “For, ah! the Dryad-days were brief. + + + [6] A reference to the oracular oaks of Dodona which was, of course, + in Epirus, but the Ancients believed, no doubt erroneously, that there + was another Dodona in Thessaly. See the article “Dodona” in Smith’s + _Dict. of Greek and Roman Geography_. + + + + +Love and Duty + +Published first in 1842. + + +Whether this beautiful poem is autobiographical and has reference to +the compulsory separation of Tennyson and Miss Emily Sellwood, +afterwards his wife, in 1840, it is impossible for this editor to say, +as Lord Tennyson in his _Life_ of his father is silent on the subject. + + +Of love that never found his earthly close, +What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts? +Or all the same as if he had not been? + Not so. Shall Error in the round of time +Still father Truth? O shall the braggart shout[1] +For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself +Thro’ madness, hated by the wise, to law +System and empire? Sin itself be found +The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun? +And only he, this wonder, dead, become +Mere highway dust? or year by year alone +Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, +Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself! + If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, +Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, +The staring eye glazed o’er with sapless days, +The long mechanic pacings to and fro, +The set gray life, and apathetic end. +But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love? +O three times less unworthy! likewise thou +Art more thro’ Love, and greater than thy years. +The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon +Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring +The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit +Of wisdom.[2] Wait: my faith is large in Time, +And that which shapes it to some perfect end. + Will some one say, then why not ill for good? +Why took ye not your pastime? To that man +My work shall answer, since I knew the right +And did it; for a man is not as God, +But then most Godlike being most a man.— +So let me think ’tis well for thee and me— +Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine +Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow +To feel it! For how hard it seem’d to me, +When eyes, love-languid thro’ half-tears, would dwell +One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, +Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice, +Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep +My own full-tuned,—hold passion in a leash, +And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, +And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!) +Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh’d +Upon my brain, my senses, and my soul! + For love himself took part against himself +To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love— +O this world’s curse—beloved but hated—came +Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, +And crying, “Who is this? behold thy bride,” +She push’d me from thee. + +If the sense is hard +To alien ears, I did not speak to these— +No, not to thee, but to thyself in me: +Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all. +Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak, +To have spoken once? It could not but be well. +The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,[3] +The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, +And all good things from evil, brought the night +In which we sat together and alone, +And to the want, that hollow’d all the heart, +Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, +That burn’d upon its object thro’ such tears +As flow but once a life. + +The trance gave way +To those caresses, when a hundred times +In that last kiss, which never was the last, +Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. +Then follow’d counsel, comfort and the words +That make a man feel strong in speaking truth; +Till now the dark was worn, and overhead +The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix’d +In that brief night; the summer night, that paused +Among her stars to hear us; stars that hung +Love-charm’d to listen: all the wheels of Time +Spun round in station, but the end had come. + O then like those, who clench[4] their nerves to rush +Upon their dissolution, we two rose, +There-closing like an individual life— +In one blind cry of passion and of pain, +Like bitter accusation ev’n to death, +Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it, +And bade adieu for ever. + +Live—yet live— +Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all +Life needs for life is possible to will— +Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended by +My blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts +Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou +For calmer hours to Memory’s darkest hold,[5] +If not to be forgotten—not at once— +Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, +O might it come like one that looks content, +With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, +And point thee forward to a distant light, +Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart +And leave thee frëer, till thou wake refresh’d, +Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown +Full quire, and morning driv’n her plow of pearl[6] +Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, +Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea. + + [1] As this passage is a little obscure, it may not be superfluous to + point out that “shout” is a substantive. + + + [2] The distinction between “knowledge” and “wisdom” is a favourite + one with Tennyson. See _In Memoriam_, cxiv.; _Locksley Hall_, 141, and + for the same distinction see Cowper, _Task_, vi., 88-99. + + + [3] Suggested by Theocritus, _Id_., xv., 104-5. + + + [4] 1842 to 1845. O then like those, that clench. + + + [5] Pathos, in the Greek sense, “suffering”. All editions up to and + including 1850 have a small “s” and a small “m” for Shadow and Memory, + and read thus:— + +Too sadly for their peace, so put it back +For calmer hours in memory’s darkest hold, +If unforgotten! should it cross thy dreams, +So might it come, etc. + + + [6] _Cf. Princess_, iii.:— + +Morn in the white wake of the morning star +Came furrowing all the orient into gold, + +and with both cf. Greene, _Orlando Furioso_, i., 2:— + +Seest thou not Lycaon’s son? +The hardy plough-swain unto mighty Jove +Hath _trac’d his silver furrows in the heaven_, + +which in its turn is borrowed from Ariosto, _Orl. Fur._, xx., lxxxii.:— + +Apena avea Licaonia prole +Per li solchi del ciel volto +L’aratro. + + + + +The Golden Year + +This poem was first published in the fourth edition of the poems 1846. +No alterations were made in it after 1851. The poem had a message for +the time at which it was written. The country was in a very troubled +state. The contest between the Protectionists and Free-traders was at +its acutest stage. The Maynooth endowment and the “godless colleges” +had brought into prominence questions of the gravest moment in religion +and education, while the Corn Bill and the Coercion Bill had inflamed +the passions of party politicians almost to madness. Tennyson, his son +tells us, entered heartily into these questions, believing that the +remedies for these distempers lay in the spread of education, a more +catholic spirit in the press, a partial adoption of Free Trade +principles, and union as far as possible among the different sections +of Christianity. + + +Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote: +It was last summer on a tour in Wales: +Old James was with me: we that day had been +Up Snowdon; and I wish’d for Leonard there, +And found him in Llanberis:[1] then we crost +Between the lakes, and clamber’d half-way up +The counterside; and that same song of his +He told me; for I banter’d him, and swore +They said he lived shut up within himself, +A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, +That, setting the _how much_ before the _how_, +Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, “Give,[2] +Cram us with all,” but count not me the herd! + To which “They call me what they will,” he said: +“But I was born too late: the fair new forms, +That float about the threshold of an age, +Like truths of Science waiting to be caught— +Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown’d— +Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. +But if you care indeed to listen, hear +These measured words, my work of yestermorn. + “We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; +The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; +The dark Earth follows wheel’d in her ellipse; +And human things returning on themselves +Move onward, leading up the golden year. + “Ah, tho’ the times, when some new thought can bud, +Are but as poets’ seasons when they flower, +Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore,[3] +Have ebb and flow conditioning their march, +And slow and sure comes up the golden year. + “When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps, +But smit with freer light shall slowly melt +In many streams to fatten lower lands, +And light shall spread, and man be liker man +Thro’ all the season of the golden year. + “Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? +If all the world were falcons, what of that? +The wonder of the eagle were the less, +But he not less the eagle. Happy days +Roll onward, leading up the golden year. + “Fly happy happy sails and bear the Press; +Fly happy with the mission of the Cross; +Knit land to land, and blowing havenward +With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, +Enrich the markets of the golden year. + “But we grow old! Ah! when shall all men’s good +Be each man’s rule, and universal Peace +Lie like a shaft of light across the land, +And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, +Thro’ all the circle of the golden year?” + Thus far he flow’d, and ended; whereupon +“Ah, folly!” in mimic cadence answer’d James— +“Ah, folly! for it lies so far away. +Not in our time, nor in our children’s time, +’Tis like the second world to us that live; +’Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven +As on this vision of the golden year.” + With that he struck his staff against the rocks +And broke it,—James,—you know him,—old, but full +Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet, +And like an oaken stock in winter woods, +O’erflourished with the hoary clematis: +Then added, all in heat: “What stuff is this! +Old writers push’d the happy season back,— +The more fools they,—we forward: dreamers both: +You most, that in an age, when every hour +Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death, +Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt +Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip[4] +His hand into the bag: but well I know +That unto him who works, and feels he works, +This same grand year is ever at the doors.” + He spoke; and, high above, I heard them blast +The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap +And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff. + + [1] 1846 to 1850. + +And joined him in Llanberis; and that same song +He told me, etc. + + + [2] Proverbs xxx. 15: + +“The horseleach hath two daughters, crying, +Give, give”. + + + [3] 1890. Altered to “Yet oceans daily gaining on the land”. + + + [4] _Selections_, 1865. Plunge. + + + + +Ulysses + +First published in 1842, no alterations were made in it subsequently. + +This noble poem, which is said to have induced Sir Robert Peel to give +Tennyson his pension, was written soon after Arthur Hallam’s death, +presumably therefore in 1833. “It gave my feeling,” Tennyson said to +his son, “about the need of going forward and braving the struggle of +life perhaps more simply than anything in _In Memoriam_.” It is not the +_Ulysses_ of Homer, nor was it suggested by the _Odyssey_. The germ, +the spirit and the sentiment of the poem are from the twenty-sixth +canto of Dante’s _Inferno_, where Ulysses in the Limbo of the Deceivers +speaks from the flame which swathes him. I give a literal version of +the passage:— + +“Neither fondness for my son nor reverence for my aged sire nor the due +love which ought to have gladdened Penelope could conquer in me the +ardour which I had to become experienced in the world and in human vice +and worth. I put out into the deep open sea with but one ship and with +that small company which had not deserted me.... I and my companions +were old and tardy when we came to that narrow pass where Hercules +assigned his landmarks. ‘O brothers,’ I said, ‘who through a hundred +thousand dangers have reached the West deny not to this the brief vigil +of your senses that remain, experience of the unpeopled world beyond +the sun. Consider your origin, ye were not formed to live like Brutes +but to follow virtue and knowledge.... Night already saw the other pole +with all its stars and ours so low that it rose not from the ocean +floor’” (_Inferno_, xxvi., 94-126). + +But if the germ is here the expansion is Tennyson’s; he has added +elaboration and symmetry, fine touches, magical images and magical +diction. There is nothing in Dante which answers to— + +Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ +Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades +For ever and for ever when I move. + + +or + +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. + + +Of these lines well does Carlyle say what so many will feel: “These +lines do not make me weep, but there is in me what would till whole +Lacrymatorics as I read”. + + +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[1] +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,[2] +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,[3] +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,[4] +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 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,[5] +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. + + [1] Virgil, _Æn_., i., 748, and iii., 516. + + + [2] _Odyssey_, i., 1-4. + + + [3] _Cf_. Shakespeare, _Troilus and Cressida_:— + +Perseverance, dear, my lord, +Keeps honour bright: To have done, is to hang +Quite out of fashion, like a rusty nail +In monumental mockery. + + + [4] How admirably has Tennyson touched off the character of the + Telemachus of the _Odyssey_. + + + [5] The Happy Isles, the _Fortunatæ Insulæ_ of the Romans and the αἱ + τῶν Μακάρων νῆσοι of the Greeks, have been identified by geographers + as those islands in the Atlantic off the west coast of Africa; some + take them to mean the Canary Islands, the Madeira group and the + Azores, while they may have included the Cape de Verde Islands as + well. What seems certain is that these places with their soft + delicious climate and lovely scenery gave the poets an idea of a happy + abode for departed spirits, and so the conception of the _Elysian + Fields_. The _loci classici_ on these abodes are Homer, Odyssey, iv., + 563 _seqq._:— + + +ᾁλλά σ’ ες Ἠλύσιον πεδίον καὶ πέιρατα γαιής + +ἀθάνατοι πέμψουσιν, ὅθι ξανθὸς Ῥαδάμανθυς + +τῇ περ ῥηίστη βιοτὴ πέλει ἀνθρώποισιν, + +οὐ νιφετὸς, οὔτ’ ἄρ χειμὼν πολὺς, οὔτε ποτ’ ὄμβρος + +ἀλλ’ άιεὶ Ζεφύροιο λιγὺ πνέιοντας ἀήτας + +ὠκεανὸς ἀνιήσιν ἀναψύχειν ἀνθρώπους. + + +[But the Immortals will convey thee to the Elysian plain and the +world’s limits where is Rhadamanthus of the golden hair, where life is +easiest for man; no snow is there, no nor no great storm, nor any rain, +but always ocean sendeth forth the shrilly breezes of the West to cool +and refresh men.], and Pindar, _Olymp_., ii., 178 _seqq_., compared +with the splendid fragment at the beginning of the _Dirges_. Elysium +was afterwards placed in the netherworld, as by Virgil. Thus, as so +often the suggestion was from the facts of geography, the rest soon +became an allegorical myth, and to attempt to identify and localise +“the Happy Isles” is as great an absurdity as to attempt to identify +and localise the island of Shakespeare’s _Tempest_. + + + + +Locksley Hall + +First published in 1842, and no alterations were made in it +subsequently to the edition of 1850; except that in the Selections +published in 1865 in the third stanza the reading was “half in ruin” +for “in the distance”. This poem, as Tennyson explained, was not +autobiographic but purely imaginary, “representing young life, its good +side, its deficiences and its yearnings”. The poem, he added, was +written in Trochaics because the elder Hallam told him that the English +people liked that metre. The hero is a sort of preliminary sketch of +the hero in _Maud_, the position and character of each being very +similar: both are cynical and querulous, and break out into tirades +against their kind and society; both have been disappointed in love, +and both find the same remedy for their afflictions by mixing +themselves with action and becoming “one with their kind”. + +_Locksley Hall_ was suggested, as Tennyson acknowledged, by Sir William +Jones’ translation of the old Arabian Moâllakât, a collection from the +works of pre-Mahommedan poets. See Sir William Jones’ works, quarto +edition, vol. iv., pp. 247-57. But only one of these poems, namely the +poem of Amriolkais, could have immediately influenced him. In this the +poet supposes himself attended on a journey by a company of friends, +and they pass near a place where his mistress had lately lived, but +from which her tribe had then removed. He desires them to stop awhile, +that he may weep over the deserted remains of her tent. They comply +with his request, but exhort him to show more strength of mind, and +urge two topics of consolation, namely, that he had before been equally +unhappy and that he had enjoyed his full share of pleasures. Thus by +the recollection of his past delights his imagination is kindled and +his grief suspended. But Tennyson’s chief indebtedness is rather in the +oriental colouring given to his poem, chiefly in the sentiment and +imagery. Thus in the couplet— + +Many a night I saw the Pleiads rising through the mellow shade +Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangl’d in a silver braid, + + +we are reminded of “It was the hour when the Pleiads appeared in the +firmament like the folds of a silken sash variously decked with gems”. + + +Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn: +Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. + +’Tis the place, and all around it,[1] as of old, the curlews call, +Dreary gleams[2] about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; + +Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, +And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. + +Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, +Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. + +Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade, +Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. + +Here about the beach I wander’d, nourishing a youth sublime +With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; + +When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; +When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: + +When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; +Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.— + +In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s[3] breast; +In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; + +In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove; +In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. + +Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, +And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. + +And I said, “My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, +Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.” + +On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, +As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. + +And she turn’d—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs— +All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes— + +Saying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong”; +Saying, “Dost thou love me, cousin?” weeping, “I have loved thee long”. + +Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands; +Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.[4] + +Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; +Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass’d in music out of sight. + +Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, +And her whisper throng’d my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. + +Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, +And our spirits rush’d together at the touching of the lips.[5] + +O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! +O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! + +Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, +Puppet to a father’s threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! + +Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me—to decline +On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! + +Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day, +What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. + +As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, +And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. + +He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, +Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. + +What is this? his eyes are heavy: think not they are glazed with wine. +Go to him: it is thy duty: kiss him: take his hand in thine. + +It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: +Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. + +He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand— +Better thou wert dead before me, tho’ I slew thee with my hand! + +Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart’s disgrace, +Roll’d in one another’s arms, and silent in a last embrace. + +Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! +Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! + +Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature’s rule! +Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten’d forehead of the fool! + +Well—’tis well that I should bluster!—Hadst thou less unworthy proved— +Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. + +Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? +I will pluck it from my bosom, tho’ my heart be at the root. + +Never, tho’ my mortal summers to such length of years should come +As the many-winter’d crow that leads the clanging rookery home.[6] + +Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? +Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? + +I remember one that perish’d: sweetly did she speak and move: +Such a one do I remember, whom to look it was to love. + +Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? +No—she never loved me truly: love is love for evermore. + +Comfort? comfort scorn’d of devils! this is truth the poet sings, +That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow[7] is remembering happier things. + +Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, +In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. + +Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, +Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. + +Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, +To thy widow’d marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. + +Thou shalt hear the “Never, never,” whisper’d by the phantom years, +And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; + +And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. +Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. + +Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry, +’Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. + +Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. +Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother’s breast. + +O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. +Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. + +O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, +With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter’s heart. + +“They were dangerous guides the feelings—she herself was not exempt— +Truly, she herself had suffer’d”—Perish in thy self-contempt! + +Overlive it—lower yet—be happy! wherefore should I care, +I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. + +What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? +Every door is barr’d with gold, and opens but to golden keys. + +Every gate is throng’d with suitors, all the markets overflow. +I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? + +I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman’s ground, +When the ranks are roll’d in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. + +But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, +And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other’s heels. + +Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. +Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! + +Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, +When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; + +Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father’s field, + +And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, +Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn;[8] + +And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, +Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; + +Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: +That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: + +For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;[9] + +Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, +Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;[10] + +Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain’d a ghastly dew +From the nations’ airy navies grappling in the central blue;[10] + +Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, +With the standards of the peoples plunging thro’ the thunderstorm;[10] + +Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furl’d +In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.