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diff --git a/8601.txt b/8601.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f16a11 --- /dev/null +++ b/8601.txt @@ -0,0 +1,18986 @@ +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 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 + + +Title: The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson + +Posting Date: October 24, 2012 [EBook #8601] +Release Date: August, 2005 +First Posted: July 27, 2003 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 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 + + + + +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 '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 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. . + [Greek (transliterated): oi rheontes] . + + +. Of these the poems marked . appeared in the edition of 1842, and +were not much altered. + ++ Those marked + 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 marked @+ 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. .+ + [Greek: phainetai moi kaenos isos theoisin hemmen anaer] . + 'none. .+ + 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 marked . were included in the edition of 1842; + ++ those marked + being greatly altered and in some cases almost + rewritten, + +@ those marked @ being practically unaltered. + +# To those reprinted in the collected works # is added. + + + + + + +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: + +(1) Selections from the poems published in 1830, 'Claribel' to the +'Sonnet to J. M. K.' inclusive. + +(2) 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. + + +INTRODUCTION + + 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 ''none,' 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 'none 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', 'OEnone', '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 Greek['oi rheontes'], +'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 Greek[spondai_otaes'], that high +seriousness which is one of Tennyson's chief characteristics--we see it +in 'The Palace of Art', in ''none' 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 ''none', '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 linea'. 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 the [Greek: spondai_otaes,] 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 'Oenone', 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? + +[Footnote 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:-- + +1. 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'. + + +2. STUDIES OF PASSION + + 'Mariana'. + 'Mariana in the South.' + 'Oriana'. + 'Fatima'. + 'The Sisters'. + 'Locksley Hall'. + 'Edward Gray'. + + +3. PSYCHOLOGICAL STUDIES + + 'A Character'. + 'The Poet'. + 'The Poet's Mind'. + 'The Two Voices'. + 'The Palace of Art'. + 'The Vision of Sin'. + 'St. Simeon Stylites'. + + +4. IDYLLS + + (a) Classical. + + ''none'. + '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'. + + +5. BALLADS + + 'Oriana'. + 'Lady Clara Vere de Vere'. + 'Edward Gray'. + 'Lady Clare'. + 'The Lord of Burleigh'. + 'The Beggar Maid'. + + +6. 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'." + + +7. 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. ''none' 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 'Aeneid' 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 'architektonike', +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. + +--''none'. + + +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".[1] 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". His +earlier blank verse is less elaborate and seemingly more spontaneous and +easy than his later. [2] 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 ''none' 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 [1] 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-- + + + [Greek: ana phaidimps omps] + +--'Od'., xi., 128. + + + + It was the red cock _shouting_ to the light, + + +exactly the + + + [Greek: heos eboaesen alektor] (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:-- + + + [Greek: araia d' Iketo ph_ona] + + (_Thin_ came the voice). + + +So in 'The Princess', sect. i.:-- + + + And _cook'd his spleen_, + + +which is a phrase from the Greek, as in Homer, 'Il'., iv., 513:-- + + [Greek: epi naeusi cholon thumalgea pessei] + + (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)-- + + [Greek: did' aedae gnathmoisi gelps_on allotrioisi] + + +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' [Greek: maloparaeos]. +The line in the 'Morte d'Arthur', + + This way and that, dividing the swift mind, + + +is an almost literal translation of Virgil's 'Aen'., 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 'Oenone', 'The Lotos Eaters', +'Tithonus', 'Tiresias', 'The Death of Oenone', '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 'Aeneid' 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 + Saepe queri, et longas in fletum ducere voces. + +--'Aen'., 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 +''none' 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:-- + + [Greek: hos d' hot apo skopiaes eide nephos aipolos anaer + erchomenon kata ponton hupo Zephuroio i_oaes tps de t' aneuthen eonti, + melanteron aeute pissa, phainet ion kata ponton, agei de te lailapa + pollaen.] + + (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 + + [Greek: hos d' ote kinaesae Zephyros Bathulaeion, elthon labros, + epaigixon, epi t' aemuei astachuessin] + + (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, 'Aen'., 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. + + [Greek: en de mues stereoisi brachiosin akron hyp' _omon estasan, + aeute petroi oloitrochoi ous te kylind_on cheimarrhous potamos + megalais periexese dinais.] + +--'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 [Greek: kuma k_ophon]--"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:-- + + [Greek: pothoi d' uperpontias phasma doxei dom_on anassein.] + + (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 causa sed palam +imitandi, hoc animo ut vellet agnosci".