[10] + + +There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, +And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. + +So I triumph’d, ere my passion sweeping thro’ me left me dry, +Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; + +Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint, +Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point: + +Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,[11] +Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. + +Yet I doubt not thro’ the ages one increasing purpose runs, +And the thoughts of men are widen’d with the process of the suns. + +What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, +Tho’ the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy’s? + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, +And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, +Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. + +Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, +They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: + +Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder’d string? +I am shamed thro’ all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. + +Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman’s pleasure, woman’s pain—[12] +Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: + +Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match’d with mine, +Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— + +Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat +Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; + +Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr’d;— +I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle’s ward. + +Or to burst all links of habit—there to wander far away, +On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. + +Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, +Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise.[13] + +Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, +Slides the bird o’er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer[14] from the +crag; + +Droops the heavy-blossom’d bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree— +Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. + +There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, +In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. + +There the passions cramp’d no longer shall have scope and +breathing-space; +I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. + +Iron-jointed, supple-sinew’d, they shall dive, and they shall run, +Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; + +Whistle back the parrot’s call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks. +Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books— + +Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I _know_ my words are wild, +But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. + +_I_, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains,[15] +Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! + +Mated with a squalid savage—what to me were sun or clime? +I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time— + +I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, +Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua’s moon in Ajalon! + +Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range. +Let the great world spin[16] for ever down the ringing grooves[17] of +change. + +Thro’ the shadow of the globe[18] we sweep into the younger day: +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.[19] + +Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: +Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the +Sun—[20] + +O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. +Ancient founts of inspiration well thro’ all my fancy yet. + +Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! +Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. + +Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, +Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. + +Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; +For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. + + [1] 1842. And round the gables. + + + [2] “Gleams,” it appears, is a Lincolnshire word for the cry of the + curlew, and so by removing the comma after call we get an + interpretation which perhaps improves the sense and certainly gets rid + of a very un-Tennysonian cumbrousness in the second line. But Tennyson + had never, he said, heard of that meaning of “gleams,” adding he + wished he had. He meant nothing more in the passage than “to express + the flying gleams of light across a dreary moorland when looking at it + under peculiarly dreary circumstances”. See for this, _Life_, iii., + 82. + + + [3] 1842 and all up to and including 1850 have a capital _R_ to robin. + + + [4] Cf. W. R. Spencer (_Poems_, p. 166):— + +What eye with clear account remarks +The ebbing of his glass, +When all its sands are diamond sparks +That dazzle as they pass. + +But this is of course in no way parallel to Tennyson’s subtly beautiful +image, which he himself pronounced to be the best simile he had ever +made. + + + [5] Cf. Guarini, _Pastor Fido_:— + +Ma i colpi di due labbre innamorate +Quando a ferir si va bocca con bocca, +... ove l’ un alma e l’altra Corre. + + + [6] _Cf._ Horace’s _Annosa Cornix_, Odes III., xvii., 13. + + + [7] The reference is to Dante, _Inferno_, v. 121-3:— + +Nessun maggior dolore +Che ricordarsi del tempo felice +Nella miseria. + +For the pedigree and history of this see the present editor’s +_Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 63. + + + [8] The epithet “dreary” shows that Tennyson preferred realistic + picturesqueness to dramatic propriety. + + + [9] See the introductory note to _The Golden Year_. + + + [10] + +See the introductory note to _The Golden Year_. + + + [11] Tennyson said that this simile was suggested by a passage in + _Pringle’s Travels;_ the incident only is described, and with + thrilling vividness, by Pringle; but its application in simile is + Tennyson’s. See _A Narrative of a Residence in South Africa_, by + Thomas Pringle, p. 39: + +“The night was extremely dark and the rain fell so heavily that in +spite of the abundant supply of dry firewood, which we had luckily +provided, it was not without difficulty that we could keep one +watchfire burning.... About midnight we were suddenly roused by the +roar of a lion close to our tents. It was so loud and tremendous that +for the moment I actually thought that a thunderstorm had burst upon +us.... We roused up the half-extinguished fire to a roaring blaze ... +this unwonted display probably daunted our grim visitor, for he gave us +no further trouble that night.” + + + [12] With this _cf_. Leopardi, _Aspasia_, 53-60:— + +Non cape in quelle +Anguste fronti ugual concetto. E male +Al vivo sfolgora di quegli sguardi +Spera l’uomo ingannato, e mal chiede +Sensi profondi, sconosciuti, è molto +Più che virili, in chi dell’ uomo al tutto +Da natura è minor. Che se più molli +E più tenui le membra, essa la mente +Men capace e men forte anco riceve. + + + [13] One wonders Tennyson could have had the heart to excise the + beautiful couplet which in his MS. followed this stanza. + +All about a summer ocean, leagues on leagues of golden calm, +And within melodious waters rolling round the knolls of palm. + + + [14] 1842 and all up to and inclusive of 1850. Droops the trailer. + This is one of Tennyson’s many felicitous corrections. In the + monotonous, motionless splendour of a tropical landscape the smallest + movement catches the eye, the flight of a bird, the gentle waving of + the trailer stirred by the breeze from the sea. + + + [15] _Cf_. Shakespeare, “foreheads villainously low”. + + + [16] 1842. Peoples spin. + + + [17] Tennyson tells us that when he travelled by the first train from + Liverpool to Manchester in 1830 it was night and he thought that the + wheels ran in a groove, hence this line. + + + [18] 1842. The world. + + + [19] Cathay, the old name for China. + + + [20] _Cf_. Tasso, _Gems_, ix., st. 91:— + +Nuova nube di polve ecco vicina +Che fulgori in grembo tiene. + +(Lo! a fresh cloud of dust is near which +Carries in its breast thunderbolts.) + + + + +Godiva + +First published in 1842. No alteration was made in any subsequent +edition. + +The poem was written in 1840 when Tennyson was returning from Coventry +to London, after his visit to Warwickshire in that year. The Godiva +pageant takes place in that town at the great fair on Friday in Trinity +week. Earl Leofric was the Lord of Coventry in the reign of Edward the +Confessor, and he and his wife Godiva founded a magnificent Benedictine +monastery at Coventry. The first writer who mentions this legend is +Matthew of Westminster, who wrote in 1307, that is some 250 years after +Leofric’s time, and what authority he had for it is not known. It is +certainly not mentioned by the many preceding writers who have left +accounts of Leofric and Godiva (see Gough’s edition of Camden’s +_Britannia_, vol. ii., p. 346, and for a full account of the legend see +W. Reader, _The History and Description of Coventry Show Fair, with the +History of Leofric and Godiva_). With Tennyson’s should be compared +Moultrie’s beautiful poem on the same subject, and Landor’s Imaginary +Conversation between Leofric and Godiva. + + +[1] _I waited for the train at Coventry; +I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, +To match the three tall spires;_[2] _and there I shaped +The city’s ancient legend into this:_ + Not only we, the latest seed of Time, +New men, that in the flying of a wheel +Cry down the past, not only we, that prate +Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, +And loathed to see them overtax’d; but she +Did more, and underwent, and overcame, +The woman of a thousand summers back, +Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled +In Coventry: for when he laid a tax +Upon his town, and all the mothers brought +Their children, clamouring, “If we pay, we starve!” +She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode +About the hall, among his dogs, alone, +His beard a foot before him, and his hair +A yard behind. She told him of their tears, +And pray’d him, “If they pay this tax, they starve”. +Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, +“You would not let your little finger ache +For such as _these_?”—“But I would die,” said she. +He laugh’d, and swore by Peter and by Paul; +Then fillip’d at the diamond in her ear; +“O ay, ay, ay, you talk!”—“Alas!” she said, +“But prove me what it is I would not do.” +And from a heart as rough as Esau’s hand, +He answer’d, “Ride you naked thro’ the town, +And I repeal it”; and nodding as in scorn, +He parted, with great strides among his dogs. + So left alone, the passions of her mind, +As winds from all the compass shift and blow, +Made war upon each other for an hour, +Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, +And bad him cry, with sound of trumpet, all +The hard condition; but that she would loose +The people: therefore, as they loved her well, +From then till noon no foot should pace the street, +No eye look down, she passing; but that all +Should keep within, door shut, and window barr’d. + Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there +Unclasp’d the wedded eagles of her belt, +The grim Earl’s gift; but ever at a breath +She linger’d, looking like a summer moon +Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head, +And shower’d the rippled ringlets to her knee; +Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair +Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid +From pillar unto pillar, until she reach’d +The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt +In purple blazon’d with armorial gold. + Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity: +The deep air listen’d round her as she rode, +And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. +The little wide-mouth’d heads upon the spout +Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur +Made her cheek flame: her palfrey’s footfall shot +Light horrors thro’ her pulses: the blind walls +Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead +Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she +Not less thro’ all bore up, till, last, she saw +The white-flower’d elder-thicket from the field +Gleam thro’ the Gothic archways[3] in the wall. + Then she rode back cloth’d on with chastity: +And one low churl,[4] compact of thankless earth, +The fatal byword of all years to come, +Boring a little auger-hole in fear, +Peep’d—but his eyes, before they had their will, +Were shrivell’d into darkness in his head, +And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait +On noble deeds, cancell’d a sense misused; +And she, that knew not, pass’d: and all at once, +With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon +Was clash’d and hammer’d from a hundred towers,[5] +One after one: but even then she gain’d +Her bower; whence reissuing, robed and crown’d, +To meet her lord, she took the tax away, +And built herself an everlasting name. + + [1] These four lines are not in the privately printed volume of 1842, + but were added afterwards. + + + [2] St. Michael’s, Trinity, and St. John. + + + [3] 1844. Archway. + + + [4] His effigy is still to be seen, protruded from an upper window in + High Street, Coventry. + + + [5] A most poetical licence. Thirty-two towers are the very utmost + allowed by writers on ancient Coventry. + + + + +The Two Voices + +First published in 1842, though begun as early as 1833 and in course of +composition in 1834. See Spedding’s letter dated 19th September, 1834. +Its original title was _The Thoughts of a Suicide_. No alterations were +made in the poem after 1842. + +It adds interest to this poem to know that it is autobiographical. It +was written soon after the death of Arthur Hallam when Tennyson’s +depression was deepest. “When I wrote _The Two Voices_ I was so utterly +miserable, a burden to myself and to my family, that I said, ‘Is life +worth anything?’” It is the history—as Spedding put it—of the +agitations, the suggestions and counter-suggestions of a mind sunk in +hopeless despondency, and meditating self-destruction, together with +the manner of its recovery to a more healthy condition. We have two +singularly interesting parallels to it in preceding poetry. The one is +in the third book of Lucretius (830-1095), where the arguments for +suicide are urged, not merely by the poet himself, but by arguments +placed by him in the mouth of Nature herself, and urged with such +cogency that they are said to have induced one of his editors and +translators, Creech, to put an end to his life. The other is in +Spenser, in the dialogue between Despair and the Red Cross Knight, +where Despair puts the case for self-destruction, and the Red Cross +Knight rebuts the arguments (_Faerie Queene_, I. ix., st. +xxxviii.-liv.). + + +A still small voice spake unto me, +“Thou art so full of misery, +Were it not better not to be?” + +Then to the still small voice I said; +“Let me not cast in endless shade +What is so wonderfully made”. + +To which the voice did urge reply; +“To-day I saw the dragon-fly +Come from the wells where he did lie. + +“An inner impulse rent the veil +Of his old husk: from head to tail +Came out clear plates of sapphire mail. + +“He dried his wings: like gauze they grew: +Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew +A living flash of light he flew.” + +I said, “When first the world began +Young Nature thro’ five cycles ran, +And in the sixth she moulded man. + +“She gave him mind, the lordliest +Proportion, and, above the rest, +Dominion in the head and breast.” + +Thereto the silent voice replied; +“Self-blinded are you by your pride: +Look up thro’ night: the world is wide. + +“This truth within thy mind rehearse, +That in a boundless universe +Is boundless better, boundless worse. + +“Think you this mould of hopes and fears +Could find no statelier than his peers +In yonder hundred million spheres?” + +It spake, moreover, in my mind: +“Tho’ thou wert scatter’d to the wind, +Yet is there plenty of the kind”. + +Then did my response clearer fall: +“No compound of this earthly ball +Is like another, all in all”. + +To which he answer’d scoffingly; +“Good soul! suppose I grant it thee, +Who’ll weep for thy deficiency? + +“Or will one beam[1] be less intense, +When thy peculiar difference +Is cancell’d in the world of sense?” + +I would have said, “Thou canst not know,” +But my full heart, that work’d below, +Rain’d thro’ my sight its overflow. + +Again the voice spake unto me: +“Thou art so steep’d in misery, +Surely ’twere better not to be. + +“Thine anguish will not let thee sleep, +Nor any train of reason keep: +Thou canst not think, but thou wilt weep.” + +I said, “The years with change advance: +If I make dark my countenance, +I shut my life from happier chance. + +“Some turn this sickness yet might take, +Ev’n yet.” But he: “What drug can make +A wither’d palsy cease to shake?” + +I wept, “Tho’ I should die, I know +That all about the thorn will blow +In tufts of rosy-tinted snow; + +“And men, thro’ novel spheres of thought +Still moving after truth long sought, +Will learn new things when I am not.” + +“Yet,” said the secret voice, “some time, +Sooner or later, will gray prime +Make thy grass hoar with early rime. + +“Not less swift souls that yearn for light, +Rapt after heaven’s starry flight, +Would sweep the tracts of day and night. + +“Not less the bee would range her cells, +The furzy prickle fire the dells, +The foxglove cluster dappled bells.” + +I said that “all the years invent; +Each month is various to present +The world with some development. + +“Were this not well, to bide mine hour, +Tho’ watching from a ruin’d tower +How grows the day of human power?” + +“The highest-mounted mind,” he said, +“Still sees the sacred morning spread +The silent summit overhead. + +“Will thirty seasons render plain +Those lonely lights that still remain, +Just breaking over land and main? + +“Or make that morn, from his cold crown +And crystal silence creeping down, +Flood with full daylight glebe and town? + +“Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let +Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set +In midst of knowledge, dream’d not yet. + +“Thou hast not gain’d a real height, +Nor art thou nearer to the light, +Because the scale is infinite. + +“’Twere better not to breathe or speak, +Than cry for strength, remaining weak, +And seem to find, but still to seek. + +“Moreover, but to seem to find +Asks what thou lackest, thought resign’d, +A healthy frame, a quiet mind.” + +I said, “When I am gone away, +‘He dared not tarry,’ men will say, +Doing dishonour to my clay.” + +“This is more vile,” he made reply, +“To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, +Than once from dread of pain to die. + +“Sick art thou—a divided will +Still heaping on the fear of ill +The fear of men, a coward still. + +“Do men love thee? Art thou so bound +To men, that how thy name may sound +Will vex thee lying underground? + +“The memory of the wither’d leaf +In endless time is scarce more brief +Than of the garner’d Autumn-sheaf. + +“Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; +The right ear, that is fill’d with dust, +Hears little of the false or just.” + +“Hard task, to pluck resolve,” I cried, +“From emptiness and the waste wide +Of that abyss, or scornful pride! + +“Nay—rather yet that I could raise +One hope that warm’d me in the days +While still I yearn’d for human praise. + +“When, wide in soul, and bold of tongue, +Among the tents I paused and sung, +The distant battle flash’d and rung. + +“I sung the joyful Paean clear, +And, sitting, burnish’d without fear +The brand, the buckler, and the spear— + +“Waiting to strive a happy strife, +To war with falsehood to the knife, +And not to lose the good of life— + +“Some hidden principle to move, +To put together, part and prove, +And mete the bounds of hate and love— + +“As far as might be, to carve out +Free space for every human doubt, +That the whole mind might orb about— + +“To search thro’ all I felt or saw, +The springs of life, the depths of awe, +And reach the law within the law: + +“At least, not rotting like a weed, +But, having sown some generous seed, +Fruitful of further thought and deed, + +“To pass, when Life her light withdraws, +Not void of righteous self-applause, +Nor in a merely selfish cause— + +“In some good cause, not in mine own, +To perish, wept for, honour’d, known, +And like a warrior overthrown; + +“Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, +When, soil’d with noble dust, he hears +His country’s war-song thrill his ears: + +“Then dying of a mortal stroke, +What time the foeman’s line is broke. +And all the war is roll’d in smoke.”[2] + +“Yea!” said the voice, “thy dream was good, +While thou abodest in the bud. +It was the stirring of the blood. + +“If Nature put not forth her power[2] +About the opening of the flower, +Who is it that could live an hour? + +“Then comes the check, the change, the fall. +Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. +There is one remedy for all. + +“Yet hadst thou, thro’ enduring pain, +Link’d month to month with such a chain +Of knitted purport, all were vain. + +“Thou hadst not between death and birth +Dissolved the riddle of the earth. +So were thy labour little worth. + +“That men with knowledge merely play’d, +I told thee—hardly nigher made, +Tho’ scaling slow from grade to grade; + +“Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, +Named man, may hope some truth to find, +That bears relation to the mind. + +“For every worm beneath the moon +Draws different threads, and late and soon +Spins, toiling out his own cocoon. + +“Cry, faint not: either Truth is born +Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, +Or in the gateways of the morn. + +“Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope +Beyond the furthest nights of hope, +Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope. + +“Sometimes a little corner shines, +As over rainy mist inclines +A gleaming crag with belts of pines. + +“I will go forward, sayest thou, +I shall not fail to find her now. +Look up, the fold is on her brow. + +“If straight thy track, or if oblique, +Thou know’st not. Shadows thou dost strike, +Embracing cloud, Ixion-like; + +“And owning but a little more +Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, +Calling thyself a little lower + +“Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! +Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? +There is one remedy for all.” + +“O dull, one-sided voice,” said I, +“Wilt thou make everything a lie, +To flatter me that I may die? + +“I know that age to age succeeds, +Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, +A dust of systems and of creeds. + +“I cannot hide that some have striven, +Achieving calm, to whom was given +The joy that mixes man with Heaven: + +“Who, rowing hard against the stream, +Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, +And did not dream it was a dream”; + +“But heard, by secret transport led,[3] +Ev’n in the charnels of the dead, +The murmur of the fountain-head— + +“Which did accomplish their desire,— +Bore and forbore, and did not tire, +Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. + +“He heeded not reviling tones, +Nor sold his heart to idle moans, +Tho’ cursed and scorn’d, and bruised with stones: + +“But looking upward, full of grace, +He pray’d, and from a happy place +God’s glory smote him on the face.” + +The sullen answer slid betwixt: +“Not that the grounds of hope were fix’d, +The elements were kindlier mix’d.”[4] + +I said, “I toil beneath the curse, +But, knowing not the universe, +I fear to slide from bad to worse.[5]> + +“And that, in seeking to undo +One riddle, and to find the true, +I knit a hundred others new: + +“Or that this anguish fleeting hence, +Unmanacled from bonds of sense, +Be fix’d and froz’n to permanence: + +“For I go, weak from suffering here; +Naked I go, and void of cheer: +What is it that I may not fear?” + +“Consider well,” the voice replied, +“His face, that two hours since hath died; +Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride? + +“Will he obey when one commands? +Or answer should one press his hands? +He answers not, nor understands. + +“His palms are folded on his breast: +There is no other thing express’d +But long disquiet merged in rest. + +“His lips are very mild and meek: +Tho’ one should smite him on the cheek, +And on the mouth, he will not speak. + +“His little daughter, whose sweet face +He kiss’d, taking his last embrace, +Becomes dishonour to her race— + +“His sons grow up that bear his name, +Some grow to honour, some to shame,— +But he is chill to praise or blame.[6] + +“He will not hear the north wind rave, +Nor, moaning, household shelter crave +From winter rains that beat his grave. + +“High up the vapours fold and swim: +About him broods the twilight dim: +The place he knew forgetteth him.” + +“If all be dark, vague voice,” I said, +“These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, +Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. +“The sap dries up: the plant declines.[7] +A deeper tale my heart divines. +Know I not Death? the outward signs? + +“I found him when my years were few; +A shadow on the graves I knew, +And darkness in the village yew. + +“From grave to grave the shadow crept: +In her still place the morning wept: +Touch’d by his feet the daisy slept. + +“The simple senses crown’d his head:[8] +‘Omega! thou art Lord,’ they said; +‘We find no motion in the dead.’ + +“Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, +Should that plain fact, as taught by these, +Not make him sure that he shall cease? + +“Who forged that other influence, +That heat of inward evidence, +By which he doubts against the sense? + +“He owns the fatal gift of eyes,[9] +That read his spirit blindly wise, +Not simple as a thing that dies. + +“Here sits he shaping wings to fly: +His heart forebodes a mystery: +He names the name Eternity. + +“That type of Perfect in his mind +In Nature can he nowhere find. +He sows himself in every wind. + +“He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, +And thro’ thick veils to apprehend +A labour working to an end. + +“The end and the beginning vex +His reason: many things perplex, +With motions, checks, and counterchecks. + +“He knows a baseness in his blood +At such strange war with something good, +He may not do the thing he would. + +“Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. +Vast images in glimmering dawn, +Half shown, are broken and withdrawn. + +“Ah! sure within him and without, +Could his dark wisdom find it out, +There must be answer to his doubt. + +“But thou canst answer not again. +With thine own weapon art thou slain, +Or thou wilt answer but in vain. + +“The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. +In the same circle we revolve. +Assurance only breeds resolve.” + +As when a billow, blown against, +Falls back, the voice with which I fenced +A little ceased, but recommenced. + +“Where wert thou when thy father play’d +In his free field, and pastime made, +A merry boy in sun and shade? + +“A merry boy they called him then. +He sat upon the knees of men +In days that never come again, + +“Before the little ducts began +To feed thy bones with lime, and ran +Their course, till thou wert also man: + +“Who took a wife, who rear’d his race, +Whose wrinkles gather’d on his face, +Whose troubles number with his days: + +“A life of nothings, nothing-worth, +From that first nothing ere his birth +To that last nothing under earth!” + +“These words,” I said, “are like the rest, +No certain clearness, but at best +A vague suspicion of the breast: + +“But if I grant, thou might’st defend +The thesis which thy words intend— +That to begin implies to end; + +“Yet how should I for certain hold,[10] +Because my memory is so cold, +That I first was in human mould? + +“I cannot make this matter plain, +But I would shoot, howe’er in vain, +A random arrow from the brain. + +“It may be that no life is found, +Which only to one engine bound +Falls off, but cycles always round. + +“As old mythologies relate, +Some draught of Lethe might await +The slipping thro’ from state to state. + +“As here we find in trances, men +Forget the dream that happens then, +Until they fall in trance again. + +“So might we, if our state were such +As one before, remember much, +For those two likes might meet and touch.[11] + +“But, if I lapsed from nobler place, +Some legend of a fallen race +Alone might hint of my disgrace; + +“Some vague emotion of delight +In gazing up an Alpine height, +Some yearning toward the lamps of night. + +“Or if thro’ lower lives I came— +Tho’ all experience past became +Consolidate in mind and frame— + +“I might forget my weaker lot; +For is not our first year forgot? +The haunts of memory echo not. + +“And men, whose reason long was blind, +From cells of madness unconfined,[12] +Oft lose whole years of darker mind. + +“Much more, if first I floated free, +As naked essence, must I be +Incompetent of memory: + +“For memory dealing but with time, +And he with matter, could she climb +Beyond her own material prime? + +“Moreover, something is or seems, +That touches me with mystic gleams, +Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— + +“Of something felt, like something here; +Of something done, I know not where; +Such as no language may declare.” + +The still voice laugh’d. “I talk,” said he, +“Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee +Thy pain is a reality.” + +“But thou,” said I, “hast miss’d thy mark, +Who sought’st to wreck my mortal ark, +By making all the horizon dark. + +“Why not set forth, if I should do +This rashness, that which might ensue +With this old soul in organs new? + +“Whatever crazy sorrow saith, +No life that breathes with human breath +Has ever truly long’d for death. + +“’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, +Oh life, not death, for which we pant; +More life, and fuller, that I want.” + +I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. +Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, +“Behold it is the Sabbath morn”. + +And I arose, and I released +The casement, and the light increased +With freshness in the dawning east. + +Like soften’d airs that blowing steal, +When meres begin to uncongeal, +The sweet church bells began to peal. + +On to God’s house the people prest: +Passing the place where each must rest, +Each enter’d like a welcome guest. + +One walk’d between his wife and child, +With measur’d footfall firm and mild, +And now and then he gravely smiled. + +The prudent partner of his blood +Lean’d on him, faithful, gentle, good,[13] +Wearing the rose of womanhood. + +And in their double love secure, +The little maiden walk’d demure, +Pacing with downward eyelids pure. + +These three made unity so sweet, +My frozen heart began to beat, +Remembering its ancient heat. + +I blest them, and they wander’d on: +I spoke, but answer came there none: +The dull and bitter voice was gone. + +A second voice was at mine ear, +A little whisper silver-clear, +A murmur, “Be of better cheer”. + +As from some blissful neighbourhood, +A notice faintly understood, +“I see the end, and know the good”. + +A little hint to solace woe, +A hint, a whisper breathing low, +“I may not speak of what I know”. + +Like an Aeolian harp that wakes +No certain air, but overtakes +Far thought with music that it makes: + +Such seem’d the whisper at my side: +“What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?” I cried. +“A hidden hope,” the voice replied: + +So heavenly-toned, that in that hour +From out my sullen heart a power +Broke, like the rainbow from the shower, + +To feel, altho’ no tongue can prove +That every cloud, that spreads above +And veileth love, itself is love. + +And forth into the fields I went, +And Nature’s living motion lent +The pulse of hope to discontent. + +I wonder’d at the bounteous hours, +The slow result of winter showers: +You scarce could see the grass for flowers. + +I wonder’d, while I paced along: +The woods were fill’d so full with song, +There seem’d no room for sense of wrong. + +So variously seem’d all things wrought,[14] +I marvell’d how the mind was brought +To anchor by one gloomy thought; + +And wherefore rather I made choice +To commune with that barren voice, +Than him that said, “Rejoice! rejoice!” + + [1] The insensibility of Nature to man’s death has been the eloquent + theme of many poets. _Cf_. Byron, _Lara_, canto ii. _ad init_., and + Matthew Arnold, _The Youth of Nature_. + + + [2] +_Cf. Palace of Art_, “the riddle of the painful earth”. + + + [3] _Seq_. The reference is to Acts of the Apostles vii. 54-60. + + + [4] Suggested by Shakespeare, _Julius Cæsar_, Act v., Sc. 5:— + +and _the elements +So mix’d in_ him that Nature, etc. + + + [5] An excellent commentary on this is Clough’s + +_Perché pensa, pensando vecchia_. + + + [6] _Cf_. Job xiv. 21: + +“His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not; and they are brought +low, but he perceiveth it not of them.” + + + [7] So Bishop Butler, _Analogy_, ch. i.: + +“We cannot argue _from the reason of the thing_ that death is the +destruction of living agents because we know not at all what death is +in itself, but only some of its effects”. + + + [8] So Milton, enfolding this idea of death, _Paradise Lost_, ii., + 672-3:— + +What seemed his head +The _likeness_ of a kingly crown had on. + + + [9] _Cf_. Plato, _Phaedo_, x.:—ἆρα ἔχει ἀληθειάν τινα ὄψις τε καὶ ἀκοὴ + τοῖς ἀνθρώποις. ἤ τά γε τοιᾶυτα καὶ οἱ ποἱηταὶ ἡμὶν ἄει θρυλοῦσιν ὅτι + οὐτ ακούομεν ἀκριβὲς οὐδὲν οὔτε ὁρῶμεν. + +“Have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as poets are +always telling us, inaccurate witnesses?” + +“Have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as poets are +always telling us, inaccurate witnesses?” + +The proper commentary on the whole of this passage is Plato _passim_, +but the _Phaedo_ particularly, _cf. Republic_, vii., viii. and xiv.-xv. + + + [10] An allusion to the myth that when souls are sent to occupy a body + again they drink of Lethe that they may forget their previous + existence. See the famous passage towards the end of the tenth book of + Plato’s _Republic_: + +“All persons are compelled to drink a certain quantity of the water, +but those who are not preserved by prudence drink more than the +quantity, and each as he drinks forgets everything”. + +So Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ii., 582-4. + + + [11] The best commentary on this will be found in Herbert Spencer’s + _Psychology_. + + + [12] Compare with this Tennyson’s first sonnet (_Works_, Globe + Edition, 25), and the lines in the _Ancient Sage_ in the _Passion of + the Past_ (_Id_., 551). _Cf_. too the lines in Wordsworth’s ode on + _Intimations of Immortality_:— + +But there’s a tree, of many one, +A single field which I have looked upon, +Both of them speak of something that is gone; +The pansy at my feet +Doth the same tale repeat. + +For other remarkable illustrations of this see the present writer’s +_Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 38. + + + [13] _Cf_. Coleridge, _Ancient Mariner,_ iv.:— + +“O happy living things ... I blessed them +The self-same moment I could pray.” + +There is a close parallel between the former and the latter state +described here and in Coleridge’s mystic allegory; in both cases the +sufferers “wake to love,” the curse falling off them when they can +“bless”. + + + [14] 1884. And all so variously wrought (with semi-colon instead of + full stop at the end of the preceding line). + + + + +The Day-Dream + +First published in 1842, but written in 1835. In it is incorporated, +though with several alterations, _The Sleeping Beauty_, published among +the poems of 1830, but excised in subsequent editions. Half +extravaganza and half apologue, like the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, +this delightful poem may be safely left to deliver its own message and +convey its own meaning. It is an excellent illustration of the truth of +Tennyson’s own remark: “Poetry is like shot silk with many glancing +colours. Every reader must find his own interpretation according to his +ability, and according to his sympathy with the poet.” + +Prologue + +(No alteration has been made in the Prologue since 1842). + + + + +O, Lady Flora, let me speak: +A pleasant hour has past away +While, dreaming on your damask cheek, +The dewy sister-eyelids lay. +As by the lattice you reclined, +I went thro’ many wayward moods +To see you dreaming—and, behind, +A summer crisp with shining woods. +And I too dream’d, until at last +Across my fancy, brooding warm, +The reflex of a legend past, +And loosely settled into form. +And would you have the thought I had, +And see the vision that I saw, +Then take the broidery-frame, and add +A crimson to the quaint Macaw, +And I will tell it. Turn your face, +Nor look with that too-earnest eye— +The rhymes are dazzled from their place, +And order’d words asunder fly. + +The Sleeping Palace + +(No alteration since 1851.) + + +1 + + +The varying year with blade and sheaf +Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; +Here rests the sap within the leaf, +Here stays the blood along the veins. +Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d, +Faint murmurs from the meadows come, +Like hints and echoes of the world +To spirits folded in the womb. + +2 + + +Soft lustre bathes the range of urns +On every slanting terrace-lawn. +The fountain to his place returns +Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. +Here droops the banner on the tower, +On the hall-hearths the festal fires, +The peacock in his laurel bower, +The parrot in his gilded wires. + +3 + + +Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: +In these, in those the life is stay’d. +The mantles from the golden pegs +Droop sleepily: no sound is made, +Not even of a gnat that sings. +More like a picture seemeth all +Than those old portraits of old kings, +That watch the sleepers from the wall. + +4 + + +Here sits the Butler with a flask +Between his knees, half-drain’d; and there +The wrinkled steward at his task, +The maid-of-honour blooming fair: +The page has caught her hand in his: +Her lips are sever’d as to speak: +His own are pouted to a kiss: +The blush is fix’d upon her cheek. + +5 + + +Till all the hundred summers pass, +The beams, that thro’ the Oriel shine, +Make prisms in every carven glass, +And beaker brimm’d with noble wine. +Each baron at the banquet sleeps, +Grave faces gather’d in a ring. +His state the king reposing keeps. +He must have been a jovial king.[1] + +6 + + +All round a hedge upshoots, and shows +At distance like a little wood; +Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, +And grapes with bunches red as blood; +All creeping plants, a wall of green +Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, +And glimpsing over these, just seen, +High up, the topmost palace-spire. + +7 + + +When will the hundred summers die, +And thought and time be born again, +And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, +Bring truth that sways the soul of men? +Here all things in there place remain, +As all were order’d, ages since. +Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, +And bring the fated fairy Prince. + + [1] All editions up to and including 1851:—He must have been a jolly + king. + + + + +The Sleeping Beauty + +(First printed in 1830, but does not reappear again till 1842. No +alteration since 1842.) + + +1 + + +Year after year unto her feet, +She lying on her couch alone, +Across the purpled coverlet, +The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,[1] +On either side her tranced form +Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: +The slumbrous light is rich and warm, +And moves not on the rounded curl. + +2 + + +The silk star-broider’d[2]coverlid +Unto her limbs itself doth mould +Languidly ever; and, amid +Her full black ringlets downward roll’d, +Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm, +With bracelets of the diamond bright: +Her constant beauty doth inform +Stillness with love, and day with light. + +3 + + +She sleeps: her breathings are not heard +In palace chambers far apart.[3] +The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d +That lie upon her charmed heart. +She sleeps: on either hand[4] upswells +The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: +She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells +A perfect form in perfect rest. + + [1] 1830. + +The while she slumbereth alone, +_Over_ the purple coverlet, +The maiden’s jet-black hair hath grown. + + + [2] 1830. Star-braided. + + + [3] A writer in _Notes and Queries_, February, 1880, asks whether + these lines mean that the lovely princess did _not_ snore so loud that + she could be heard from one end of the palace to the other and whether + it would not have detracted from her charms had that state of things + been habitual. This brings into the field Dr. Gatty and other admirers + of Tennyson, who, it must be owned, are not very successful in giving + a satisfactory reply. + + + [4] 1830. Side. + + + + +The Arrival + +(No alteration after 1853.) + + + + +1 + + +All precious things, discover’d late, +To those that seek them issue forth; +For love in sequel works with fate, +And draws the veil from hidden worth. +He travels far from other skies +His mantle glitters on the rocks— +A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, +And lighter footed than the fox. + +2 + + +The bodies and the bones of those +That strove in other days to pass, +Are wither’d in the thorny close, +Or scatter’d blanching on[1]the grass. +He gazes on the silent dead: +“They perish’d in their daring deeds.” +This proverb flashes thro’ his head, +“The many fail: the one succeeds”. + +3 + + +He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: +He breaks the hedge: he enters there: +The colour flies into his cheeks: +He trusts to light on something fair; +For all his life the charm did talk +About his path, and hover near +With words of promise in his walk, +And whisper’d voices at his ear.[2] + +4 + + +More close and close his footsteps wind; +The Magic Music[3] in his heart +Beats quick and quicker, till he find +The quiet chamber far apart. +His spirit flutters like a lark, +He stoops—to kiss her—on his knee. +“Love, if thy tresses be so dark, +How dark those hidden eyes must be! + + [1] 1842 to 1851. In. + + + [2] All editions up to and including 1850. In his ear. + + + [3] All editions up to and including 1851. Not capitals in magic + music. + + + + +The Revival + +(No alteration after 1853.) + + +1 + + +A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt. +There rose a noise of striking clocks, +And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, +And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; +A fuller light illumined all, +A breeze thro’ all the garden swept, +A sudden hubbub shook the hall, +And sixty feet the fountain leapt. + +2 + + +The hedge broke in, the banner blew, +The butler drank, the steward scrawl’d, +The fire shot up, the martin flew, +The parrot scream’d, the peacock squall’d, +The maid and page renew’d their strife, +The palace bang’d, and buzz’d and clackt, +And all the long-pent stream of life +Dash’d downward in a cataract. + +3 + + +And last with these[1] the king awoke, +And in his chair himself uprear’d, +And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke, +“By holy rood, a royal beard! +How say you? we have slept, my lords, +My beard has grown into my lap.” +The barons swore, with many words, +’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap. + +4 + + +“Pardy,” return’d the king, “but still +My joints are something[2] stiff or so. +My lord, and shall we pass the bill +I mention’d half an hour ago?” +The chancellor, sedate and vain, +In courteous words return’d reply: +But dallied with his golden chain, +And, smiling, put the question by. + + [1] 1842 to 1851. And last of all. + + + [2] 1863. Somewhat. + + + + +The Departure + +(No alteration since 1842.) + + +1 + + +And on her lover’s arm she leant, +And round her waist she felt it fold, +And far across the hills they went +In that new world which is the old: +Across the hills and far away +Beyond their utmost purple rim, +And deep into the dying day +The happy princess follow’d him. + +2 + + +“I’d sleep another hundred years, +O love, for such another kiss;” +“O wake for ever, love,” she hears, +“O love, ’twas such as this and this.” +And o’er them many a sliding star, +And many a merry wind was borne, +And, stream’d thro’ many a golden bar, +The twilight melted into morn. + +3 + + +“O eyes long laid in happy sleep!” +“O happy sleep, that lightly fled!” +“O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!” +“O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!” +And o’er them many a flowing range +Of vapour buoy’d the crescent-bark, +And, rapt thro’ many a rosy change, +The twilight died into the dark. + +4 + + +“A hundred summers! can it be? +And whither goest thou, tell me where?” +“O seek my father’s court with me! +For there are greater wonders there.” +And o’er the hills, and far away +Beyond their utmost purple rim, +Beyond the night across the day, +Thro’ all the world she follow’d him. + +Moral + +(No alteration since 1842.) + + +1 + + +So, Lady Flora, take my lay, +And if you find no moral there, +Go, look in any glass and say, +What moral is in being fair. +Oh, to what uses shall we put +The wildweed-flower that simply blows? +And is there any moral shut +Within the bosom of the rose? + +2 + + +But any man that walks the mead, +In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, +According as his humours lead, +A meaning suited to his mind. +And liberal applications lie +In Art like Nature, dearest friend;[1] +So ’twere to cramp its use, if I +Should hook it to some useful end. + + [1] So Wordsworth:— + +O Reader! had you in your mind +Such stores as silent thought can bring, +O gentle Reader! you would find +A tale in everything. + +—_Simon Lee_. + + + + +L’Envoi + +(No alteration since 1843 except in numbering the stanzas.) + + +1 + + +You shake your head. A random string +Your finer female sense offends. +Well—were it not a pleasant thing +To fall asleep with all one’s friends; +To pass with all our social ties +To silence from the paths of men; +And every hundred years to rise +And learn the world, and sleep again; +To sleep thro’ terms of mighty wars, +And wake on science grown to more, +On secrets of the brain, the stars, +As wild as aught of fairy lore; +And all that else the years will show, +The Poet-forms of stronger hours, +The vast Republics that may grow, +The Federations and the Powers; +Titanic forces taking birth +In divers seasons, divers climes; +For we are Ancients of the earth, +And in the morning of the times. + +2 + + +So sleeping, so aroused from sleep +Thro’ sunny decads new and strange, +Or gay quinquenniads would we reap +The flower and quintessence of change. + +3 + + +Ah, yet would I—and would I might! +So much your eyes my fancy take— +Be still the first to leap to light +That I might kiss those eyes awake! +For, am I right or am I wrong, +To choose your own you did not care; +You’d have _my_ moral from the song, +And I will take my pleasure there: +And, am I right or am I wrong, +My fancy, ranging thro’ and thro’, +To search a meaning for the song, +Perforce will still revert to you; +Nor finds a closer truth than this +All-graceful head, so richly curl’d, +And evermore a costly kiss +The prelude to some brighter world. + +4 + + +For since the time when Adam first +Embraced his Eve in happy hour, +And every bird of Eden burst +In carol, every bud to flower, +What eyes, like thine, have waken’d hopes? +What lips, like thine, so sweetly join’d? +Where on the double rosebud droops +The fullness of the pensive mind; +Which all too dearly self-involved,[1] +Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; +A sleep by kisses undissolved, +That lets thee[2] neither hear nor see: +But break it. In the name of wife, +And in the rights that name may give, +Are clasp’d the moral of thy life, +And that for which I care to live. + + [1] 1842. The pensive mind that, self-involved. + + + [2] 1842. Which lets thee. + + + + +Epilogue + +(No alteration since 1842.) + + + + +So, Lady Flora, take my lay, +And, if you find a meaning there, +O whisper to your glass, and say, +“What wonder, if he thinks me fair?” +What wonder I was all unwise, +To shape the song for your delight +Like long-tail’d birds of Paradise, +That float thro’ Heaven, and cannot light? +Or old-world trains, upheld at court +By Cupid-boys of blooming hue— +But take it—earnest wed with sport, +And either sacred unto you. + + + + +Amphion + +First published in 1842. No alteration since 1850. + + +In this humorous allegory the poet bewails his unhappy lot on having +fallen on an age so unpropitious to poetry, contrasting it with the +happy times so responsive to his predecessors who piped to a world +prepared to dance to their music. However, he must toil and be +satisfied if he can make a little garden blossom. + + +My father left a park to me, +But it is wild and barren, +A garden too with scarce a tree +And waster than a warren: +Yet say the neighbours when they call, +It is not bad but good land, +And in it is the germ of all +That grows within the woodland. + +O had I lived when song was great +In days of old Amphion,[1] +And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, +Nor cared for seed or scion! +And had I lived when song was great, +And legs of trees were limber, +And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, +And fiddled in the timber! + +’Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, +Such happy intonation, +Wherever he sat down and sung +He left a small plantation; +Wherever in a lonely grove +He set up his forlorn pipes, +The gouty oak began to move, +And flounder into hornpipes. + +The mountain stirr’d its bushy crown, +And, as tradition teaches, +Young ashes pirouetted down +Coquetting with young beeches; +And briony-vine and ivy-wreath +Ran forward to his rhyming, +And from the valleys underneath +Came little copses climbing. + +The linden broke her ranks and rent +The woodbine wreathes that bind her, +And down the middle, buzz! she went, +With all her bees behind her.