[4] + +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.[5] 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 +minutiae 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 'De Sublimitate,' xvii.] + +[Footnote 2: 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.] + +[Footnote 3: 'Illustrations of Tennyson'.] + +[Footnote 4: Seneca, third 'Suasoria'.] + +[Footnote 5: 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". [1] 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 +resignation to 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 aesthetes, 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 Caesars +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. + + +[Footnote 1: See Wordsworth's letter to Lady Beaumont, 'Prose Works', +vol. ii., p. 176.] + + + + +TABLE OF CONTENTS + +PREFACE + +INTRODUCTION + +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 + Eleaenore + The Miller's Daughter + Fatima * + 'none + 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 + Moral + L'Envoi + Epilogue + Amphion + St. Agnes + Sir Galahad + Edward Gray + Will Waterproofs 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 + [Greek: oi rheontes] + "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 + + + + + +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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1851. Revered Victoria, you that hold.] + +[Footnote 2: 1851. I thank you that your Royal grace.] + +[Footnote 3: This stanza added in 1853.] + +[Footnote 4: 1851. Your sweetness.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 6: 1851. Broader yet.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. "Wild" omitted, and "low" inserted with a hyphen +before "hummeth".] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. Through and through me.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830. Purfled.] + +[Footnote 3: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 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'".] + +[Footnote 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, + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 2: Lowlihead a favourite word with Chaucer and Spenser.] + +[Footnote 3: 1830. Wifehood.] + +[Footnote 4: 1830. Blenched.] + +[Footnote 5: 1830 and all before 1853. Through.] + +[Footnote 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:-- + + [Greek: deduke men ha selanna kai Plaeiades, mesai de nuktes, para d' + erchet h'ora ego de mona kateud'o.] + + "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!". + + +[Footnote 1: 1863. Pear.] + +[Footnote 2: 1872. Gable-wall.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 4: 1830. _Grey_-eyed. 'Cf'. 'Romeo and Juliet', ii., 3, + "The _grey morn_ smiles on the frowning night".] + +[Footnote 5: 1830, 1842, 1843. Dark.] + +[Footnote 6: 1830. Grey.] + +[Footnote 7: 1830. An' away.] + +[Footnote 8: All editions before 1851. I' the pane. With this line +'cf'. 'Maud', I., vi., 8, "and the shrieking rush of the wainscot +mouse".] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. The knotted lies of human creeds.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830. "Which" for "that".] + +[Footnote 3: 1830. Through and through.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830. Aery.] + +[Footnote 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! + + +[Footnote 1: "Golden prime" from Shakespeare. + + "That cropp'd the _golden prime_ of this sweet prince." + +--_Rich. III._, i., sc. ii., 248.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830. Through.] [Footnote 3: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 4: 1830 and 1842. Sophas.] [Footnote 5: 1830. Breaded blosms.] + +[Footnote 6: 1830. Through crystal.] [Footnote 7: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 8: "Bulbul" is the Persian for nightingale. _Cf. Princes_, +iv., 104:-- + + "O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan Shall brush her veil".] + +[Footnote 9: 1830. Witholding. So 1842, 1843, 1845.] + +[Footnote 10: 1830. Blackgreen.] [Footnote 11: 1830. Of saffron light.] + +[Footnote 12: 1830. Unrayed.] [Footnote 13: 1830. Through ... borne.] + +[Footnote 14: Shakespeare has the same expression: + + "The hum of either army _stilly sounds_". + +--_Henry V_., act iv., prol.] + +[Footnote 15: 1842. Roseries.] [Footnote 16: 1830. Wreathed.] + +[Footnote 17: 1830. Below.] + +[Footnote 18: 1830. Underpropped. 1842. Underpropp'd.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. Cam'st.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830. Kist.] + +[Footnote 3: Transferred from 'Timbuctoo'. + + And these with lavish'd sense + Listenist the lordly music flowing from + The illimitable years.