[2] +The poplars, in long order due, +With cypress promenaded, +The shock-head willows two and two +By rivers gallopaded. + +Came wet-shot alder from the wave, +Came yews, a dismal coterie; +Each pluck’d his one foot from the grave, +Poussetting with a sloe-tree: +Old elms came breaking from the vine, +The vine stream’d out to follow, +And, sweating rosin, plump’d the pine +From many a cloudy hollow. + +And wasn’t it a sight to see +When, ere his song was ended, +Like some great landslip, tree by tree, +The country-side descended; +And shepherds from the mountain-caves +Look’d down, half-pleased, half-frighten’d, +As dash’d about the drunken leaves +The random sunshine lighten’d! + +Oh, nature first was fresh to men, +And wanton without measure; +So youthful and so flexile then, +You moved her at your pleasure. +Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! +And make her dance attendance; +Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, +And scirrhous roots and tendons. + +’Tis vain! in such a brassy age +I could not move a thistle; +The very sparrows in the hedge +Scarce answer to my whistle; +Or at the most, when three-parts-sick +With strumming and with scraping, +A jackass heehaws from the rick, +The passive oxen gaping. + +But what is that I hear? a sound +Like sleepy counsel pleading: +O Lord!—’tis in my neighbour’s ground, +The modern Muses reading. +They read Botanic Treatises. +And works on Gardening thro’ there, +And Methods of transplanting trees +To look as if they grew there. + +The wither’d Misses! how they prose +O’er books of travell’d seamen, +And show you slips of all that grows +From England to Van Diemen. +They read in arbours clipt and cut, +And alleys, faded places, +By squares of tropic summer shut +And warm’d in crystal cases. + +But these, tho’ fed with careful dirt, +Are neither green nor sappy; +Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, +The spindlings look unhappy,[3] +Better to me the meanest weed +That blows upon its mountain, +The vilest herb that runs to seed +Beside its native fountain. + +And I must work thro’ months of toil, +And years of cultivation, +Upon my proper patch of soil +To grow my own plantation. +I’ll take the showers as they fall, +I will not vex my bosom: +Enough if at the end of all +A little garden blossom. + + [1] Amphion was no doubt capable of performing all the feats here + attributed to him, but there is no record of them; he appears to have + confined himself to charming the stones into their places when Thebes + was being built. Tennyson seems to have confounded him with Orpheus. + + + [2] Till 1857 these four lines ran thus:— + +The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, +The bramble cast her berry. +The gin within the juniper +Began to make him merry. + + + [3] All editions up to and including 1850. The poor things look + unhappy. + + + + +St. Agnes + +This exquisite little poem was first published in 1837 in the +_Keepsake_, an annual edited by Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, and was +included in the edition of 1842. No alteration has been made in it +since 1842. + +In 1857 the title was altered from “St. Agnes” to “St. Agnes’ Eve,” +thus bringing it near to Keats’ poem, which certainly influenced +Tennyson in writing it, as a comparison of the opening of the two poems +will show. The saint from whom the poem takes its name was a young girl +of thirteen who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian: she is a +companion to Sir Galahad. + + +Deep on the convent-roof the snows +Are sparkling to the moon: +My breath to heaven like vapour goes: +May my soul follow soon! +The shadows of the convent-towers +Slant down the snowy sward, +Still creeping with the creeping hours +That lead me to my Lord: +Make Thou[1] my spirit pure and clear +As are the frosty skies, +Or this first snowdrop of the year +That in[2] my bosom lies. + +As these white robes are soiled and dark, +To yonder shining ground; +As this pale taper’s earthly spark, +To yonder argent round; +So shows my soul before the Lamb, +My spirit before Thee; +So in mine earthly house I am, +To that I hope to be. +Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, +Thro’ all yon starlight keen, +Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, +In raiment white and clean. + +He lifts me to the golden doors; +The flashes come and go; +All heaven bursts her starry floors, +And strows[3] her lights below, +And deepens on and up! the gates +Roll back, and far within +For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,[4] +To make me pure of sin.[5] +The sabbaths of Eternity, +One sabbath deep and wide— +A light upon the shining sea— +The Bridegroom[6] with his bride! + + [1] In _Keepsake_: not capital in Thou. + + + [2] In _Keepsake_: On. + + + [3] In _Keepsake_: Strews. + + + [4] In _Keepsake_: not capitals in Heavenly and Bridegroom. + + + [5] In _Keepsake_: To wash me pure from sin. + + + [6] In _Keepsake_: capital in Bridegroom. + + + + +Sir Galahad + +Published in 1842. No alteration has been made in it since. This poem +may be regarded as a prelude to _The Holy Grail_. The character of +Galahad is deduced principally from the seventeenth book of the _Morte +d’Arthur_. In the twenty-second chapter of that book St. Joseph of +Arimathea says to him: “Thou hast resembled me in two things in that +thou hast seen the marvels of the sangreal, and in that thou has been a +clean maiden”. + + +My good blade carves the casques of men, +My tough lance thrusteth sure, +My strength is as the strength of ten, +Because my heart is pure. + +The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, +The hard brands shiver on the steel, +The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, +The horse and rider reel: + +They reel, they roll in clanging lists, +And when the tide of combat stands, +Perfume and flowers fall in showers, +That lightly rain from ladies’ hands. + +How sweet are looks that ladies bend +On whom their favours fall! +For them I battle till the end, +To save from shame and thrall: +But all my heart is drawn above, +My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: +I never felt the kiss of love, +Nor maiden’s hand in mine. +More bounteous aspects on me beam, +Me mightier transports move and thrill; +So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer +A virgin heart in work and will. + +When down the stormy crescent goes, +A light before me swims, +Between dark stems the forest glows, +I hear a noise of hymns: +Then by some secret shrine I ride; +I hear a voice, but none are there; +The stalls are void, the doors are wide, +The tapers burning fair. +Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, +The silver vessels sparkle clean, +The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, +And solemn chaunts resound between. + +Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres +I find a magic bark; +I leap on board: no helmsman steers: +I float till all is dark. +A gentle sound, an awful light! +Three angels bear the holy Grail: +With folded feet, in stoles of white, +On sleeping wings they sail. +Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! +My spirit beats her mortal bars, +As down dark tides the glory slides, +And star-like mingles with the stars. + +When on my goodly charger borne +Thro’ dreaming towns I go, +The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, +The streets are dumb with snow. +The tempest crackles on the leads, +And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; +But o’er the dark a glory spreads, +And gilds the driving hail. +I leave the plain, I climb the height; +No branchy thicket shelter yields; +But blessed forms in whistling storms +Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields. + +A maiden knight—to me is given +Such hope, I know not fear; +I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven +That often meet me here. +I muse on joy that will not cease, +Pure spaces clothed in living beams, +Pure lilies of eternal peace, +Whose odours haunt my dreams; +And, stricken by an angel’s hand, +This mortal armour that I wear, +This weight and size, this heart and eyes, +Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air. + +The clouds are broken in the sky, +And thro’ the mountain-walls +A rolling organ-harmony +Swells up, and shakes and falls. +Then move the trees, the copses nod, +Wings flutter, voices hover clear: +“O just and faithful knight of God! +Ride on! the prize is near”. +So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; +By bridge and ford, by park and pale, +All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, +Until I find the holy Grail. + + + + +Edward Gray + +First published in 1842 but written in or before 1840. See _Life_, i., +209. Not altered since. + + +Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town +Met me walking on yonder way, +“And have you lost your heart?” she said; +“And are you married yet, Edward Gray?” + +Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: +Bitterly weeping I turn’d away: +“Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more +Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. + +“Ellen Adair she loved me well, +Against her father’s and mother’s will: +To-day I sat for an hour and wept, +By Ellen’s grave, on the windy hill. + +“Shy she was, and I thought her cold; +Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; +Fill’d I was with folly and spite, +When Ellen Adair was dying for me. + +“Cruel, cruel the words I said! +Cruelly came they back to-day: +‘You’re too slight and fickle,’ I said, +‘To trouble the heart of Edward Gray’. + +“There I put my face in the grass— +Whisper’d, ‘Listen to my despair: +I repent me of all I did: +Speak a little, Ellen Adair!’ + +“Then I took a pencil, and wrote +On the mossy stone, as I lay, +‘Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; +And here the heart of Edward Gray!’ + +“Love may come, and love may go, +And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: +But I will love no more, no more, +Till Ellen Adair come back to me. + +“Bitterly wept I over the stone: +Bitterly weeping I turn’d away; +There lies the body of Ellen Adair! +And there the heart of Edward Gray!” + + + + +Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue + +made at The Cock. + + +First published 1842. The final text was that of 1853, which has not +been altered since, except that in stanza 29 the two “we’s” in the +first line and the “thy” in the third line are not in later editions +italicised. The Cock Tavern, No. 201 Fleet Street, on the north side of +Fleet Street, stood opposite the Temple and was of great antiquity, +going back nearly 300 years. Strype, bk. iv., h. 117, describes it as +“a noted public-house,” and Pepys’ _Diary_, 23rd April, 1668, speaks of +himself as having been “mighty merry there”. The old carved +chimney-piece was of the age of James I., and the gilt bird over the +portal was the work of Grinling Gibbons. When Tennyson wrote this poem +it was the favourite resort of templars, journalists and literary +people generally, as it had long been. But the old place is now a thing +of the past. On the evening of 10th April, 1886, it closed its doors +for ever after an existence of nearly 300 years. There is an admirable +description of it, signed A. J. M., in _Notes and Queries_, seventh +series, vol. i., 442-6. I give a short extract: + +“At the end of a long room beyond the skylight which, except a feeble +side window, was its only light in the daytime, was a door that led +past a small lavatory and up half a dozen narrow steps to the kitchen, +one of the strangest and grimmest old kitchens you ever saw. Across a +mighty hatch, thronged with dishes, you looked into it and beheld there +the white-jacketed man-cook, served by his two robust and red-armed +kitchen maids. For you they were preparing chops, pork chops in winter, +lamb chops in spring, mutton chops always, and steaks and sausages, and +kidneys and potatoes, and poached eggs and Welsh rabbits, and stewed +cheese, the special glory of the house. That was the _menu_ and men +were the only guests. But of late years, as innovations often precede a +catastrophe, two new things were introduced, vegetables and women. Both +were respectable and both were good, but it was felt, especially by the +virtuous Smurthwaite, that they were _de trop_ in a place so masculine +and so carnivorous.” + + +O plump head-waiter at The Cock, +To which I most resort, +How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock. +Go fetch a pint of port: +But let it not be such as that +You set before chance-comers, +But such whose father-grape grew fat +On Lusitanian summers. + +No vain libation to the Muse, +But may she still be kind, +And whisper lovely words, and use +Her influence on the mind, +To make me write my random rhymes, +Ere they be half-forgotten; +Nor add and alter, many times, +Till all be ripe and rotten. + +I pledge her, and she comes and dips +Her laurel in the wine, +And lays it thrice upon my lips, +These favour’d lips of mine; +Until the charm have power to make +New life-blood warm the bosom, +And barren commonplaces break +In full and kindly[1] blossom. + +I pledge her silent at the board; +Her gradual fingers steal +And touch upon the master-chord +Of all I felt and feel. +Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, +And phantom hopes assemble; +And that child’s heart within the man’s +Begins to move and tremble. + +Thro’ many an hour of summer suns +By many pleasant ways, +Against its fountain upward runs +The current of my days:[2] +I kiss the lips I once have kiss’d; +The gas-light wavers dimmer; +And softly, thro’ a vinous mist, +My college friendships glimmer. + +I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, +Unboding critic-pen, +Or that eternal want of pence, +Which vexes public men, +Who hold their hands to all, and cry +For that which all deny them— +Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, +And all the world go by them. +Ah yet, tho’[3] all the world forsake, +Tho’[3] fortune clip my wings, +I will not cramp my heart, nor take +Half-views of men and things. +Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; +There must be stormy weather; +But for some true result of good +All parties work together. + +Let there be thistles, there are grapes; +If old things, there are new; +Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, +Yet glimpses of the true. +Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, +We lack not rhymes and reasons, +As on this whirligig of Time[4] +We circle with the seasons. + +This earth is rich in man and maid; +With fair horizons bound: +This whole wide earth of light and shade +Comes out, a perfect round. +High over roaring Temple-bar, +And, set in Heaven’s third story, +I look at all things as they are, +But thro’ a kind of glory. + +Head-waiter, honour’d by the guest +Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, +The pint, you brought me, was the best +That ever came from pipe. +But tho’[5] the port surpasses praise, +My nerves have dealt with stiffer. +Is there some magic in the place? +Or do my peptics differ? + +For since I came to live and learn, +No pint of white or red +Had ever half the power to turn +This wheel within my head, + +Which bears a season’d brain about, +Unsubject to confusion, +Tho’[5] soak’d and saturate, out and out, +Thro’ every convolution. + +For I am of a numerous house, +With many kinsmen gay, +Where long and largely we carouse +As who shall say me nay: +Each month, a birthday coming on, +We drink defying trouble, +Or sometimes two would meet in one, +And then we drank it double; + +Whether the vintage, yet unkept, +Had relish, fiery-new, +Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, +As old as Waterloo; +Or stow’d (when classic Canning died) +In musty bins and chambers, +Had cast upon its crusty side +The gloom of ten Decembers. + +The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! +She answer’d to my call, +She changes with that mood or this, +Is all-in-all to all: +She lit the spark within my throat, +To make my blood run quicker, +Used all her fiery will, and smote +Her life into the liquor. + +And hence this halo lives about +The waiter’s hands, that reach +To each his perfect pint of stout, +His proper chop to each. +He looks not like the common breed +That with the napkin dally; +I think he came like Ganymede, +From some delightful valley. + +The Cock was of a larger egg +Than modern poultry drop, +Stept forward on a firmer leg, +And cramm’d a plumper crop; +Upon an ampler dunghill trod, +Crow’d lustier late and early, +Sipt wine from silver, praising God, +And raked in golden barley. + +A private life was all his joy, +Till in a court he saw +A something-pottle-bodied boy, +That knuckled at the taw: +He stoop’d and clutch’d him, fair and good, +Flew over roof and casement: +His brothers of the weather stood +Stock-still for sheer amazement. + +But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, +And follow’d with acclaims, +A sign to many a staring shire, +Came crowing over Thames. +Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore, +Till, where the street grows straiter,[6] +One fix’d for ever at the door, +And one became head-waiter. + +But whither would my fancy go? +How out of place she makes +The violet of a legend blow +Among the chops and steaks! +’Tis but a steward of the can, +One shade more plump than common; +As just and mere a serving-man +As any born of woman. + +I ranged too high: what draws me down +Into the common day? +Is it the weight of that half-crown, +Which I shall have to pay? +For, something duller than at first, +Nor wholly comfortable, +I sit (my empty glass reversed), +And thrumming on the table: + +Half-fearful that, with self at strife +I take myself to task; +Lest of the fullness of my life +I leave an empty flask: +For I had hope, by something rare, +To prove myself a poet; +But, while I plan and plan, my hair +Is gray before I know it. + +So fares it since the years began, +Till they be gather’d up; +The truth, that flies the flowing can, +Will haunt the vacant cup: +And others’ follies teach us not, +Nor much their wisdom teaches; +And most, of sterling worth, is what +Our own experience preaches. + +Ah, let the rusty theme alone! +We know not what we know. +But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone, +’Tis gone, and let it go. +’Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt +Away from my embraces, +And fall’n into the dusty crypt +Of darken’d forms and faces. + +Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went +Long since, and came no more; +With peals of genial clamour sent +From many a tavern-door, +With twisted quirks and happy hits, +From misty men of letters; +The tavern-hours of mighty wits— +Thine elders and thy betters. + +Hours, when the Poet’s words and looks +Had yet their native glow: +Not yet the fear of little books +Had made him talk for show: +But, all his vast heart sherris-warm’d, +He flash’d his random speeches; +Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm’d +His literary leeches. + +So mix for ever with the past, +Like all good things on earth! +For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, +At half thy real worth? +I hold it good, good things should pass: +With time I will not quarrel: +It is but yonder empty glass +That makes me maudlin-moral. + +Head-waiter of the chop-house here, +To which I most resort, +I too must part: I hold thee dear +For this good pint of port. +For this, thou shalt from all things suck +Marrow of mirth and laughter; +And, wheresoe’er thou move, good luck +Shall fling her old shoe after. + +But thou wilt never move from hence, +The sphere thy fate allots: +Thy latter days increased with pence +Go down among the pots: +Thou battenest by the greasy gleam +In haunts of hungry sinners, +Old boxes, larded with the steam +Of thirty thousand dinners. + +_We_ fret, _we_ fume, would shift our skins, +Would quarrel with our lot; +_Thy_ care is, under polish’d tins, +To serve the hot-and-hot; +To come and go, and come again, +Returning like the pewit, +And watch’d by silent gentlemen, +That trifle with the cruet. + +Live long, ere from thy topmost head +The thick-set hazel dies; +Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread +The corners of thine eyes: +Live long, nor feel in head or chest +Our changeful equinoxes, +Till mellow Death, like some late guest, +Shall call thee from the boxes. + +But when he calls, and thou shalt cease +To pace the gritted floor, +And, laying down an unctuous lease +Of life, shalt earn no more; +No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, +Shall show thee past to Heaven: +But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, +A pint-pot neatly graven. + + [1] 1842 and all previous to 1853. To full and kindly. + + + [2] All previous to 1853:— + +Like Hezekiah’s, backward runs +The shadow of my days. + + + [3] +All previous to 1853. Though. + + + [4] The expression is Shakespeare’s, _Twelfth Night_, v., i., + +“and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges”. + + + [5] +All previous to 1853. Though. + + + [6] 1842 to 1843. With motion less or greater. + + + + +To—— + +after reading a Life and Letters + + +Originally published in the _Examiner_ for 24th March, 1849; then in +the sixth edition of the poems, 1850, with the second part of the title +and the alterations noted. When reprinted in 1851 one more slight +alteration was made. It has not been altered since. The work referred +to was Moncton Milne’s (afterwards Lord Houghton) _Letters and Literary +Remains of Keats_ published in 1848, and the person to whom the poem +may have been addressed was Tennyson’s brother Charles, afterwards +Charles Tennyson Turner, to the facts of whose life and to whose +character it would exactly apply. See Napier,_Homes and Haunts of +Tennyson_, 48-50. But Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that it was most +probably addressed to some imaginary person, as neither he nor such of +Tennyson’s surviving friends as he kindly consulted for me are able to +identify the person. + + +You might have won the Poet’s name +If such be worth the winning now, +And gain’d a laurel for your brow +Of sounder leaf than I can claim; + +But you have made the wiser choice, +A life that moves to gracious ends +Thro’ troops of unrecording friends, +A deedful life, a silent voice: + +And you have miss’d the irreverent doom +Of those that wear the Poet’s crown: +Hereafter, neither knave nor clown +Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. + +For now the Poet cannot die +Nor leave his music as of old, +But round him ere he scarce be cold +Begins the scandal and the cry: + +“Proclaim the faults he would not show: +Break lock and seal: betray the trust: +Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but just +The many-headed beast should know”. + +Ah, shameless! for he did but sing. +A song that pleased us from its worth; +No public life was his on earth, +No blazon’d statesman he, nor king. + +He gave the people of his best: +His worst he kept, his best he gave. +My Shakespeare’s curse on[1] clown and knave +Who will not let his ashes rest! + +Who make it seem more sweet[2] to be +The little life of bank and brier, +The bird that pipes his lone desire +And dies unheard within his tree, + +Than he that warbles long and loud +And drops at Glory’s temple-gates, +For whom the carrion vulture waits +To tear his heart before the crowd! + + [1] In Examiner and in 1850. My curse upon the. + + + [2] In Examiner. Sweeter seem. For the sentiment _cf._ Goethe:— + +Ich singe, wie der Vogel singt +Der in den Zweigen wohnet; +Das Lied das aus dem Seele dringt +Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet. + +(_Der Sänger._) + + + + +To E. L. on his travels in Greece. + +This was first printed in 1853. It has not been altered since. The poem +was addressed to Edward Lear, the landscape painter, and refers to his +travels. + + +Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls +Of water, sheets of summer glass, +The long divine Peneian pass,[1] +The vast Akrokeraunian walls,[2] + +Tomohrit,[3] Athos, all things fair, +With such a pencil, such a pen, +You shadow forth to distant men, +I read and felt that I was there: + +And trust me, while I turn’d the page, +And track’d you still on classic ground, +I grew in gladness till I found +My spirits in the golden age. + +For me the torrent ever pour’d +And glisten’d—here and there alone +The broad-limb’d Gods at random thrown +By fountain-urns;-and Naiads oar’d + +A glimmering shoulder under gloom +Of cavern pillars; on the swell +The silver lily heaved and fell; +And many a slope was rich in bloom + +From him that on the mountain lea +By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, +To him who sat upon the rocks, +And fluted to the morning sea. + + [1] _Cf_. Lear’s description of Tempe: + +“It is not a vale, it is a narrow pass, and although extremely +beautiful on account of the precipitous rocks on each side, the Peneus +flowing deep in the midst between the richest overhanging plane woods, +still its character is distinctly that of a ravine.” + +(_Journal_, 409.) + + + [2] The Akrokeraunian walls: the promontory now called Glossa. + + + [3] Tomóhr, Tomorit, or Tomohritt is a lofty mountain in Albania not + far from Elbassan. Lear’s account of it is very graphic: “That calm + blue plain with Tomóhr in the midst like an azure island in a + boundless sea haunts my mind’s eye and varies the present with the + past”. + + + + +Lady Clare + +First published 1842. After 1851 no alterations were made. + +This poem was suggested by Miss Ferrier’s powerful novel _The +Inheritance_. A comparison with the plot of Miss Ferrier’s novel will +show with what tact and skill Tennyson has adapted the tale to his +ballad. Thomas St. Clair, youngest son of the Earl of Rossville, +marries a Miss Sarah Black, a girl of humble and obscure birth. He +dies, leaving a widow and as is supposed a daughter, Gertrude, who +claim the protection of Lord Rossville, as the child is heiress +presumptive to the earldom. On Lord Rossville’s death she accordingly +becomes Countess of Rossville. She has two lovers, both distant +connections, Colonel Delmour and Edward Lyndsay. At last it is +discovered that she was not the daughter of Thomas St. Clair and her +supposed mother, but of one Marion La Motte and Jacob Leviston, and +that Mrs. St. Clair had adopted her when a baby and passed her off as +her own child, that she might succeed to the title. Meanwhile Delmour +by the death of his elder brother succeeds to the title and estates +forfeited by the detected foundling, but instead of acting as +Tennyson’s Lord Ronald does, he repudiates her and marries a duchess. +But her other lover Lyndsay is true to her and marries her. Delmour not +long afterwards dies without issue, and Lyndsay succeeds to the title, +Gertrude then becoming after all Countess of Rossville. In details +Tennyson follows the novel sometimes very closely. Thus the “single +rose,” the poor dress, the bitter exclamation about her being a beggar +born, are from the novel. + +The 1842 and all editions up to and including 1850 begin with the +following stanza and omit stanza 2:— + +Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare, +I trow they did not part in scorn; +Lord Ronald, her cousin, courted her +And they will wed the morrow morn. + + + + +It was the time when lilies blow, +And clouds are highest up in air, +Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe +To give his cousin Lady Clare. + +I trow they did not part in scorn: +Lovers long-betroth’d were they: +They two will wed the morrow morn! +God’s blessing on the day! + +“He does not love me for my birth, +Nor for my lands so broad and fair; +He loves me for my own true worth, +And that is well,” said Lady Clare. + +In there came old Alice the nurse, +Said, “Who was this that went from thee?” +“It was my cousin,” said Lady Clare, +“To-morrow he weds with me.” + +“O God be thank’d!” said Alice the nurse, +“That all comes round so just and fair: +Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, +And you are not the Lady Clare.” + +“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?” +Said Lady Clare, “that ye speak so wild”; +“As God’s above,” said Alice the nurse, +“I speak the truth: you are my child. + +“The old Earl’s daughter died at my breast; +I speak the truth, as I live by bread! +I buried her like my own sweet child, +And put my child in her stead.” + +“Falsely, falsely have ye done, +O mother,” she said, “if this be true, +To keep the best man under the sun +So many years from his due.” + +“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, +“But keep the secret for your life, +And all you have will be Lord Ronald’s, +When you are man and wife.” + +“If I’m a beggar born,” she said, +“I will speak out, for I dare not lie. +Pull off, pull off, the broach[1] of gold, +And fling the diamond necklace by.” + +“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the nurse, +“But keep the secret all ye can.” +She said, “Not so: but I will know +If there be any faith in man”. + +“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice the nurse, +“The man will cleave unto his right.” +“And he shall have it,” the lady replied, +“Tho’[2] I should die to-night.” + +“Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! +Alas, my child, I sinn’d for thee.” +“O mother, mother, mother,” she said, +“So strange it seems to me. + +“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother dear, +My mother dear, if this be so, +And lay your hand upon my head, +And bless me, mother, ere I go.” + +She clad herself in a russet gown, +She was no longer Lady Clare: +She went by dale, and she went by down, +With a single rose in her hair. + +The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought +Leapt up from where she lay, +Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, +And follow’d her all the way.[3] + +Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: +“O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! +Why come you drest like a village maid, +That are the flower of the earth?” + +“If I come drest like a village maid, +I am but as my fortunes are: +I am a beggar born,” she said,[4] +“And not the Lady Clare.” + +“Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, +“For I am yours in word and in deed. +Play me no tricks,” said Lord Ronald, +“Your riddle is hard to read.” + +O and proudly stood she up! +Her heart within her did not fail: +She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, +And told him all her nurse’s tale. + +He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn: +He turn’d, and kiss’d her where she stood: +“If you are not the heiress born, +And I,” said he, “the next in blood— + +“If you are not the heiress born, +And I,” said he, “the lawful heir, +We two will wed to-morrow morn, +And you shall still be Lady Clare.” + + [1] All up to and including 1850. Brooch. + + + [2] All up to and including 1850. Though. + + + [3] The stanza beginning “The lily-white doe” is omitted in 1842 and + 1843, and in the subsequent editions up to and including 1850 begins + “A lily-white doe”. + + + [4] In a letter addressed to Tennyson the late Mr. Peter Bayne + ventured to object to the dramatic propriety of Lady Clare speaking of + herself as “a beggar born”. Tennyson defended it by saying: “You make + no allowance for the shock of the fall from being Lady Clare to + finding herself the child of a nurse”. But the expression is Miss + Ferrier’s: “Oh that she had suffered me to remain the beggar I was + born”; and again to her lover: “You have loved an impostor and a + beggar”. + + + + +The Lord of Burleigh + +Written, as we learn from _Life_, i., 182, by 1835. First published in +1842. No alteration since with the exception of “tho’” for “though”. + +This poem tells the well-known story of Sarah Hoggins who married under +the circumstances related in the poem. She died in January, 1797, +sinking, so it was said, but without any authority for such a +statement, under the burden of an honour “unto which she was not born”. +The story is that Henry Cecil, heir presumptive to his uncle, the ninth +Earl of Exeter, was staying at Bolas, a rural village in Shropshire, +where he met Sarah Hoggins and married her. They lived together at +Bolas, where the two eldest of his children were born, for two years +before he came into the title. She bore him two other children after +she was Countess of Exeter, dying at Burleigh House near Stamford at +the early age of twenty-four. The obituary notice runs thus: “January, +1797. At Burleigh House near Stamford, aged twenty-four, to the +inexpressible surprise and concern of all acquainted with her, the +Right Honbl. Countess of Exeter.” For full information about this +romantic incident see Walford’s _Tales of Great Families_, first +series, vol. i., 65-82, and two interesting papers signed W. O. Woodall +in _Notes and Queries_, seventh series, vol. xii., 221-23; _ibid_., +281-84, and Napier’s _Homes and Haunts of Tennyson_, 104-111. + + +In her ear he whispers gaily, +“If my heart by signs can tell, +Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily, +And I think thou lov’st me well”. +She replies, in accents fainter, +“There is none I love like thee”. +He is but a landscape-painter, +And a village maiden she. +He to lips, that fondly falter, +Presses his without reproof: +Leads her to the village altar, +And they leave her father’s roof. +“I can make no marriage present; +Little can I give my wife. +Love will make our cottage pleasant, +And I love thee more than life.” +They by parks and lodges going +See the lordly castles stand: +Summer woods, about them blowing, +Made a murmur in the land. +From deep thought himself he rouses, +Says to her that loves him well, +“Let us see these handsome houses +Where the wealthy nobles dwell”. +So she goes by him attended, +Hears him lovingly converse, +Sees whatever fair and splendid +Lay betwixt his home and hers; +Parks with oak and chestnut shady, +Parks and order’d gardens great, +Ancient homes of lord and lady, +Built for pleasure and for state. +All he shows her makes him dearer: +Evermore she seems to gaze +On that cottage growing nearer, +Where they twain will spend their days. +O but she will love him truly! +He shall have a cheerful home; +She will order all things duly, +When beneath his roof they come. +Thus her heart rejoices greatly, +Till a gateway she discerns +With armorial bearings stately, +And beneath the gate she turns; +Sees a mansion more majestic +Than all those she saw before: +Many a gallant gay domestic +Bows before him at the door. +And they speak in gentle murmur, +When they answer to his call, +While he treads with footstep firmer, +Leading on from hall to hall. +And, while now she wonders blindly, +Nor the meaning can divine, +Proudly turns he round and kindly, +“All of this is mine and thine”. +Here he lives in state and bounty, +Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, +Not a lord in all the county +Is so great a lord as he. +All at once the colour flushes +Her sweet face from brow to chin: +As it were with shame she blushes, +And her spirit changed within. +Then her countenance all over +Pale again as death did prove: +But he clasp’d her like a lover, +And he cheer’d her soul with love. +So she strove against her weakness, +Tho’ at times her spirits sank: +Shaped her heart with woman’s meekness +To all duties of her rank: +And a gentle consort made he, +And her gentle mind was such +That she grew a noble lady, +And the people loved her much. +But a trouble weigh’d upon her, +And perplex’d her, night and morn, +With the burthen of an honour +Unto which she was not born. +Faint she grew, and ever fainter, +As she murmur’d “Oh, that he +Were once more that landscape-painter +Which did win my heart from me!” +So she droop’d and droop’d before him, +Fading slowly from his side: +Three fair children first she bore him, +Then before her time she died. +Weeping, weeping late and early, +Walking up and pacing down, +Deeply mourn’d the Lord of Burleigh, +Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. +And he came to look upon her, +And he look’d at her and said, +“Bring the dress and put it on her, +That she wore when she was wed”. +Then her people, softly treading, +Bore to earth her body, drest +In the dress that she was wed in, +That her spirit might have rest. + + + + +Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere + +a fragment + + +First published in 1842. Not altered since 1853. + + +See for what may have given the hint for this fragment _Morte +D’Arthur_, bk. xix., ch. i., and bk. xx., ch. i., and _cf. Coming of +Arthur_:— + +And Launcelot pass’d away among the flowers, +For then was latter April, and return’d +Among the flowers in May with Guinevere. + + +Like souls that balance joy and pain, +With tears and smiles from heaven again +The maiden Spring upon the plain +Came in a sun-lit fall of rain. +In crystal vapour everywhere +Blue isles of heaven laugh’d between, +And, far in forest-deeps unseen, +The topmost elm-tree[1] gather’d green +From draughts of balmy air. + +Sometimes the linnet piped his song: +Sometimes the throstle whistled strong: +Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel’d along, +Hush’d all the groves from fear of wrong: +By grassy capes with fuller sound +In curves the yellowing river ran, +And drooping chestnut-buds began +To spread into the perfect fan, +Above the teeming ground. + +Then, in the boyhood of the year, +Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere +Rode thro’ the coverts of the deer, +With blissful treble ringing clear. +She seem’d a part of joyous Spring: +A gown of grass-green silk she wore, +Buckled with golden clasps before; +A light-green tuft of plumes she bore +Closed in a golden ring. + +Now on some twisted ivy-net, +Now by some tinkling rivulet, +In mosses mixt[2] with violet +Her cream-white mule his pastern set: +And fleeter now[3] she skimm’d the plains +Than she whose elfin prancer springs +By night to eery warblings, +When all the glimmering moorland rings +With jingling bridle-reins. + +As she fled fast thro’ sun and shade, +The happy winds upon her play’d, +Blowing the ringlet from the braid: +She look’d so lovely, as she sway’d +The rein with dainty finger-tips, +A man had given all other bliss, +And all his worldly worth for this, +To waste his whole heart in one kiss +Upon her perfect lips. + + [1] Up to 1848. Linden. + + + [2] All editions up to and including 1850. On mosses thick. + + + [3] 1842 to 1851. And now more fleet, + + + + +A Farewell + +First published in 1842. Not altered since 1843. + + +This poem was dedicated to the brook at Somersby described in the _Ode +to Memory_ and referred to so often in _In Memoriam_. Possibly it may +have been written in 1837 when the Tennysons left Somersby. _Cf. In +Memoriam_, sect. ci. + + +Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, +Thy tribute wave deliver: +No more by thee my steps shall be, +For ever and for ever. + +Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, +A rivulet then a river: +No where by thee my steps shall be, +For ever and for ever. + +But here will sigh thine alder tree, +And here thine aspen shiver; +And here by thee will hum the bee, +For ever and for ever. + +A thousand suns[1] will stream on thee, +A thousand moons will quiver; +But not by thee my steps shall be, +For ever and for ever. + + [1] 1842. A hundred suns + + + + +The Beggar Maid + +First published in 1842, not altered since. + + +Suggested probably by the fine ballad in Percy’s _Reliques_, first +series, book ii., ballad vi. + + +Her arms across her breast she laid; +She was more fair than words can say: +Bare-footed came the beggar maid +Before the king Cophetua. +In robe and crown the king stept down, +To meet and greet her on her way; +“It is no wonder,” said the lords, +“She is more beautiful than day”. + +As shines the moon in clouded skies, +She in her poor attire was seen: +One praised her ancles, one her eyes, +One her dark hair and lovesome mien: +So sweet a face, such angel grace, +In all that land had never been: +Cophetua sware a royal oath: +“This beggar maid shall be my queen!” + + + + +The Vision of Sin + +First published in 1842. No alteration made in it after 1851, except in +the insertion of a couplet afterwards omitted. + +This remarkable poem may be regarded as a sort of companion poem to +_The Palace of Art_; the one traces the effect of callous indulgence in +mere intellectual and æsthetic pleasures, the other of profligate +indulgence in the grosser forms of sensual enjoyment. At first all is +ecstasy and intoxication, then comes satiety, and all that satiety +brings in its train, cynicism, pessimism, the drying up of the very +springs of life. “The body chilled, jaded and ruined, the cup of +pleasure drained to the dregs, the senses exhausted of their power to +enjoy, the spirit of its wish to aspire, nothing left but loathing, +craving and rottenness.” See Spedding in _Edinburgh Review_ for April, +1843. The poem concludes by leaving as an answer to the awful question, +“can there be final salvation for the poor wretch?” a reply +undecipherable by man, and dawn breaking in angry splendour. The best +commentary on the poem would be Byron’s lyric: “There’s not a joy the +world can give like that it takes away,” and _Don Juan_, biography and +daily life are indeed full of comments on the truth of this fine +allegory. + + +1 + + +I had a vision when the night was late: +A youth came riding toward a palace-gate. +He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,[1] +But that his heavy rider kept him down. +And from the palace came a child of sin, +And took him by the curls, and led him in, +Where sat a company with heated eyes, +Expecting when a fountain should arise: +A sleepy light upon their brows and lips— +As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse, +Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes— +Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes, +By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes. + +2 + + +Then methought I heard a mellow sound, +Gathering up from all the lower ground;[2] +Narrowing in to where they sat assembled +Low voluptuous music winding trembled, +Wov’n in circles: they that heard it sigh’d, +Panted hand in hand with faces pale, +Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; +Till the fountain spouted, showering wide +Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail; +Then the music touch’d the gates and died; +Rose again from where it seem’d to fail, +Storm’d in orbs of song, a growing gale; +Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, +As ’twere a hundred-throated nightingale, +The strong tempestuous treble throbb’d and palpitated; +Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, +Caught the sparkles, and in circles, +Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, +Flung the torrent rainbow round: +Then they started from their places, +Moved with violence, changed in hue, +Caught each other with wild grimaces, +Half-invisible to the view, +Wheeling with precipitate paces +To the melody, till they flew, +Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, +Twisted hard in fierce embraces, +Like to Furies, like to Graces, +Dash’d together in blinding dew: +Till, kill’d with some luxurious agony, +The nerve-dissolving melody +Flutter’d headlong from the sky. + +3 + + +And then I look’d up toward a mountain-tract, +That girt the region with high cliff and lawn: +I saw that every morning, far withdrawn +Beyond the darkness and the cataract, +God made himself an awful rose of dawn,[3] +Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold, +From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near, +A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold, +Came floating on for many a month and year, +Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken, +And warn’d that madman ere it grew too late: +But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken, +When that cold vapour touch’d the palace-gate, +And link’d again. I saw within my head +A gray and gap-tooth’d man as lean as death, +Who slowly rode across a wither’d heath, +And lighted at a ruin’d inn, and said: + +4 + + +“Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! +Here is custom come your way; +Take my brute, and lead him in, +Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. + +“Bitter barmaid, waning fast! +See that sheets are on my bed; +What! the flower of life is past: +It is long before you wed. + +“Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, +At the Dragon on the heath! +Let us have a quiet hour, +Let us hob-and-nob with Death. + +“I am old, but let me drink; +Bring me spices, bring me wine; +I remember, when I think, +That my youth was half divine. + +“Wine is good for shrivell’d lips, +When a blanket wraps the day, +When the rotten woodland drips, +And the leaf is stamp’d in clay. + +“Sit thee down, and have no shame, +Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee: +What care I for any name? +What for order or degree? + +“Let me screw thee up a peg: +Let me loose thy tongue with wine: +Callest thou that thing a leg? +Which is thinnest? thine or mine? + +“Thou shalt not be saved by works: +Thou hast been a sinner too: +Ruin’d trunks on wither’d forks, +Empty scarecrows, I and you! + +“Fill the cup, and fill the can: +Have a rouse before the morn: +Every moment dies a man, +Every moment one is born.[4] + +“We are men of ruin’d blood; +Therefore comes it we are wise. +Fish are we that love the mud. +Rising to no fancy-flies. + +“Name and fame! to fly sublime +Thro’ the courts, the camps, the schools, +Is to be the ball of Time, +Bandied by the hands of fools. + +“Friendship!—to be two in one— +Let the canting liar pack! +Well I know, when I am gone, +How she mouths behind my back. + +“Virtue!—to be good and just— +Every heart, when sifted well, +Is a clot of warmer dust, +Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell. + +“O! we two as well can look +Whited thought and cleanly life +As the priest, above his book +Leering at his neighbour’s wife. + +“Fill the cup, and fill the can: +Have a rouse before the morn: +Every moment dies a man, +Every moment one is born.[4] + +“Drink, and let the parties rave: +They are fill’d with idle spleen; +Rising, falling, like a wave, +For they know not what they mean. + +“He that roars for liberty +Faster binds a tyrant’s[5] power; +And the tyrant’s cruel glee +Forces on the freer hour. + +“Fill the can, and fill the cup: +All the windy ways of men +Are but dust that rises up, +And is lightly laid again. + +“Greet her with applausive breath, +Freedom, gaily doth she tread; +In her right a civic wreath, +In her left a human head. + +“No, I love not what is new; +She is of an ancient house: +And I think we know the hue +Of that cap upon her brows. + +“Let her go! her thirst she slakes +Where the bloody conduit runs: +Then her sweetest meal she makes +On the first-born of her sons. + +“Drink to lofty hopes that cool— +Visions of a perfect State: +Drink we, last, the public fool, +Frantic love and frantic hate. + +“Chant me now some wicked stave, +Till thy drooping courage rise, +And the glow-worm of the grave +Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. + +“Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; +Set thy hoary fancies free; +What is loathsome to the young +Savours well to thee and me. + +“Change, reverting to the years, +When thy nerves could understand +What there is in loving tears, +And the warmth of hand in hand. + +“Tell me tales of thy first love— +April hopes, the fools of chance; +Till the graves begin to move, +And the dead begin to dance. + +“Fill the can, and fill the cup: +All the windy ways of men +Are but dust that rises up, +And is lightly laid again. + +“Trooping from their mouldy dens +The chap-fallen circle spreads: +Welcome, fellow-citizens, +Hollow hearts and empty heads! + +“You are bones, and what of that? +Every face, however full, +Padded round with flesh and fat, +Is but modell’d on a skull. + +“Death is king, and Vivat Rex! +Tread a measure on the stones, +Madam—if I know your sex, +From the fashion of your bones. + +“No, I cannot praise the fire +In your eye—nor yet your lip: +All the more do I admire +Joints of cunning workmanship. + +“Lo! God’s likeness—the ground-plan— +Neither modell’d, glazed, or framed: +Buss me thou rough sketch of man, +Far too naked to be shamed! + +“Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, +While we keep a little breath! +Drink to heavy Ignorance! +Hob-and-nob with brother Death! + +“Thou art mazed, the night is long, +And the longer night is near: +What! I am not all as wrong +As a bitter jest is dear. + +“Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, +When the locks are crisp and curl’d; +Unto me my maudlin gall +And my mockeries of the world. + +“Fill the cup, and fill the can! +Mingle madness, mingle scorn! +Dregs of life, and lees of man: +Yet we will not die forlorn.” + +5 + + +The voice grew faint: there came a further change: +Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range: +Below were men and horses pierced with worms, +And slowly quickening into lower forms; +By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, +Old plash of rains, and refuse patch’d with moss, +Then some one spake[6]: “Behold! it was a crime +Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time”. +[7]Another said: “The crime of sense became +The crime of malice, and is equal blame”. +And one: “He had not wholly quench’d his power; +A little grain of conscience made him sour”. +At last I heard a voice upon the slope +Cry to the summit, “Is there any hope?” +To which an answer peal’d from that high land. +But in a tongue no man could understand; +And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn +God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.[8] + + [1] A reference to the famous passage in the _Phoedrus_ where Plato + compares the soul to a chariot drawn by the two-winged steeds. + + + [2] Imitated apparently from the dance in Shelley’s _Triumph of + Life_:— + +The wild dance maddens in the van; and those +... +Mix with each other in tempestuous measure +To savage music, wilder as it grows. +They, tortur’d by their agonising pleasure, +Convuls’d, and on the rapid whirlwinds spun +... +Maidens and youths fling their wild arms in air. +As their feet twinkle, etc. + + + [3] See footnote to last line. + + + [4] +All up to and including 1850 read:— + +Every _minute_ dies a man, +Every _minute_ one is born. + +Mr. Babbage, the famous mathematician, is said to have addressed the +following letter to Tennyson in reference to this couplet:— +“I need hardly point out to you that this calculation would tend to +keep the sum total of the world’s population in a state of perpetual +equipoise, whereas it is a well-known fact that the said sum total is +constantly on the increase. I would therefore take the liberty of +suggesting that, in the next edition of your excellent poem, the +erroneous calculation to which I refer should be corrected as follows:— + +Every moment dies a man, +And one and a sixteenth is born. + +I may add that the exact figures are 1.167, but something must, of +course, be conceded to the laws of metre.” + + + [5] 1842 and 1843. The tyrant’s. + + + [6] 1842. Said. + + + [7] In the Selection published in 1865 Tennyson here inserted a + couplet which he afterwards omitted:— + +Another answer’d: “But a crime of sense!” +“Give him new nerves with old experience.” + + + [8] In Professor Tyndall’s reminiscences of Tennyson, inserted in + Tennyson’s _Life_, he says he once asked him for some explanation of + this line, and the poet’s reply was: + +“The power of explaining such concentrated expressions of the +imagination was very different from that of writing them”. + +And on another occasion he said very happily: + +“Poetry is like shot silk with many glancing colours. Every reader must +find his own interpretation, according to his ability, and according to +his sympathy with the poet”. + +Poetry in its essential forms always suggests infinitely more than it +expresses, and at once inspires and kindles the intelligence which is +to comprehend it; if that intelligence, which is perhaps only another +name for sympathy, does not exist, then, in Byron’s happy sarcasm:— + +“The gentle readers wax unkind, +And, not so studious for the poet’s ease, +Insist on knowing what he _means_, a hard +And hapless situation for a bard”. + +Possibly Tennyson may have had in his mind Keats’s line:— + +“There was an awful rainbow once in heaven” + + + + +Come not, when I am dead... + +First published in _The Keepsake_ for 1851. + + +Come not, when I am dead, +To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, +To trample round my fallen head, +And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. +There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; +But thou, go by.