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 7: 1830. The few.] + +[Footnote 8: 1830 and 1842. Thee.] + +[Footnote 9: 1830. Methinks were, so till 1850, when it was altered to +the present reading.] + +[Footnote 10: The cottage at Maplethorpe where the Tennysons used to +spend the summer holidays. (See 'Life', i., 46.)] + +[Footnote 11: 1830. Emblems or Glimpses of Eternity.] + +[Footnote 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 Naiad 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 Sabsean 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. + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 2: 'Cf'. Collins, 'Ode to Pity', "and 'eyes of dewy light'".] + +[Footnote 3: What "the low-tongued Orient" may mean I cannot explain.] + +[Footnote 4: 1830 and all editions till 1853. O'.] + +[Footnote 5: 1863. A-drooping.] + +[Footnote 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 [Greek: spoudaiotaes] 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' [2] good and ill, + He saw thro' [2] 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' [3] 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 [4] 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. [5] + 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, [6] + But one poor poet's scroll, and with 'his' word + She shook the world. + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnotes 2: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 3: 1830 till 1851. Though.] + +[Footnote 4: 2 1830. A.] + +[Footnote 5: 1830. + + And in the bordure of her robe was writ + Wisdom, a name to shake + Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit.] + +[Footnote 6: 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-starred 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. + + +[Footnote 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.' + +[Footnote 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 Lotus-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 brimmed 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; + ... + ridged 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. + + +[Footnote 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: + Careless tenants they! + + +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! + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. Grey.] + +[Footnote 2: 1830 till 1848. Which.] + +[Footnote 3: 1863. River.] + +[Footnote 4: 1830. Sung.] + +[Footnote 5: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 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 [1] deep, + Bramble-roses, faint and pale, + And long purples [2] of the dale. + Let them rave. + These in every shower creep. + Thro' [3] 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 [4] carols clear + In the green that folds thy grave. + Let them rave. + + +[Footnote 1: Still used in the north of England for "birch".] + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 3: Self-pleached, self-entangled or intertwined. 'Cf'. +Shakespeare, "pleached bower," 'Much Ado', iii., i., 7.] + +[Footnote 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'.] + +[Footnote 5: 1830. Through.] + +[Footnote 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] + + +[Footnote 1: The expression is Virgil's, 'Georg'., i., 427: "Luna +revertentes cum primum 'colligit ignes'".] + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Foootnote 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 [1] 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 [2] 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. + + +[Footnote 1: Till 1857. The.] + +[Footnote 2: Till 1857. The.] + +[Footnote 3: 1830. 'I the. So till 1853.] + +[Footnote 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 seer 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] + + + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. + + To many towered Camelot + The yellow leaved water lily, + The green sheathed daffodilly, + Tremble in the water chilly, + Round about Shalott.] + + +[Footnote 2: 1833. + + shiver, + The sunbeam-showers break and quiver + In the stream that runneth ever + By the island, etc.] + + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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] + + +[Footnote 6: 1833. + + Therefore + ... + Therefore + ... + The Lady of Shalott.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 8: 1833. Came from Camelot.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 10: 1833. Hung in the golden galaxy.] + +[Footnote 11: 1833. From.] + +[Footnote 12: 1833. From Camelot.] + +[Footnote 13: 1833. Green Shalott.] + +[Footnote 14: 1833. From Camelot.] + +[Footnote 15: 1833. "Tirra lirra, tirra lirra."] + +[Footnote 16: 1833. Water flower.] + +[Footnote 17: 1833. + + Outside the isle a shallow boat + Beneath a willow lay afloat, + Below the carven stern she wrote, + THE LADY OF SHALOTT.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 20: "A corse" (1853) is a variant for the "Dead-pale" of 1857.] + +[Footnote 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 planked wharfage came: + Below the stern they read her name, + "The Lady of Shalott".] + + +[Footnote 22: 1833. Spells it "Launcelot" all through.] + +[Footnote 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] + + + +[Footnote 1: 1833 From her warm brow and bosom down.] + +[Footnote 2: 1833. On either side.] + +[Footnote 3: Compare Keats, 'Eve of St. Agnes', "her maiden eyes +divine".] + +[Footnote 4: 1833. "Madonna," with melodious moan Sang Mariana, etc.] + +[Footnote 5: 1833. When the dawncrimson changed.] + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 7: 1833. + + At noon she slumbered. All along + The silvery field, the large leaves talked + With one another, as among + The spiked 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-leaved 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".] + + +[Footnote 8: 1835. Most false: he was and was not there.] + +[Footnote 9: 1833. The sick olive. So the text remained till 1850, when +"one" was substituted.] + +[Footnote 10: 1833. + + From the bald rock the blinding light + Beat ever on the sunwhite wall.] + + +[Footnote 11: 1833. + + "Madonna, leave me not all alone, + To die forgotten and live forlorn."] + + +[Footnote 12: This stanza and the next not in 1833.] + +[Footnote 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".] + + + + + + +ELEAeNORE + +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, Eleaenore. [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] Eleaenore! + + +4 + + How may full-sail'd verse express, + How may measured words adore + The full-flowing harmony + Of thy swan-like stateliness, + Eleaenore? + The luxuriant symmetry + Of thy floating gracefulness, + Eleaenore? + Every turn and glance of thine, + Every lineament divine, + Eleaenore, + 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, Eleaenore? + + +5 + + I stand before thee, Eleanore; + 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 Eleanore! + + +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 Eleanore. + + +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 Eleaenore. + + +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, Eleaenore. + + +[Footnote 1: With the picture of Eleaenore may be compared the +description which Ibycus gives of Euryalus. See Bergk's 'Anthologia +Lyrica' (Ibycus), p. 396.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 3: 1833 and 1842. Through.] + +[Footnote 4: Till 1857. Island.] + +[Footnote 5: 1833. Meer.] + +[Footnote 6: 1842 and 1843. Though.] + +[Footnote 7: Ambrosial, the Greek sense of [Greek: ambrosios], divine.] + +[Footnote 8: 1833 to 1851. Though.] + +[Footnote 9: 1833. Did roof noonday with doubt and fear.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 11: 'Cf.' Horace, 'Odes', iii., xxvii., 66-8: + + Aderat querenti + Perfidum ridens Venus, et _remisso_ + Filius _arcu_.] + + +[Footnote 12: 1833. + + I gaze on thee the cloudless noon + Of mortal beauty.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. Scarce makes me.] + +[Footnote 2: 1833. Darling.] + +[Footnote 3: 1833. Own sweet wife.] + +[Footnote 4: This stanza was added in 1842.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 6: 1833. In these dear walls.] + +[Footnote 7: 1833. + + I often heard the cooing dove + In firry woodlands mourn alone.] + + +[Footnote 8: 1833. The long mosses.] + +[Footnote 9: 1842-1851. Where.] + +[Footnote 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,] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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!] + + +[Footnote 13: 1872. Casement-edge.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 19: 1833. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy.] + +[Footnote 20: Cf. Milton, 'Paradise Lost';-- + + Two other precious drops that ready stood + He, ere they fell, kiss'd.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 22: 1842. I gave you on the joyful day.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 24: 1872. In.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 26: 1833. + + I wish I were her necklace, + So might I ever fall and rise.] + + +[Footnote 27: 1833. So warm and light.] + +[Footnote 28: 1833. I would not be.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 31: 1833. Sing me.] + +[Footnote 32: 1833. + + When in the breezy limewood-shade. + I found the blue forget-me-not.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 34: These two stanzas were added in 1842.] + +[Footnote 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:-- + +'Phainetai moi kaenos isos theoisin Emmen anaer'--SAPPHO. + +The title was prefixed in 1842; it is a name taken from 'The Arabian +Nights' or from the Moallakat. 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. At.] + +[Footnote 2: This stanza was added in 1842.] + +[Footnote 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?] + + +[Footnote 4: 'Cf,' Achilles Tatius, 'Clitophon and Leucippe', bk. i., I: + +[Greek: 'AEde (psyche) tarachtheisa tps philaemati palletai, ei de +mae tois splagchnois in dedemenae aekolouthaesen an elkaetheisa ano tois +philaemasin.'] + +(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.)] + + + + +'NONE + +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. ''none' 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 'none. +Beattie's poem opens with an elaborate description of Ida and of Troy in +the distance. Paris, the husband of 'none, 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 'none, 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 'none, + Beautiful-brow'd 'none, 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, Here 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 earnest eye + 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 Here'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 'none 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 Peleian 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 'none 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-entwined 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 'none, + Beautifulbrowed 'none, 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 + Hera 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 arched eyebrow smiling sovranly, + Fulleyed 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 bared 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 Here'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 greengulphed 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 'none 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.) + + +[Footnote 1: Tennyson, as we learn from his 'Life' (vol. i., p. 83), +began ''none' 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.] + +[Footnote 2: Gargarus or Gargaron is the highest peak of the Ida range, +rising about 4650 feet above the level of the sea.] + +[Footnote 3: The epithet many-fountain'd [Greek:'polpidax'] is Homer's +stock epithet for Ida. 'Cf. Iliad', viii., 47; xiv., 283, etc., etc.] + +[Footnote 4: A literal translation from a line in Callimachus, 'Lavacrum +Palladis', 72: + + [Greek: 'mesambrinae d'eich horos haesuchia'] + (noonday quiet held the hill).] + + +[Footnote 5: So Theocritus, 'Idyll', vii., 22:-- + + [Greek: 'Anika dae kai sauros eph aimasiaisi katheudei.'] + (When indeed the very lizard is sleeping on the loose stones of the + wall.)] + + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 7: An echo from 'Henry VI.', part ii., act ii., se. +iii.:-- + + Mine eyes arc full of tears, my heart of grief.] + + +[Footnote 8: 'none was the daughter of the River-God Kebren.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 11: 'Cf'. the [Greek: synophrys kora](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".] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 13: The "'angry' cheek" is a fine touch.] + +[Footnote 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, detracta omni utilitate, + sine ullis praemiis 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.] + + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 16: The Paphos referred to is the old Paphos which was sacred +to Aphrodite; it was on the south-west extremity of Cyprus.] + +[Footnote 17: Adopted from a line excised in 'Mariana in the South'. +See 'supra'.] + +[Footnote 18: This was Eris.] + +[Footnote 19: Helen.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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] + + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. + + I chose, whose ranged ramparts bright + From great broad meadow bases of deep grass.] + + +[Footnote 2: 1833. "While the great world."] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 4: 1833 and 1842. Steadfast.] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 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.'] + +[Footnote 7: 1833. + + Gloom, + Roofed with thick plates of green and orange glass + Ending in stately rooms.] + + +[Footnote 8: 1833. + + All various, all beautiful, + Looking all ways, fitted to every mood.] + + +[Footnote 9: Here in 1833 was inserted the stanza, "One showed an +English home," afterwards transferred to its present position 85-88.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 11: These three stanzas were added in 1842.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 14: Inserted in 1842.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 16: Inserted in 1842.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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 nocturnae + Numa constituebat amicae + ... + In vallem AEgeriae descendimus et speluneas + Dissimiles veris. + +and the beautiful passage in Byron's 'Childe Harold', iv., st. +cxv.-cxix.] + + +[Footnote 19: This is Camadev or Camadeo, the Cupid or God of Love of the +Hindu mythology.] + +[Footnote 20: This picture of Europa seems to have been suggested by +Moschus, 'Idyll', ii., 121-5:-- + + [Greek: Hae d' ar ephezomenae Zaenos Boeois epi n_otois tae men echen + taurou dolichon keras, en cheri d' allae eirue porphyreas kolpou + ptuchas.] + + "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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 22: 1833. Over.] + +[Footnote 23: 1833. Not.] + +[Footnote 24: 1833. Many a.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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 squared 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.] + + +[Footnote 27: 1833. + + There deep-haired Milton like an angel tall + Stood limned, 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 Michael 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. + + [Sub-Footnote A: Il maestro di color chi sanno.--Dante, 'Inf.', + iii.]] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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] + + [Sub-Footnote 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.] + + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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 magicae resonant ubi Memnone Chordae," + +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.] + + +[Footnote 32: 1833. O'.] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 34: These stanzas were added in 1851.] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 36: 1833. Sometimes.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 38: For the reference to Herod see +'Acts' xii. 21-23.] + +[Footnote 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'.] + +[Footnote 40: +See 'Daniel' v. 24-27.] + +[Footnote 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?"] + + +[Footnote 42: 1833. Downward-sloping.] + +[Footnote 43: 1833. + + Or the sound + Of stones. + +So till 1851, when "a sound of rocks" was substituted.] + + +[Footnote 44: 1833. "Dying the death I die?" Present reading substituted +in 1842.] + +[Footnote 45: Because intellectual and aesthetic 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. + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. "Blythe" for "glad".] + +[Footnote 2: 1883. Ye.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1833. The may upon.] + +[Footnote 2: 1833. Ye'll bury me.] + +[Footnote 3: 1833. And ye'll come.] + +[Footnote 4: 1833. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when +ye pass.] + +[Footnote 5: 1833. But ye'll forgive.] + +[Footnote 6: 1833. Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow. +1850. And foregive me ere I go.] + +[Footnote 7: 1833. Ye must not weep.] + +[Footnote 8: 1833. Ye ... ye.] + +[Footnote 9: 1833. Ye'll.] + +[Footnote 10: 1833. Ye.] + +[Footnote 11: 1833. Ye when ye think.] + +[Footnote 12: 1833. Ye.] + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 3: 1889. Come.] + +[Footnote 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". + + +[Footnote 1: 1883. Above the valley burned the golden moon.] + +[Footnote 2: 1883. River's seaward flow.] + +[Footnote 3: 1833. Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow.] + + + + 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. [1] + 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? [2] + All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave [3] + 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 [4] 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? [5] + 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 [6] many wars + And eyes grow dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.[7] + + + 7 + + But, propt on beds [8] 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 [9] 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: [9] + 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. [10] + + + +[Footnote 1: 'Cf.' Virgil, AEn., iv., 451:-- + + Taedet caeli convexa tueri. + +Paraphrased from Moschus, 'Idyll', v., 11-15.] + + +[Footnote 2: For climbing up the wave 'cf.' Virgil, 'AEn.', +i., 381: "Conscendi navilus aequor," and 'cf.' generally Bion, +'Idyll', v., 11-15.] + +[Footnote 3: From Moschus, 'Idyll', v.,'passim'. + +[Footnote 4: 1833. The.] + +[Footnote 5: The little isle, 'i. e.', Ithaca.] + +[Footnote 6: 1863 By.] + +[Footnote 7: Added in 1842.] + +[Footnote 8: 1833. Or, propt on lavish beds.] + +[Footnote 9: 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Hear.] + +[Footnote 10: 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Flowery peak.] + +[Footnote 11: 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 denned +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 mailed 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. + + + + +[Footnote 1: Suggested apparently by Denham, 'Verses on Cowley's +Death':-- + + Old Chaucer, like the morning star + To us discovers + Day from far.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 3: 1833. Screamed.] + +[Footnote 4: The Latin 'testudo' formed of the shields of soldiers +held over their heads.] + +[Footnote 5: 1883 to 1848 inclusive. Stedfast.] + +[Footnote 6: 1833. + + Clasping jasmine turned + Its twined arms festooning tree to tree. + +Altered to present reading, 1842.] + + +[Footnote 7: A lady, i.e., Helen.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 9: 1883. Sovran lady.] + +[Footnote 10: As the old men say, 'Iliad', iii., 156-8.] + +[Footnote 11: The one is Iphigenia.] + +[Footnote 12: Aulis.] + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 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 +AEschylus, '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, + + [Greek: 'neakonaeton aima cheiroin ech_on,'] + +"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 'saevas' + Exceptat 'mortes'.] + + + +[Footnote 15: She expresses the same wish in 'Iliad', iii., 73-4.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote l8: This stanza was added in 1843.] + +[Footnote 19: 1845-1848. Lybian.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 21: Substituted in 1843 for the reading of 1833 and 1842.] + +[Footnote 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!] + +[Footnote 23: A splendid transfusion of Horace's lines about her, Ode I., +xxxvii. + + Invidens Privata deduci superto + Non humilis mulier triumpho.] + + +[Footnote 24: 1833 and 1842. Touched.] + +[Footnote 25: For the story of Jephtha's daughter see Judges, chap. xi.] + +[Footnote 26: All editions up to and including 1851. In his den.] + +[Footnote 27: For reference see Judges xi, 33.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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] + + +[Footnote 1: All editions except 1833 and 1853. Though.] + +[Footnote 2: 1833. Lion-souled Plantagenet. For songs supposed to have +been composed by Richard I. during the time of his captivity see +Sismondi, 'Litterature du Midi de l'Europe', vol. i., p. 149, and +'La Tour Tenebreuse' (1705), which contains a poem said to have +been written by Richard and Blondel in mixed Romance and Provencal, 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 Poesies des Troubadours'. All +these poems are probably spurious.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 4: 1833. + +And more aerially blue, +And ever trembling thro' the dew.] + + +[Footnote 5: 1833. Jasmin-leaves.] + + + + + + + +THE BLACKBIRD. + +Not in 1833. + +This is another poem placed among the poems of 1833, but not printed +till 1842. + +O blackbird! sing me something well: +While all the neighbours shoot thee round, +I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, +Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. + + 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1842. Yet, though I spared thee kith and kin. And so till +1853, when it was altered to the present reading.] + +[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1851. Jennetin, altered in 1853 to present +reading.] + +[Footnote 3: 1842. I better brook the drawling stares. Altered, 1843.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: Possibly suggested by Tasso, 'Gerus.', lib. xx., st. +lviii.:-- + + Qual vento a cui s'oppone o selva o colle + Doppia nella contesa i soffi e l' ira; + Ma con fiato piu placido e piu molle + Per le compagne libere poi spira.] + + +[Footnote 2: 1833. + + My heart this knowledge bolder made, + Or else it had not dared to flow. + +Altered in 1842.] + + +[Footnote 3: Tennyson's father died in March, 1831.] + +[Footnote 4: 1833. Mild.] + +[Footnote 5: 'Cf.' Gray's Alcaic stanza on West's death:-- + + O lacrymarum fons tenero sacros + 'Ducentium ortus ex animo'.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 7: 1833, 1842, 1843. My tablets. This affected phrase was +altered to the present reading in 1845.] + +[Footnote 8: 1833. Holy. Altered to "only," 1842.