[1] + +Child, if it were thine error or thy crime +I care no longer, being all unblest: +Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,[2] +And I desire to rest. +Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: +Go by, go by. + + [1] _The Keepsake_:—But go thou by. + + + [2] _The Keepsake_ has a small _t_ for Time. + + + + +The Eagle + +(fragment) + + +First published in 1851. It has not been altered. + + +He clasps the crag with hooked hands; +Close to the sun in lonely lands, +Ring’d with the azure world, he stands. +The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;[1] +He watches from his mountain walls, +And like a thunderbolt he falls. + + [1] One of Tennyson’s most magically descriptive lines; nothing could + exceed the vividness of the words “wrinkled” and “crawls” here. + + + + +Move eastward, happy earth... + +First published in 1842. + + +Move eastward, happy earth, and leave +Yon orange sunset waning slow: +From fringes of the faded eve, +O, happy planet, eastward go; +Till over thy dark shoulder glow +Thy silver sister-world, and rise +To glass herself in dewy eyes +That watch me from the glen below. + +Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly[1] borne, +Dip forward under starry light, +And move me to my marriage-morn, +And round again to happy night. + + [1] 1842 to 1853. Lightly. + + + + +Break, break, break... + +First published in 1842. No alteration. + + +This exquisite poem was composed in a very different scene from that to +which it refers, namely in “a Lincolnshire lane at five o’clock in the +morning between blossoming hedges”. See _Life of Tennyson_, vol. i., p. +223. + + +Break, break, break, +On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! +And I would that my tongue could utter +The thoughts that arise in me. + +O well for the fisherman’s boy, +That he shouts with his sister at play! +O well for the sailor lad, +That he sings in his boat on the bay! + +And the stately ships go on +To their haven under the hill; +But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, +And the sound of a voice that is still! + +Break, break, break, +At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! +But the tender grace of a day that is dead +Will never come back to me. + + + + +The Poet’s Song + +First published in 1842. + + +The rain had fallen, the Poet arose, +He pass’d by the town and out of the street, +A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, +And waves of shadow went over the wheat, +And he sat him down in a lonely place, +And chanted a melody loud and sweet, +That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, +And the lark drop down at his feet. + +The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,[1] +The snake slipt under a spray, +The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak, +And stared, with his foot on the prey, +And the nightingale thought, “I have sung many songs, +But never a one so gay, +For he sings of what the world will be +When the years have died away”. + + [1] 1889, Fly. + + + + +Appendix + +The Poems published in MDCCCXXX and in MDCCCXXXIII which were +temporarily or finally suppressed. + +Poems published in MDCCCXXX + + + + +Elegiacs + +Reprinted in _Collected Works_ among _Juvenilia_, with title altered to +_Leonine Elegiacs_. The only alterations made in the text were +“wood-dove” for “turtle,” and the substitution of “or” for “and” in the +last line but one. + + +Lowflowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm’d in the gloaming: +Thoro’ the black-stemm’d pines only the far river shines. +Creeping thro’ blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, +Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. +Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerily; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; +Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; +Winds creep; dews fell chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes +stilly: +Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn. +Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth: +Twin peaks shadow’d with pine slope to the dark hyaline. +Lowthroned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad +Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. +The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth, +Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. +Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even. +False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind? + + + + +The “How” and the “Why” + +I am any man’s suitor, +If any will be my tutor: +Some say this life is pleasant, +Some think it speedeth fast: +In time there is no present, +In eternity no future, +In eternity no past. +We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, +Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_? + +The bulrush nods unto its brother, +The wheatears whisper to each other: +What is it they say? What do they there? +Why two and two make four? Why round is not square? +Why the rocks stand still, and the light clouds fly? +Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh? +Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? +Whether we wake, or whether we sleep? +Whether we sleep, or whether we die? +How you are you? Why I am I? +Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_? + +The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow; +But what is the meaning of _then_ and _now_? +I feel there is something; but how and what? +I know there is somewhat; but what and why? +I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. + +The little bird pipeth, “why? why?” +In the summerwoods when the sun falls low +And the great bird sits on the opposite bough, +And stares in his face and shouts, “how? how?” +And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight, +And chaunts, “how? how?” the whole of the night. + +Why the life goes when the blood is spilt? +What the life is? where the soul may lie? +Why a church is with a steeple built; +And a house with a chimneypot? +Who will riddle me the how and the what? +Who will riddle me the what and the why? + + + + +Supposed Confessions... + +of a second-rate sensitive mind not in unity with itself. + + +There has been only one important alteration made in this poem, when it +was reprinted among the _Juvenilia_ in 1871, and that was the +suppression of the verses beginning “A grief not uninformed and dull” +to “Indued with immortality” inclusive, and the substitution of “rosy” +for “waxen”. Capitals are in all cases inserted in the reprint where +the Deity is referred to, “through” is altered into “thro’” all through +the poem, and hyphens are inserted in the double epithets. No further +alterations were made in the edition of 1830. + + +Oh God! my God! have mercy now. +I faint, I fall. Men say that thou +Didst die for me, for such as _me_, +Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, +And that my sin was as a thorn +Among the thorns that girt thy brow, +Wounding thy soul.—That even now, +In this extremest misery +Of ignorance, I should require +A sign! and if a bolt of fire +Would rive the slumbrous summernoon +While I do pray to thee alone, +Think my belief would stronger grow! +Is not my human pride brought low? +The boastings of my spirit still? +The joy I had in my freewill +All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? +And what is left to me, but thou, +And faith in thee? Men pass me by; +Christians with happy countenances— +And children all seem full of thee! +And women smile with saint-like glances +Like thine own mother’s when she bow’d +Above thee, on that happy morn +When angels spake to men aloud, +And thou and peace to earth were born. +Goodwill to me as well as all— +I one of them: my brothers they: +Brothers in Christ—a world of peace +And confidence, day after day; +And trust and hope till things should cease, +And then one Heaven receive us all. +How sweet to have a common faith! +To hold a common scorn of death! +And at a burial to hear +The creaking cords which wound and eat +Into my human heart, whene’er +Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, +With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! + +A grief not uninformed, and dull +Hearted with hope, of hope as full +As is the blood with life, or night +And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. +To stand beside a grave, and see +The red small atoms wherewith we +Are built, and smile in calm, and say— +“These little moles and graves shall be +Clothed on with immortality +More glorious than the noon of day— +All that is pass’d into the flowers +And into beasts and other men, +And all the Norland whirlwind showers +From open vaults, and all the sea +O’er washes with sharp salts, again +Shall fleet together all, and be +Indued with immortality.” + +Thrice happy state again to be +The trustful infant on the knee! +Who lets his waxen fingers play +About his mother’s neck, and knows +Nothing beyond his mother’s eyes. +They comfort him by night and day; +They light his little life alway; +He hath no thought of coming woes; +He hath no care of life or death, +Scarce outward signs of joy arise, +Because the Spirit of happiness +And perfect rest so inward is; +And loveth so his innocent heart, +Her temple and her place of birth, +Where she would ever wish to dwell, +Life of the fountain there, beneath +Its salient springs, and far apart, +Hating to wander out on earth, +Or breathe into the hollow air, +Whose dullness would make visible +Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, +Which mixing with the infant’s blood, +Fullfills him with beatitude. +Oh! sure it is a special care +Of God, to fortify from doubt, +To arm in proof, and guard about +With triple-mailed trust, and clear +Delight, the infant’s dawning year. + +Would that my gloomed fancy were +As thine, my mother, when with brows +Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld +In thine, I listen’d to thy vows, +For me outpour’d in holiest prayer— +For me unworthy!—and beheld +Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew +The beauty and repose of faith, +And the clear spirit shining through. +Oh! wherefore do we grow awry +From roots which strike so deep? why dare +Paths in the desert? Could not I +Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, +To th’ earth—until the ice would melt +Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? +What Devil had the heart to scathe +Flowers thou hadst rear’d—to brush the dew +From thine own lily, when thy grave +Was deep, my mother, in the clay? +Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I +So little love for thee? But why +Prevail’d not thy pure prayers? Why pray +To one who heeds not, who can save +But will not? Great in faith, and strong +Against the grief of circumstance +Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if +Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive +Thro’ utter dark a fullsailed skiff, +Unpiloted i’ the echoing dance +Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low +Unto the death, not sunk! I know +At matins and at evensong, +That thou, if thou were yet alive, +In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive +To reconcile me with thy God. +Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold +At heart, thou wouldest murmur still— +“Bring this lamb back into thy fold, +My Lord, if so it be thy will”. +Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, +And chastisement of human pride; +That pride, the sin of devils, stood +Betwixt me and the light of God! +That hitherto I had defied +And had rejected God—that grace +Would drop from his o’erbrimming love, +As manna on my wilderness, +If I would pray—that God would move +And strike the hard hard rock, and thence, +Sweet in their utmost bitterness, +Would issue tears of penitence +Which would keep green hope’s life. Alas! +I think that pride hath now no place +Nor sojourn in me. I am void, +Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. + +Why not believe then? Why not yet +Anchor thy frailty there, where man +Hath moor’d and rested? Ask the sea +At midnight, when the crisp slope waves +After a tempest, rib and fret +The broadimbasèd beach, why he +Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? +Wherefore his ridges are not curls +And ripples of an inland mere? +Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can +Draw down into his vexed pools +All that blue heaven which hues and paves +The other? I am too forlorn, +Too shaken: my own weakness fools +My judgment, and my spirit whirls, +Moved from beneath with doubt and fear. + +“Yet” said I, in my morn of youth, +The unsunned freshness of my strength, +When I went forth in quest of truth, +“It is man’s privilege to doubt, +If so be that from doubt at length, +Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, +An image with profulgent brows, +And perfect limbs, as from the storm +Of running fires and fluid range +Of lawless airs, at last stood out +This excellence and solid form +Of constant beauty. For the Ox +Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills +The horned valleys all about, +And hollows of the fringed hills +In summerheats, with placid lows +Unfearing, till his own blood flows +About his hoof. And in the flocks +The lamb rejoiceth in the year, +And raceth freely with his fere, +And answers to his mother’s calls +From the flower’d furrow. In a time, +Of which he wots not, run short pains +Through his warm heart; and then, from whence +He knows not, on his light there falls +A shadow; and his native slope, +Where he was wont to leap and climb, +Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, +And something in the darkness draws +His forehead earthward, and he dies. +Shall man live thus, in joy and hope +As a young lamb, who cannot dream, +Living, but that he shall live on? +Shall we not look into the laws +Of life and death, and things that seem, +And things that be, and analyse +Our double nature, and compare +All creeds till we have found the one, +If one there be?” Ay me! I fear +All may not doubt, but everywhere +Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, +Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove +Shadow me over, and my sins +Be unremembered, and thy love +Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet +Somewhat before the heavy clod +Weighs on me, and the busy fret +Of that sharpheaded worm begins +In the gross blackness underneath. + +O weary life! O weary death! +O spirit and heart made desolate! +O damnèd vacillating state! + + + + +The Burial of Love + +His eyes in eclipse, +Pale cold his lips, +The light of his hopes unfed, +Mute his tongue, +His bow unstrung +With the tears he hath shed, +Backward drooping his graceful head, + +Love is dead; +His last arrow is sped; +He hath not another dart; +Go—carry him to his dark deathbed; +Bury him in the cold, cold heart— +Love is dead. + +Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn, +And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles +Forgotten, and thine innocent joy? +Shall hollowhearted apathy, +The cruellest form of perfect scorn, +With languor of most hateful smiles, +For ever write +In the withered light +Of the tearless eye, +An epitaph that all may spy? +No! sooner she herself shall die. + +For her the showers shall not fall, +Nor the round sun that shineth to all; +Her light shall into darkness change; +For her the green grass shall not spring, +Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing, +Till Love have his full revenge. + + + + +To—— + +Sainted Juliet! dearest name! +If to love be life alone, +Divinest Juliet, +I love thee, and live; and yet +Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame +Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice +Offered to gods upon an altarthrone; +My heart is lighted at thine eyes, +Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs. + + + + +Song—“I’ the glooming light...” + +I + + +I’ the glooming light +Of middle night +So cold and white, +Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave; +Beside her are laid +Her mattock and spade, +For she hath half delved her own deep grave. +Alone she is there: +The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose; +Her shoulders are bare; +Her tears are mixed with the bearded dews. + +II + + +Death standeth by; +She will not die; +With glazed eye +She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep; +Ever alone +She maketh her moan: +She cannot speak; she can only weep; +For she will not hope. +The thick snow falls on her flake by flake, +The dull wave mourns down the slope, +The world will not change, and her heart will not break. + + + + +Song—“The lintwhite and the throstlecock...” + +I + + +The lintwhite and the throstlecock +Have voices sweet and clear; +All in the bloomed May. +They from the blosmy brere +Call to the fleeting year, +If that he would them hear +And stay. Alas! that one so beautiful +Should have so dull an ear. + +II + + +Fair year, fair year, thy children call, +But thou art deaf as death; +All in the bloomèd May. +When thy light perisheth +That from thee issueth, +Our life evanisheth: Oh! stay. +Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb +Should have so sweet a breath! + +III + + +Fair year, with brows of royal love +Thou comest, as a king, +All in the bloomèd May. +Thy golden largess fling, +And longer hear us sing; +Though thou art fleet of wing, +Yet stay. Alas! that eyes so full of light +Should be so wandering! + +IV + + +Thy locks are all of sunny sheen +In rings of gold yronne,[1] +All in the bloomèd May, +We pri’thee pass not on; +If thou dost leave the sun, +Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay. +Thou art the fairest of thy feres, +We pri’thee pass not on. + + [1] His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.— Chaucer, _Knight’s Tale_. + (Tennyson’s note.) + + + + +Song—“Every day hath its night...” + +I + + +Every day hath its night: +Every night its morn: +Thorough dark and bright +Wingèd hours are borne; +Ah! welaway! + +Seasons flower and fade; +Golden calm and storm +Mingle day by day. +There is no bright form +Doth not cast a shade— +Ah! welaway! + +II + + +When we laugh, and our mirth +Apes the happy vein, +We’re so kin to earth, +Pleasaunce fathers pain— +Ah! welaway! +Madness laugheth loud: +Laughter bringeth tears: +Eyes are worn away +Till the end of fears +Cometh in the shroud, +Ah! welaway! + +III + + +All is change, woe or weal; +Joy is Sorrow’s brother; +Grief and gladness steal +Symbols of each other; +Ah! welaway! +Larks in heaven’s cope +Sing: the culvers mourn +All the livelong day. +Be not all forlorn; +Let us weep, in hope— +Ah! welaway! + + + + +Nothing Will Die + +Reprinted without any important alteration among the _Juvenilia_ in +1871 and onward. No change made except that “through” is spelt “thro’,” +and in the last line “and” is substituted for “all”. + + +When will the stream be aweary of flowing +Under my eye? +When will the wind be aweary of blowing +Over the sky? +When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? +When will the heart be aweary of beating? +And nature die? +Never, oh! never, nothing will die? +The stream flows, +The wind blows, +The cloud fleets, +The heart beats, +Nothing will die. + +Nothing will die; +All things will change +Through eternity. +’Tis the world’s winter; +Autumn and summer +Are gone long ago; +Earth is dry to the centre, +But spring, a new comer, +A spring rich and strange, +Shall make the winds blow +Round and round, +Through and through, +Here and there, +Till the air +And the ground +Shall be filled with life anew. + +The world was never made; +It will change, but it will not fade. +So let the wind range; +For even and morn +Ever will be +Through eternity. +Nothing was born; +Nothing will die; +All things will change. + + + + +All Things Will Die + +Reprinted among _Juvenilia_ in 1872 and onward, without alteration. + + +Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing +Under my eye; +Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing +Over the sky. +One after another the white clouds are fleeting; +Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating +Full merrily; +Yet all things must die. +The stream will cease to flow; +The wind will cease to blow; +The clouds will cease to fleet; +The heart will cease to beat; +For all things must die. + +All things must die. +Spring will come never more. +Oh! vanity! +Death waits at the door. +See! our friends are all forsaking +The wine and the merrymaking. +We are called—we must go. +Laid low, very low, +In the dark we must lie. +The merry glees are still; +The voice of the bird +Shall no more be heard, +Nor the wind on the hill. +Oh! misery! +Hark! death is calling +While I speak to ye, +The jaw is falling, +The red cheek paling, +The strong limbs failing; +Ice with the warm blood mixing; +The eyeballs fixing. +Nine times goes the passing bell: +Ye merry souls, farewell. +The old earth +Had a birth, +As all men know, +Long ago. +And the old earth must die. +So let the warm winds range, +And the blue wave beat the shore; +For even and morn +Ye will never see +Through eternity. +All things were born. +Ye will come never more, +For all things must die. + + + + +Hero to Leander + +Oh go not yet, my love, +The night is dark and vast; +The white moon is hid in her heaven above, +And the waves climb high and fast. +Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again, +Lest thy kiss should be the last. +Oh kiss me ere we part; +Grow closer to my heart. +My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main. + +Oh joy! O bliss of blisses! +My heart of hearts art thou. +Come bathe me with thy kisses, +My eyelids and my brow. +Hark how the wild rain hisses, +And the loud sea roars below. + +Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs +So gladly doth it stir; +Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. +I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh; +Thy locks are dripping balm; +Thou shalt not wander hence to-night, +I’ll stay thee with my kisses. +To-night the roaring brine +Will rend thy golden tresses; +The ocean with the morrow light +Will be both blue and calm; +And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine. + +No western odours wander +On the black and moaning sea, +And when thou art dead, Leander, +My soul must follow thee! +Oh go not yet, my love +Thy voice is sweet and low; +The deep salt wave breaks in above +Those marble steps below. +The turretstairs are wet +That lead into the sea. +Leander! go not yet. +The pleasant stars have set: +Oh! go not, go not yet, +Or I will follow thee. + + + + +The Mystic + +Angels have talked with him, and showed him thrones: +Ye knew him not: he was not one of ye, +Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn; +Ye could not read the marvel in his eye, +The still serene abstraction; he hath felt +The vanities of after and before; +Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart +The stern experiences of converse lives, +The linked woes of many a fiery change +Had purified, and chastened, and made free. +Always there stood before him, night and day, +Of wayward vary colored circumstance, +The imperishable presences serene +Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound, +Dim shadows but unwaning presences +Fourfaced to four corners of the sky; +And yet again, three shadows, fronting one, +One forward, one respectant, three but one; +And yet again, again and evermore, +For the two first were not, but only seemed, +One shadow in the midst of a great light, +One reflex from eternity on time, +One mighty countenance of perfect calm, +Awful with most invariable eyes. +For him the silent congregated hours, +Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath +Severe and youthful brows, with shining eyes +Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light +Of earliest youth pierced through and through with all +Keen knowledges of low-embowed eld) +Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud +Which droops low hung on either gate of life, +Both birth and death; he in the centre fixt, +Saw far on each side through the grated gates +Most pale and clear and lovely distances. +He often lying broad awake, and yet +Remaining from the body, and apart +In intellect and power and will, hath heard +Time flowing in the middle of the night, +And all things creeping to a day of doom. +How could ye know him? Ye were yet within +The narrower circle; he had wellnigh reached +The last, with which a region of white flame, +Pure without heat, into a larger air +Upburning, and an ether of black blue, +Investeth and ingirds all other lives. + + + + +The Grasshopper + +I + + +Voice of the summerwind, +Joy of the summerplain, +Life of the summerhours, +Carol clearly, bound along. +No Tithon thou as poets feign +(Shame fall ’em they are deaf and blind) +But an insect lithe and strong, +Bowing the seeded