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 and 1851. Though.] + +[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1843. Whose spirits fail within the mist. Altered +to present reading in 1845.] + +[Footnote 3: All editions up to and including 1851. Though Power, etc.] + +[Footnote 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! + + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850 inclusive. Within her place. Altered to +present reading, 1850.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 and so till 1851. Though.] + +[Footnote 2: 1842. Knowledge is spelt with a capital K.] + +[Footnote 3: 1842. Or growth.] + +[Footnote 4: 1842. The boasting words we said.] + +[Footnote 5: Possibly suggested by Homer's expression, [Greek: ana +ptolemoio gephuras], '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.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833.] + +[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1844. "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic +of King Arthur in the fire!" The present reading, 1850.] + +[Footnote 3: 1842, 1843. + + 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 seest, 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 fealty, 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 daeis-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 seest--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. + + +[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Morte d'Arthur', xxxi., iv.: "They led him betwixt +them to a little chapel from the not far seaside".] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 3: 1842-1853. Studs.] + +[Footnote 4: Literally from Virgil ('AEn.', iv., 285). + + "Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc."] + + +[Footnote 5: 'Cf. Romance, Id.', v.: + + "'I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan.'"] + + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 7: This line was not inserted till 1853.] + +[Footnote 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."'] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 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?'"] + + +[Footnote 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.'"] + + +[Footnote 14: With this 'cf>/i>. 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 16: Paraphrased from 'Odyssey', vi., 42-5, or 'Lucretius', +iii., 18-22.] + +[Footnote 17: The expression "'crowned' with summer 'sea'" from +'Odyssey', x., 195: [Greek: naeson taen peri pontos apeiritos +estaphan_otai.]] + + + + + +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. + + +[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Romeo and Juliet', ii., vi.:-- + + O so light a foot + Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.] + + +[Footnote 2: 'Cf.' Keats, 'Ode to Nightingale':-- + + The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.] + + +[Footnote 3: 'Cf'. Theocritus, 'Id'., vii., 143:-- + + [Greek: pant' _osden thereos mala pionos.]] + + +[Footnote 4: Provincial name for the goldfinch. See Tennyson's letter to +the Duke of Argyll, 'Life', ii., 221.] + +[Footnote 5: This passage is imitated from Theocritus, vii., 143 +'seqq'.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 7: So Massinger, 'City Madam', iii., 3:-- + +I am sublim'd. +Gross earth +Supports me not. +'I walk on air'.] + + +[Footnote 8: Cf. Dante, 'Inferno', v., 81-83:-- + +Quali columbe dal desio chiamate, +Con 1' ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido Volan.] + + +[Footnote 9: 1842-1850. Lisping.] + +[Footnote 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 prosestory 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. + + +[Footnote 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] + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850. Through.] + +[Footnote 2: 'cf'. Milton, 'Paradise Lost', ix., 1106-7:-- + + A pillar'd shade + High overarch'd.] + + +[Footnote 3: 1842. Golden yokes.] + +[Footnote 4: That is planting turnips, barley, clover and wheat, by +which land is kept constantly fresh and vigorous.] + +[Footnote 5: 1872. Some.] + +[Footnote 6: Inserted in 1857.] + +[Footnote 7: Here was inserted, in 1872, the line--Sole star of +phosphorescence in the calm.] + +[Footnote 8: Like the shepherd in Homer at the moonlit landscape, +'gegaethe de te phrena poimaen', '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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1842. + +'John'. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the country looks! + Is yonder planting where this byway joins + The turnpike?] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 4: 1842. Sets forth. Added in 1853.] + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 6: 1842 and 1843. I that am. Now, I that am.] + +[Footnote 7: 1842. + + scored upon the part + Which cherubs want.] + + + + + + + +THE EARLY POEMS OF + +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. + + +[Footnote 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'.] + +[Footnote 2: The Latin factus 'ad unguem'. For Crichton, a half-mythical +figure, see Tytler's 'Life' of him.] + +[Footnote 3: 1851. Of different ages, like twin-sisters throve.] + +[Footnote 4: 1853. To breathe, to wake.] + +[Footnote 5: 1872. Have.] + +[Footnote 6: The reference is to the 'Acme' and 'Septimius' of Catullus, +xliv.-- + + Hoc ut dixit, + Amor, sinistram, ut ante, + Dextram sternuit approbationem.] + + +[Footnote 7: 1851. That like a copper beech.] + +[Footnote 8: 1851. + + garden-isles; and now we ran + By ripply shallows.] + + +[Footnote 9: 1851. The rainy isles.] + +[Footnote 10: Cf. Byron, 'Don Juan', i., xcvii.:-- + + The seal a sunflower--'elle vous suit partout'.] + + +[Footnote 11: 'Cf'. Milton, 'Par. Lost', iv., 268-9:-- + + Not that fair field + Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers + ... + Was gather'd.