summerflowers. +Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel, +Vaulting on thine airy feet. +Clap thy shielded sides and carol, +Carol clearly, chirrup sweet. +Thou art a mailéd warrior in youth and strength complete; +Armed cap-a-pie, +Full fair to see; +Unknowing fear, +Undreading loss, +A gallant cavalier +_Sans peur et sans reproche,_ +In sunlight and in shadow, +The Bayard of the meadow. + +II + + +I would dwell with thee, +Merry grasshopper, +Thou art so glad and free, +And as light as air; +Thou hast no sorrow or tears, +Thou hast no compt of years, +No withered immortality, +But a short youth sunny and free. +Carol clearly, bound along, +Soon thy joy is over, +A summer of loud song, +And slumbers in the clover. +What hast thou to do with evil +In thine hour of love and revel, +In thy heat of summerpride, +Pushing the thick roots aside +Of the singing flowered grasses, +That brush thee with their silken tresses? +What hast thou to do with evil, +Shooting, singing, ever springing +In and out the emerald glooms, +Ever leaping, ever singing, +Lighting on the golden blooms? + + + + +Love, Pride and Forgetfulness + +Ere yet my heart was sweet Love’s tomb, +Love laboured honey busily. +I was the hive and Love the bee, +My heart the honey-comb. +One very dark and chilly night +Pride came beneath and held a light. + +The cruel vapours went through all, +Sweet Love was withered in his cell; +Pride took Love’s sweets, and by a spell, +Did change them into gall; +And Memory tho’ fed by Pride +Did wax so thin on gall, +Awhile she scarcely lived at all, +What marvel that she died? + + + + +Chorus: “The varied earth...” + +In an unpublished drama written very early. + + +The varied earth, the moving heaven, +The rapid waste of roving sea, +The fountainpregnant mountains riven +To shapes of wildest anarchy, +By secret fire and midnight storms +That wander round their windy cones, +The subtle life, the countless forms +Of living things, the wondrous tones +Of man and beast are full of strange +Astonishment and boundless change. + +The day, the diamonded light, +The echo, feeble child of sound, +The heavy thunder’s griding might, +The herald lightning’s starry bound, +The vocal spring of bursting bloom, +The naked summer’s glowing birth, +The troublous autumn’s sallow gloom, +The hoarhead winter paving earth +With sheeny white, are full of strange +Astonishment and boundless change. + +Each sun which from the centre flings +Grand music and redundant fire, +The burning belts, the mighty rings, +The murmurous planets’ rolling choir, +The globefilled arch that, cleaving air, +Lost in its effulgence sleeps, +The lawless comets as they glare, +And thunder thro’ the sapphire deeps +In wayward strength, are full of strange +Astonishment and boundless change. + + + + +Lost Hope + +You cast to ground the hope which once was mine, +But did the while your harsh decree deplore, +Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine, +My heart, where Hope had been and was no more. + +So on an oaken sprout +A goodly acorn grew; +But winds from heaven shook the acorn out, +And filled the cup with dew. + + + + +The Tears of Heaven + +Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn, +In darkness weeps, as all ashamed to weep, +Because the earth hath made her state forlorn +With selfwrought evils of unnumbered years, +And doth the fruit of her dishonour reap. +And all the day heaven gathers back her tears +Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep, +And showering down the glory of lightsome day, +Smiles on the earth’s worn brow to win her if she may. + + + + +Love and Sorrow + +O Maiden, fresher than the first green leaf +With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea, +Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee +That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief +Doth hold the other half in sovranty. +Thou art my heart’s sun in love’s crystalline: +Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine: +Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thine +My heart’s day, but the shadow of my heart, +Issue of its own substance, my heart’s night +Thou canst not lighten even with _thy_ light, +All powerful in beauty as thou art. +Almeida, if my heart were substanceless, +Then might thy rays pass thro’ to the other side, +So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide, +But lose themselves in utter emptiness. +Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep; +They never learnt to love who never knew to weep. + + + + +To a Lady Sleeping + +O Thou whose fringed lids I gaze upon, +Through whose dim brain the winged dreams are borne, +Unroof the shrines of clearest vision, +In honour of the silverflecked morn: +Long hath the white wave of the virgin light +Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark. +Thou all unwittingly prolongest night, +Though long ago listening the poised lark, +With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene, +Over heaven’s parapets the angels lean. + + + + +Sonnet—“Could I outwear my present state of woe...” + +Could I outwear my present state of woe +With one brief winter, and indue i’ the spring +Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow +The wan dark coil of faded suffering— +Forth in the pride of beauty issuing +A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers, +Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers +And watered vallies where the young birds sing; +Could I thus hope my lost delights renewing, +I straightly would commend the tears to creep +From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep: +Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing: +This to itself hath drawn the frozen rain +From my cold eyes and melted it again. + + + + +Sonnet—“Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon...” + +Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon, +And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl, +All night through archways of the bridged pearl +And portals of pure silver walks the moon. +Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony, +Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, +And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, +Basing thy throne above the world’s annoy. +Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth +That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee: +So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth; +So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; +So in thine hour of dawn, the body’s youth, +An honourable old shall come upon thee. + + + + +Sonnet—“Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good...” + +Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good, +Or propagate again her loathed kind, +Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, +Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, +Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? +Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat +Would shatter and o’erbear the brazen beat +Of their broad vans, and in the solitude +Of middle space confound them, and blow back +Their wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slake +With points of blastborne hail their heated eyne! +So their wan limbs no more might come between +The moon and the moon’s reflex in the night; +Nor blot with floating shades the solar light. + + + + +Sonnet—“The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain...” + +The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain, +Down an ideal stream they ever float, +And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, +Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain +Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe +The understream. The wise could he behold +Cathedralled caverns of thick-ribbed gold +And branching silvers of the central globe, +Would marvel from so beautiful a sight +How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: +But Hatred in a gold cave sits below, +Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light +Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips +And skins the colour from her trembling lips. + + + + +Love + +I + + +Thou, from the first, unborn, undying love, +Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near, +Before the face of God didst breathe and move, +Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here. +Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere, +The very throne of the eternal God: +Passing through thee the edicts of his fear +Are mellowed into music, borne abroad +By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea, +Even from his central deeps: thine empery +Is over all: thou wilt not brook eclipse; +Thou goest and returnest to His Lips +Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above +The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love. + +II + + +To know thee is all wisdom, and old age +Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee +Athwart the veils of evil which enfold thee. +We beat upon our aching hearts with rage; +We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb. +As dwellers in lone planets look upon +The mighty disk of their majestic sun, +Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, +Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. +Come, thou of many crowns, white-robed love, +Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee; +Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee: +Breathe on thy winged throne, and it shall move +In music and in light o’er land and sea. + +III + + +And now—methinks I gaze upon thee now, +As on a serpent in his agonies +Awestricken Indians; what time laid low +And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, +When the new year warm breathed on the earth, +Waiting to light him with his purple skies, +Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. +Already with the pangs of a new birth +Strain the hot spheres of his convulsed eyes, +And in his writhings awful hues begin +To wander down his sable sheeny sides, +Like light on troubled waters: from within +Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, +And in him light and joy and strength abides; +And from his brows a crown of living light +Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night. + + + + +The Kraken + +Reprinted without alteration, except in the spelling of “antient,” +among _Juvenilia_ in 1871 and onward. + + +Below the thunders of the upper deep; +Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, +His antient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep +The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee +About his shadowy sides: above him swell +Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; +And far away into the sickly light, +From many a wondrous grot and secret cell +Unnumber’d and enormous polypi +Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. +There hath he lain for ages and will lie +Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, +Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; +Then once by man and angels to be seen, +In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. + + + + +English War Song + +Who fears to die? Who fears to die? +Is there any here who fears to die +He shall find what he fears, and none shall grieve +For the man who fears to die; +But the withering scorn of the many shall cleave +To the man who fears to die. + +_Chorus_.— +Shout for England! +Ho! for England! +George for England! +Merry England! +England for aye! + + +The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, +He shall eat the bread of common scorn; +It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, +Shall be steeped in his own salt tear: +Far better, far better he never were born +Than to shame merry England here. + +_Chorus_.—Shout for England! etc. + + +There standeth our ancient enemy; +Hark! he shouteth—the ancient enemy! +On the ridge of the hill his banners rise; +They stream like fire in the skies; +Hold up the Lion of England on high +Till it dazzle and blind his eyes. + +_Chorus_.—Shout for England! etc. + + +Come along! we alone of the earth are free; +The child in our cradles is bolder than he; +For where is the heart and strength of slaves? +Oh! where is the strength of slaves? +He is weak! we are strong; he a slave, we are free; +Come along! we will dig their graves. + +_Chorus_.—Shout for England! etc. + + +There standeth our ancient enemy; +Will he dare to battle with the free? +Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight: +Charge! charge to the fight! +Hold up the Lion of England on high! +Shout for God and our right! + +_Chorus_.-Shout for England! etc. + + + + +National Song + +There is no land like England +Where’er the light of day be; +There are no hearts like English hearts, +Such hearts of oak as they be. +There is no land like England +Where’er the light of day be; +There are no men like Englishmen, +So tall and bold as they be. + +_Chorus_. + +For the French the Pope may shrive ’em, +For the devil a whit we heed ’em, +As for the French, God speed ’em +Unto their hearts’ desire, +And the merry devil drive ’em +Through the water and the fire. + + +_Chorus_. + +Our glory is our freedom, +We lord it o’er the sea; +We are the sons of freedom, +We are free. + + +There is no land like England, +Where’er the light of day be; +There are no wives like English wives, +So fair and chaste as they be. +There is no land like England, +Where’er the light of day be; +There are no maids like English maids, +So beautiful as they be. + +_Chorus_.—For the French, etc. + + + + + + +Dualisms + +Two bees within a chrystal flowerbell rocked +Hum a lovelay to the westwind at noontide. +Both alike, they buzz together, +Both alike, they hum together +Through and through the flowered heather. + +Where in a creeping cove the wave unshocked +Lays itself calm and wide, +Over a stream two birds of glancing feather +Do woo each other, carolling together. +Both alike, they glide together +Side by side; +Both alike, they sing together, +Arching blue-glossed necks beneath the purple weather. + +Two children lovelier than Love, adown the lea are singing, +As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing: +Both in blosmwhite silk are frockèd: +Like, unlike, they roam together +Under a summervault of golden weather; +Like, unlike, they sing together +Side by side, +Mid May’s darling goldenlockèd, +Summer’s tanling diamondeyed. + + + + +We are Free + +The winds, as at their hour of birth, +Leaning upon the ridged sea, +Breathed low around the rolling earth +With mellow preludes, “We are Free”; +The streams through many a lilied row, +Down-carolling to the crispèd sea, +Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow +Atween the blossoms, “We are free”. + + + + +οἱ ῥέοντες + +I + + +All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, +All visions wild and strange; +Man is the measure of all truth +Unto himself. All truth is change: +All men do walk in sleep, and all +Have faith in that they dream: +For all things are as they seem to all, +And all things flow like a stream. + +II + + +There is no rest, no calm, no pause, +Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, +Nor essence nor eternal laws: +For nothing is, but all is made. +But if I dream that all these are, +They are to me for that I dream; +For all things are as they seem to all, +And all things flow like a stream. + + +Argal—This very opinion is only true relatively to the flowing +philosophers. (Tennyson’s note.) + + + + +Poems of MDCCCXXXIII + +“Mine be the strength of spirit...” + +Reprinted without any alteration, except that Power is spelt with a +small p, among the _Juvenilia_ in 1871 and onward. + + +Mine be the strength of spirit, full and free, +Like some broad river rushing down alone, +With the selfsame impulse wherewith he was thrown +From his loud fount upon the echoing lea:— +Which with increasing might doth forward flee +By town, and tower, and hill, and cape, and isle, +And in the middle of the green salt sea +Keeps his blue waters fresh for many a mile. +Mine be the Power which ever to its sway +Will win the wise at once, and by degrees +May into uncongenial spirits flow; +Even as the great gulfstream of Florida +Floats far away into the Northern Seas +The lavish growths of Southern Mexico. + + + + +To—— (“My life is full...”) + +When this poem was republished among the _Juvenilia_ in 1871 several +alterations were made in it. For the first stanza was substituted the +following:— + +My life is full of weary days, +But good things have not kept aloof, +Nor wander’d into other ways: +I have not lack’d thy mild reproof, +Nor golden largess of thy praise. + + +The second began “And now shake hands”. In the fourth stanza for +“sudden laughters” of the jay was substituted the felicitous “sudden +scritches,” and the sixth and seventh stanzas were suppressed. + + +I + + +All good things have not kept aloof +Nor wandered into other ways: +I have not lacked thy mild reproof, +Nor golden largess of thy praise. +But life is full of weary days. + +II + + +Shake hands, my friend, across the brink +Of that deep grave to which I go: +Shake hands once more: I cannot sink +So far—far down, but I shall know +Thy voice, and answer from below. + +III + + +When in the darkness over me +The fourhanded mole shall scrape, +Plant thou no dusky cypresstree, +Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, +But pledge me in the flowing grape. + +IV + + +And when the sappy field and wood +Grow green beneath the showery gray, +And rugged barks begin to bud, +And through damp holts newflushed with May, +Ring sudden laughters of the Jay, + +V + + +Then let wise Nature work her will, +And on my clay her darnels grow; +Come only, when the days are still, +And at my headstone whisper low, +And tell me if the woodbines blow. + +VI + + +If thou art blest, my mother’s smile +Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: +Then cease, my friend, a little while, +That I may hear the throstle sing +His bridal song, the boast of spring. + +VII + + +Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains +Of bubbling wells that fret the stones, +(If any sense in me remains) +Thy words will be: thy cheerful tones +As welcome to my crumbling bones. + + + + +Buonoparte + +Reprinted without any alteration among _Early Sonnets_ in 1872, and +unaltered since. + + +He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak, +Madman!—to chain with chains, and bind with bands +That island queen who sways the floods and lands +From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke, +When from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands, +With thunders and with lightnings and with smoke, +Peal after peal, the British battle broke, +Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands. +We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore +Heard the war moan along the distant sea, +Rocking with shatter’d spars, with sudden fires +Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more +We taught him: late he learned humility +Perforce, like those whom Gideon school’d with briers. + + + + +Sonnet—“Oh, beauty, passing beauty!...” + +I. + + +Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet! +How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs? +I only ask to sit beside thy feet. +Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes, +Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold +My arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak. +And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, +As with one kiss to touch thy blessed cheek. +Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control +Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat +The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, +The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul +To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note +Hath melted in the silence that it broke. + +II. + + +Reprinted in 1872 among _Early Sonnets_ with two alterations, “If I +were loved” for “But were I loved,” and “tho’” for “though”. + + +But were I loved, as I desire to be, +What is there in the great sphere of the earth, +And range of evil between death and birth, +That I should fear—if I were loved by thee? +All the inner, all the outer world of pain +Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, +As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, +Fresh water-springs come up through bitter brine. +’Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee, +To wait for death—mute—careless of all ills, +Apart upon a mountain, though the surge +Of some new deluge from a thousand hills +Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge +Below us, as far on as eye could see. + + + + +The Hesperides + +Hesperus and his daughters three +That sing about the golden tree. + +—(Comus). + + +The Northwind fall’n, in the newstarred night +Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond +The hoary promontory of Soloë +Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays, +Between the Southern and the Western Horn, +Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, +Nor melody o’ the Lybian lotusflute +Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope +That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, +Beneath a highland leaning down a weight +Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade, +Came voices, like the voices in a dream, +Continuous, till he reached the other sea. + + + + +Song—“The golden apple...” + +I + + +The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, +Guard it well, guard it warily, +Singing airily, +Standing about the charmèd root. +Round about all is mute, +As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, +As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. +Crocodiles in briny creeks +Sleep and stir not: all is mute. +If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, +We shall lose eternal pleasure, +Worth eternal want of rest. +Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure +Of the wisdom of the West. +In a corner wisdom whispers. +Five and three +(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery. +For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth; +Evermore it is born anew; +And the sap to three-fold music floweth, +From the root +Drawn in the dark, +Up to the fruit, +Creeping under the fragrant bark, +Liquid gold, honeysweet thro’ and thro’. +Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, +Looking warily +Every way, +Guard the apple night and day, +Lest one from the East come and take it away. + +II + + +Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye, +Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. +Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight; +Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die; +Honour comes with mystery; +Hoarded wisdom brings delight. +Number, tell them over and number +How many the mystic fruittree holds, +Lest the redcombed dragon slumber +Rolled together in purple folds. +Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol’n away, +For his ancient heart is drunk with over-watchings night and day, +Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled— +Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, without stop, +Lest his scalèd eyelid drop, +For he is older than the world. +If he waken, we waken, +Rapidly levelling eager eyes. +If he sleep, we sleep, +Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. +If the golden apple be taken +The world will be overwise. +Five links, a golden chain, are we, +Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, +Bound about the golden tree. + +III + + +Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day, +Lest the old wound of the world be healed, +The glory unsealed, +The golden apple stol’n away, +And the ancient secret revealed. +Look from west to east along: +Father, old Himala weakens, +Caucasus is bold and strong. +Wandering waters unto wandering waters call; +Let them clash together, foam and fall. +Out of watchings, out of wiles, +Comes the bliss of secret smiles. +All things are not told to all, +Half-round the mantling night is drawn, +Purplefringed with even and dawn. +Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn. + +IV + + +Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath +Of this warm seawind ripeneth, +Arching the billow in his sleep; +But the landwind wandereth, +Broken by the highland-steep, +Two streams upon the violet deep: +For the western sun and the western star, +And the low west wind, breathing afar, +The end of day and beginning of night +Make the apple holy and bright, +Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, +Mellowed in a land of rest; +Watch it warily day and night; +All good things are in the west, +Till midnoon the cool east light +Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow; +But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly +Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, +The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, +Goldenkernelled, goldencored, +Sunset-ripened, above on the tree, +The world is wasted with fire and sword, +But the apple of gold hangs over the sea, +Five links, a golden chain, are we, +Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, +Daughters three, +Bound about +All round about +The gnarled bole of the charmèd tree, +The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, +Guard it well, guard it warily, +Watch it warily, +Singing airily, +Standing about the charmed root. + + + + +Rosalind + +Not reprinted till 1884 when it was unaltered, as it has remained +since: but the poem appended and printed by Tennyson in _italics_ has +not been reprinted. + + +I + + +My Rosalind, my Rosalind, +My frolic falcon, with bright eyes, +Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight, +Stoops at all game that wing the skies, +My Rosalind, my Rosalind, +My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither, +Careless both of wind and weather, +Whither fly ye, what game spy ye, +Up or down the streaming wind? + +II + + +The quick lark’s closest-carolled strains, +The shadow rushing up the sea, +The lightningflash atween the rain, +The sunlight driving down the lea, +The leaping stream, the very wind, +That will not stay, upon his way, +To stoop the cowslip to the plains, +Is not so clear and bold and free +As you, my falcon Rosalind. +You care not for another’s pains, +Because you are the soul of joy, +Bright metal all without alloy. +Life shoots and glances thro’ your veins, +And flashes off a thousand ways, +Through lips and eyes in subtle rays. +Your hawkeyes are keen and bright, +Keen with triumph, watching still +To pierce me through with pointed light; +And oftentimes they flash and glitter +Like sunshine on a dancing rill, +And your words are seeming-bitter, +Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter +From excess of swift delight. + +III + + +Come down, come home, my Rosalind, +My gay young hawk, my Rosalind: +Too long you keep the upper skies; +Too long you roam, and wheel at will; +But we must hood your random eyes, +That care not whom they kill, +And your cheek, whose brilliant hue +Is so sparkling fresh to view, +Some red heath-flower in the dew, +Touched with sunrise. We must bind +And keep you fast, my Rosalind, +Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, +And clip your wings, and make you love: +When we have lured you from above, +And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night, +From North to South; +We’ll bind you fast in silken cords, +And kiss away the bitter words +From off your rosy mouth.[1] + + [1] Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate + poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were + manifestly superfluous:— + +My Rosalind, my Rosalind, +Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, +Is one of those who know no strife +Of inward woe or outward fear; +To whom the slope and stream of life, +The life before, the life behind, +In the ear, from far and near, +Chimeth musically clear. +My falconhearted Rosalind, +Fullsailed before a vigorous wind, +Is one of those who cannot weep +For others’ woes, but overleap +All the petty shocks and fears +That trouble life in early years, +With a flash of frolic scorn +And keen delight, that never falls +Away from freshness, self-upborne +With such gladness, as, whenever +The freshflushing springtime calls +To the flooding waters cool, +Young fishes, on an April morn, +Up and down a rapid river, +Leap the little waterfalls +That sing into the pebbled pool. +My happy falcon, Rosalind; +Hath daring fancies of her own, +Fresh as the dawn before the day, +Fresh as the early seasmell blown +Through vineyards from an inland bay. +My Rosalind, my Rosalind, +Because no shadow on you falls +Think you hearts are tennis balls +To play with, wanton Rosalind? + + + + +Song—“Who can say...?” + +Who can say +Why To-day +To-morrow will be yesterday? +Who can tell +Why to smell +The violet, recalls the dewy prime +Of youth and buried time? +The cause is nowhere found in rhyme. + + + + +Kate + +Reprinted without alteration among the _Juvenilia_ in 1895. + + +I know her by her angry air, +Her brightblack eyes, her brightblack hair, +Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, +As laughter of the woodpecker +From the bosom of a hill. +’Tis Kate—she sayeth what she will; +For Kate hath an unbridled tongue, +Clear as the twanging of a harp. +Her heart is like a throbbing star. +Kate hath a spirit ever strung +Like a new bow, and bright and sharp +As edges of the scymetar. +Whence shall she take a fitting mate? +For Kate no common love will feel; +My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, +As pure and true as blades of steel. + +Kate saith “the world is void of might”. +Kate saith “the men are gilded flies”. +Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; +Kate will not hear of lover’s sighs. +I would I were an armèd knight, +Far famed for wellwon enterprise, +And wearing on my swarthy brows +The garland of new-wreathed emprise: +For in a moment I would pierce +The blackest files of clanging fight, +And strongly strike to left and right, +In dreaming of my lady’s eyes. +Oh! Kate loves well the bold and fierce; +But none are bold enough for Kate, +She cannot find a fitting mate. + + + + +Sonnet—“Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar...” + +_Written, on hearing of the outbreak of the Polish Insurrection._ + + + + +Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar +The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. +Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold; +Break through your iron shackles—fling them far. +O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar +Grew to this strength among his deserts cold; +When even to Moscow’s cupolas were rolled +The growing murmurs of the Polish war! +Now must your noble anger blaze out more +Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, +The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before— +Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan, +Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore +Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. + + + + +Poland + +Reprinted without alteration in 1872, except the removal of italics in +“now” among the _Early Sonnets_. + + +How long, O God, shall men be ridden down, +And trampled under by the last and least +Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased +To quiver, tho’ her sacred blood doth drown +The fields; and out of every smouldering town +Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased, +Till that o’ergrown Barbarian in the East +Transgress his ample bound to some new crown:— +Cries to thee, “Lord, how long shall these things be? +How long this icyhearted Muscovite +Oppress the region?” Us, O Just and Good, +Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three; +Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right— +A matter to be wept with tears of blood! + + + + +To—— (“As when, with downcast eyes...”) + +Reprinted without alteration as first of the _Early Sonnets_ in 1872; +subsequently in the twelfth line “That tho’” was substituted for +“Altho’,” and the last line was altered to— + + +“And either lived in either’s heart and speech,” + + +and “hath” was not italicised. + + +As when with downcast eyes we muse and brood, +And ebb into a former life, or seem +To lapse far back in some confused dream +To states of mystical similitude; +If one but speaks or hems or stirs his chair, +Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, +So that we say, “All this hath been before, +All this _hath_ been, I know not when or where”. +So, friend, when first I look’d upon your face, +Our thought gave answer each to each, so true— +Opposed mirrors each reflecting each— +Altho’ I knew not in what time or place, +Methought that I had often met with you, +And each had lived in the other’s mind and speech. + + + + +O Darling Room + +I + + +O darling room, my heart’s delight, +Dear room, the apple of my sight, +With thy two couches soft and white, +There is no room so exquisite, +No little room so warm and bright, +Wherein to read, wherein to write. + +II + + +For I the Nonnenwerth have seen, +And Oberwinter’s vineyards green, +Musical Lurlei; and between +The hills to Bingen have I been, +Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene +Curves towards Mentz, a woody scene. + +III + + +Yet never did there meet my sight, +In any town, to left or right, +A little room so exquisite, +With two such couches soft and white; +Not any room so warm and bright, +Wherein to read, wherein to write. + + + + +To Christopher North + +You did late review my lays, +Crusty Christopher; +You did mingle blame and praise, +Rusty Christopher. +When I learnt from whom it came, +I forgave you all the blame, +Musty Christopher; +I could _not_ forgive the praise, +Fusty Christopher. + + + + +The Skipping Rope + +This silly poem was first published in the edition of 1842, and was +retained unaltered till 1851, when it was finally suppressed. + + +Sure never yet was Antelope +Could skip so lightly by, +Stand off, or else my skipping-rope +Will hit you in the eye. +How lightly whirls the skipping-rope! +How fairy-like you fly! +Go, get you gone, you muse and mope— +I hate that silly sigh. +Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, +Or tell me how to die. +There, take it, take my skipping-rope, +And hang yourself thereby. + + + + +Timbuctoo + +A poem which obtained +the Chancellor’s Medal +at the _Cambridge Commencement_ +M.DCCCXXIX +by A. TENNYSON +Of Trinity College. + + +Printed in the Cambridge _Chronicle and Journal_ for Friday, 10th July, +1839, and at the University Press by James Smith, among the +_Profusiones Academicæ Praemiis annuis dignatæ, et in Curiâ +Cantabrigiensi Recitatæ Comitiis Maximis_ A.D. M.DCCCXXIX. Reprinted in +an edition of the _Cambridge Prize Poems_ from 1813 to 1858 inclusive, +by Messrs. Macmillan in 1859, but without any alteration, except in +punctuation and the substitution of small letters for capitals where +the change was appropriate; and again in 1893 in the appendix to the +reprint of the _Poems by Two Brothers_. + +Deep in that lion-haunted island lies +A mystic city, goal of enterprise.—(Chapman.) + + +I stood upon the Mountain which o’erlooks +The narrow seas, whose rapid interval +Parts Afric from green Europe, when the Sun +Had fall’n below th’ Atlantick, and above +The silent Heavens were blench’d with faery light, +Uncertain whether faery light or cloud, +Flowing Southward, and the chasms of deep, deep blue +Slumber’d unfathomable, and the stars +Were flooded over with clear glory and pale. +I gaz’d upon the sheeny coast beyond, +There where the Giant of old Time infixed +The limits of his prowess, pillars high +Long time eras’d from Earth: even as the sea +When weary of wild inroad buildeth up +Huge mounds whereby to stay his yeasty waves. +And much I mus’d on legends quaint and old +Which whilome won the hearts of all on Earth +Toward their brightness, ev’n as flame draws air; +But had their being in the heart of Man +As air is th’ life of flame: and thou wert then +A center’d glory—circled Memory, +Divinest Atalantis, whom the waves +Have buried deep, and thou of later name +Imperial Eldorado roof’d with gold: +Shadows to which, despite all shocks of Change, +All on-set of capricious Accident, +Men clung with yearning Hope which would not die. +As when in some great City where the walls +Shake, and the streets with ghastly faces throng’d +Do utter forth a subterranean voice, +Among the inner columns far retir’d +At midnight, in the lone Acropolis. +Before the awful Genius of the place +Kneels the pale Priestess in deep faith, the while +Above her head the weak lamp dips and winks +Unto the fearful summoning without: +Nathless she ever clasps the marble knees, +Bathes the cold hand with tears, and gazeth on +Those eyes which wear no light but that wherewith +Her phantasy informs them. Where are ye +Thrones of the Western wave, fair Islands green? +Where are your moonlight halls, your cedarn glooms, +The blossoming abysses of your hills? +Your flowering Capes and your gold-sanded bays +Blown round with happy airs of odorous winds? +Where are the infinite ways which, Seraph-trod, +Wound thro’ your great Elysian solitudes, +Whose lowest depths were, as with visible love, +Fill’d with Divine effulgence, circumfus’d, +Flowing between the clear and polish’d stems, +And ever circling round their emerald cones +In coronals and glories, such as gird +The unfading foreheads of the Saints in Heaven? +For nothing visible, they say, had birth +In that blest ground but it was play’d about +With its peculiar glory. Then I rais’d +My voice and cried “Wide Afric, doth thy Sun +Lighten, thy hills enfold a City as fair +As those which starr’d the night o’ the Elder World? +Or is the rumour of thy Timbuctoo +A dream as frail as those of ancient Time?” +A curve of whitening, flashing, ebbing light! +A rustling of white wings! The bright descent +Of a young Seraph! and he stood beside me +There on the ridge, and look’d into my face +With his unutterable, shining orbs, +So that with hasty motion I did veil +My vision with both hands, and saw before me +Such colour’d spots as dance athwart the eyes +Of those that gaze upon the noonday Sun. +Girt with a Zone of flashing gold beneath +His breast, and compass’d round about his brow +With triple arch of everchanging bows, +And circled with the glory of living light +And alternation of all hues, he stood. + +“O child of man, why muse you here alone +Upon the Mountain, on the dreams of old +Which fill’d the Earth with passing loveliness, +Which flung strange music on the howling winds, +And odours rapt from remote Paradise? +Thy sense is clogg’d with dull mortality, +Thy spirit fetter’d with the bond of clay: +Open thine eye and see.” I look’d, but not +Upon his face, for it was wonderful +With its exceeding brightness, and the light +Of the great angel mind which look’d from out +The starry glowing of his restless eyes. +I felt my soul grow mighty, and my spirit +With supernatural excitation bound +Within me, and my mental eye grew large +With such a vast circumference of thought, +That in my vanity I seem’d to stand +Upon the outward verge and bound alone +Of full beautitude. Each failing sense +As with a momentary flash of light +Grew thrillingly distinct and keen. I saw +The smallest grain that dappled the dark Earth, +The indistinctest atom in deep air, +The Moon’s white cities, and the opal width +Of her small glowing lakes, her silver heights +Unvisited with dew of vagrant cloud, +And the unsounded, undescended depth +Of her black hollows. The clear Galaxy +Shorn of its hoary lustre, wonderful, +Distinct and vivid with sharp points of light +Blaze within blaze, an unimagin’d depth +And harmony of planet-girded Suns +And moon-encircled planets, wheel in wheel, +Arch’d the wan Sapphire. Nay, the hum of men, +Or other things talking in unknown tongues, +And notes of busy life in distant worlds +Beat like a far wave on my anxious ear. + +A maze of piercing, trackless, thrilling thoughts +Involving and embracing each with each +Rapid as fire, inextricably link’d, +Expanding momently with every sight +And sound which struck the palpitating sense, +The issue of strong impulse, hurried through +The riv’n rapt brain: as when in some large lake +From pressure of descendant crags, which lapse +Disjointed, crumbling from their parent slope +At slender interval, the level calm +Is ridg’d with restless and increasing spheres +Which break upon each other, each th’ effect +Of separate impulse, but more fleet and strong +Than its precursor, till the eye in vain +Amid the wild unrest of swimming shade +Dappled with hollow and alternate rise +Of interpenetrated arc, would scan +Definite round. + +I know not if I shape +These things with accurate similitude +From visible objects, for but dimly now, +Less vivid than a half-forgotten dream, +The memory of that mental excellence +Comes o’er me, and it may be I entwine +The indecision of my present mind +With its past clearness, yet it seems to me +As even then the torrent of quick thought +Absorbed me from the nature of itself +With its own fleetness. Where is he that borne +Adown the sloping of an arrowy stream, +Could link his shallop to the fleeting edge, +And muse midway with philosophic calm +Upon the wondrous laws which regulate +The fierceness of the bounding element? +My thoughts which long had grovell’d in the slime +Of this dull world, like dusky worms which house +Beneath unshaken waters, but at once +Upon some earth-awakening day of spring +Do pass from gloom to glory, and aloft +Winnow the purple, bearing on both sides +Double display of starlit wings which burn +Fanlike and fibred, with intensest bloom: +E’en so my thoughts, ere while so low, now felt +Unutterable buoyancy and strength +To bear them upward through the trackless fields +Of undefin’d existence far and free. + +Then first within the South methought I saw +A wilderness of spires, and chrystal pile +Of rampart upon rampart, dome on dome, +Illimitable range of battlement +On battlement, and the Imperial height +Of Canopy o’ercanopied. + +Behind, +In diamond light, upsprung the dazzling Cones +Of Pyramids, as far surpassing Earth’s +As Heaven than Earth is fairer. Each aloft +Upon his narrow’d Eminence bore globes +Of wheeling suns, or stars, or semblances +Of either, showering circular abyss +Of radiance. But the glory of the place +Stood out a pillar’d front of burnish’d gold +Interminably high, if gold it were +Or metal more ethereal, and beneath +Two doors of blinding brilliance, where no gaze +Might rest, stood open, and the eye could scan +Through length of porch and lake and boundless hall, +Part of a throne of fiery flame, where from +The snowy skirting of a garment hung, +And glimpse of multitudes of multitudes +That minister’d around it—if I saw +These things distinctly, for my human brain +Stagger’d beneath the vision, and thick night +Came down upon my eyelids, and I fell. + +With ministering hand he rais’d me up; +Then with a mournful and ineffable smile, +Which but to look on for a moment fill’d +My eyes with irresistible sweet tears, +In accents of majestic melody, +Like a swol’n river’s gushings in still night +Mingled with floating music, thus he spake: + +“There is no mightier Spirit than I to sway +The heart of man: and teach him to attain +By shadowing forth the Unattainable; +And step by step to scale that mighty stair +Whose landing-place is wrapt about with clouds +Of glory of Heaven.[1] With earliest Light of Spring, +And in the glow of sallow Summertide, +And in red Autumn when the winds are wild +With gambols, and when full-voiced Winter roofs +The headland with inviolate white snow, +I play about his heart a thousand ways, +Visit his eyes with visions, and his ears +With harmonies of wind and wave and wood— +Of winds which tell of waters, and of waters +Betraying the close kisses of the wind— +And win him unto me: and few there be +So gross of heart who have not felt and known +A higher than they see: They with dim eyes +Behold me darkling. Lo! I have given thee +To understand my presence, and to feel +My fullness; I have fill’d thy lips with power. +I have rais’d thee nigher to the Spheres of Heaven, +Man’s first, last home: and thou with ravish’d sense +Listenest the lordly music flowing from +Th’illimitable years. I am the Spirit, +The permeating life which courseth through +All th’ intricate and labyrinthine veins +Of the great vine of Fable, which, outspread +With growth of shadowing leaf and clusters rare, +Reacheth to every corner under Heaven, +Deep-rooted in the living soil of truth: +So that men’s hopes and fears take refuge in +The fragrance of its complicated glooms +And cool impleached twilights. Child of Man, +See’st thou yon river, whose translucent wave, +Forth issuing from darkness, windeth through +The argent streets o’ the City, imaging +The soft inversion of her tremulous Domes. +Her gardens frequent with the stately Palm, +Her Pagods hung with music of sweet bells. +Her obelisks of ranged Chrysolite, +Minarets and towers? Lo! how he passeth by, +And gulphs himself in sands, as not enduring +To carry through the world those waves, which bore +The reflex of my City in their depths. +Oh City! Oh latest Throne! where I was rais’d +To be a mystery of loveliness +Unto all eyes, the time is well nigh come +When I must render up this glorious home +To keen _Discovery_: soon yon brilliant towers +Shall darken with the waving of her wand; +Darken, and shrink and shiver into huts, +Black specks amid a waste of dreary sand, +Low-built, mud-wall’d, Barbarian settlement, +How chang’d from this fair City!” + +Thus far the Spirit: +Then parted Heavenward on the wing: and I +Was left alone on Calpe, and the Moon +Had fallen from the night, and all was dark! + + [1] Be ye perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect. + + + + + +Bibliography of the _Poems_ of 1842 + + +1830 _Poems, chiefly Lyrical_, by Alfred Tennyson. London: Effingham +Wilson, 1830. + +1832 _Poems_ by Alfred Tennyson. London: Edward Moxon, 1833 (published +at the end of 1832). + +1837 In the _Keepsake_, an Annual, appears the poem “St. Agnes’ Eve,” +afterwards republished in the Poems of 1842, as “St. Agnes”. + +1842 _Morte d’Arthur, Dora, and other Idyls_. (Privately printed for +the Author.) + +1842 _Poems_. In 2 vols. By Alfred Tennyson. London: Edward Moxon, +Dover Street, 1842. + +1843 _Id_. 2 vols. Second Edition, 1843. + +1845 _Id_. Third Edition, 1845. + +1846 _Id_. Fourth Edition, 1846. + +1848 _Id._ Fifth Edition, 1848. + +1849 In the _Examiner_ for 24th March, 1849, appeared the poem “To—— , +after reading a Life and Letters,” republished in the Sixth Edition of +the Poems. + +1850 _Poems_. 2 vols. Sixth Edition, 1850. + +1851 In the _Keepsake_ appeared the verses: “Come not when I am Dead,” +reprinted in the Seventh Edition of the Poems. + +1851 _Poems_. Seventh Edition. London: Edward Moxon, 1851. i vol. + +1853 _Id_. Eighth Edition, 1853. i vol. + +1857 _Poems_ by Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate. With engraving of bust +by Woolner, and illustrations by Thomas Creswick, John Everett Millais, +William Holman Hunt, William Macready, John Calcott Horsley, Dante +Gabriel Rosetti, Clarkson Stanfield, and Daniel Maclise. Pp. xiii., +375. London: Edward Moxon, 1857. 8vo. + +1862 _Poems_ MDCCCXXX, MDCCCXXXIII. Privately printed. This was +suppressed by an injunction in Chancery. It was compiled and edited by +Mr. Dykes Campbell for Camden Hotten. + +1863 _Poems_ by Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L. I vol. Edward Moxon, 1863. +(Recorded as being the Fifteenth Edition, but I have not seen any +Edition between 1857 and this one.) + +1865 _A selection from the works of Alfred Tennyson. Poet Laureate._ +(Moxon’s Miniature Poets.) Edward Moxon & Co., 1865. Containing several +minor alterations, and an additional couplet in the “Vision of Sin”. + +1869 Pocket Edition of _Complete Poems_. Strahan, 1869. (I have not +seen this, but it is entered in the London Catalogue.) + +1870 _Id_. Post-Octavo, 1870 (entered in the London Catalogue). + +1871 Miniature or Cabinet Edition of the _Complete Works_ of Alfred +Tennyson, printed by Whittaker, Strahan & Co., 1871. + +1871 _Complete Works._ Edited by A. C. Loffalt. Rotterdam: 12mo, 1871. + +1872 Imperial Library Edition of the _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. In 6 +vols. Strahan & Co., 1872. + +1874-7 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. Cabinet edition in 10 vols. +H.S.King. London: 1874-1877. + +1875 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. 6 vols. H. S. King. +1875-77. + +1875 The _Author’s Edition_ in 4 vols. Henry S. King & Co. 1875. + +1877 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. H. S. King. 7 vols. 1877, and in +the same year by the same publisher the completion of the Miniature +Edition. + +1881 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. With portrait and illustrations, +1881. C. Kegan Paul & Co. + +1884 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. Macmillan & Co., 1884. In the same +year a school edition in four parts by the same publishers. + +1885 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. Complete Edition. New +York: T. Y. Cowell & Co., 1885. + +1886 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. In 10 vols. Macmillan & +Co., 1886. + +1886-91 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. 12 vols. (The dramatic +works in 4 vols.) 16 vols. 1886-91. + +1889 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. London: Macmillan & Co., 1889. + +1890 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. Pocket Edition, without +the plays. London: Macmillan & Co., 1890. + +1890 _Selections_. Edited by Rowe and Webb (frequently reprinted). + +1891 _Complete Works_, i vol. Reprinted ten times between this date and +November, 1899. + +1891 _Poetical Works_. Miniature Edition. 12 vols. + +1891 _Tennyson for the Young_, i vol. With introduction and notes by +Alfred Ainger, reprinted six times between this date and 1899. + +1893 _Poems_. Illustrated. I vol. (This contains the poems and +illustrations of the Illustrated Edition published in 1857.) + +1894 The _Works_ of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Poet Laureate, with last +alterations, etc. London: Macmillan & Co., 1894. + +1895 The _Poetical Works_ of Alfred, Lord Tennyson (without the plays). +(The People’s Edition.) London: Macmillan & Co., 1895. + +1896 _Id._ Pocket Edition. + +1898 The _Life and Works_ of Alfred, Lord Tennyson. (Edition de Luxe.) +12 vols. Macmillan & Co., 1898. + +1899 The _Works_ of Alfred Tennyson. 8 vols. + +1899 _Poetical Works_ of Alfred Lord Tennyson. Globe Edition. +Macmillan. This Edition was supplied to Messrs. Warne and published by +them as the Albion Edition. + +1899 _Poems_ including _In Memoriam_. Popular Edition, 1 vol. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Early Poems of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE EARLY POEMS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON *** + +***** This file should be named 8601-0.txt or 8601-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/6/0/8601/ + +Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Clytie Siddall, Charles Franks, +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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