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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. SIMEON 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 aesthetic 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. + +[Footnote 1: For this incident 'cf. Acta', v., 317: + + "Petit aliquando ab aliquo ad se invisente funem, acceptumque circa + corpus convolvit constringitque tarn arete ut, exesa carne, quae istuc + mollis admodum ac tenera est, nudae costae exstarent". + +The same is told also of the younger Stylites, where the incident of +concealing the torture is added, 'Acta', i., 265.] + + +[Footnote 2: For this retirement to a mountain see 'Acta', i., 270, and +it is referred to in the other lives: + + "Post haec egressus occulte perrexit in montem non longe a monasterio, + ibique sibi clausulam de sicca petra fecit, et stetit sic annos + tres."] + + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 4: For the miracles wrought by him see all the lives.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 6: The 'Acta' say nothing about the crown, but dwell on the +supernatural fragrance which exhaled from the saint.] + +[Footnote 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 +Muehlbach'. 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. + +[Footnote 1: Spence is a larder and buttery. In the 'Promptorium +Parverum it is defined as "cellarium promptuarium".] + +[Footnote 2: Cf. Burns' "godly laces," 'To the Unco Righteous'.] + +[Footnote 3: All editions previous to 1853 have 'staid'.] + +[Footnote 4: The phrase is Marvell's. 'Cf. To his Coy Mistress' (a +favourite poem of Tennyson's), "my vegetable loves should grow".] + +[Footnote 5: 1842 to 1850. "For, ah! the Dryad-days were brief.] + +[Footnote 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 freer, 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. + + +[Footnote 1: As this passage is a little obscure, it may not be +superfluous to point out that "shout" is a substantive.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 3: Suggested by Theocritus, 'Id'., xv., 104-5.] + +[Footnote 4: 1842 to 1845. O then like those, that clench.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1846 to 1850. + + And joined him in Llanberis; and that same song + He told me, etc.] + + +[Footnote 2: Proverbs xxx. 15: + + "The horseleach hath two daughters, crying, + Give, give".] + + +[Footnote 3: 1890. Altered to "Yet oceans daily gaining on the land".] + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: Virgil, 'AEn'., i., 748, and iii., 516.] + +[Footnote 2: 'Odyssey', i., 1-4.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 4: How admirably has Tennyson touched off the character of the +Telemachus of the 'Odyssey'.] + +[Footnote 5: The Happy Isles, the 'Fortunatae Insulae' of the Romans and +the + + [Greek: ai t_on Makar_on naesoi] + +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_.:-- + + [Greek: alla s' es Elysion pedion kai peirata gaiaes athanatoi + pempsousin, hothi xanthos Rhadamanthus tae per rhaeistae biotae pelei + anthr_opoisin, ou niphetos, out' ar cheim_on polus, oute pot' ombros + all' aiei Zephuroio ligu pneiontas aaetas _okeanos aniaesin + anapsuchein anthr_opous. + + [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 Moallakat, 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1842. And round the gables.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 3: 1842 and all up to and including 1850 have a capital 'R' to +robin.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 6: Cf. Horace's 'Annosa Cornix', Odes III., xvii., 13.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 8: The epithet "dreary" shows that Tennyson preferred +realistic picturesqueness to dramatic propriety.] + +[Footnote 9: See the introductory note to 'The Golden Year'.] + +[Footnote 10: See the introductory note to 'The Golden Year'.] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 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, e molto + Piu che virili, in chi dell' uomo al tutto + Da natura e minor. Che se piu molli + E piu tenui le membra, essa la mente + Men capace e men forte anco riceve.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 15: 'Cf'. Shakespeare, "foreheads villainously low".] + +[Footnote 16: 1842. Peoples spin.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 18: 1842. The world.] + +[Footnote 19: Cathay, the old name for China.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: These four lines are not in the privately printed volume of +1842, but were added afterwards.] + +[Footnote 2: St. Michael's, Trinity, and St. John.] + +[Footnote 3: 1844. Archway.] + +[Footnote 4: His effigy is still to be seen, protruded from an upper +window in High Street, Coventry.] + +[Footnote 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!" + + +[Footnote 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'.] + +[Footnote 2: 'Cf. Palace of Art', "the riddle of the painful earth".] + +[Footnote 3: 'Seq'. The reference is to Acts of the Apostles vii. +54-60.] + +[Footnote 4: Suggested by Shakespeare, 'Julius Caesar', Act v., Sc. +5:-- + + and _the elements_ + So mix'd in' him that Nature, etc.] + + +[Footnote 5: An excellent commentary on this is Clough's + + _Perche pensa, pensando vecchia_.] + + +[Footnote 6: 'Cf'. Job xiv. 21: + + "His sons come to honour, and he knowcth it not; and they are brought + low, but he perceiveth it not of them."] + + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 9: 'Cf'. Plato, 'Phaedo', x.:-- + + [Greek: ara echei alaetheian tina opsis te kai akoae tois anthr_opois. + Ae ta ge toiauta kai oi poiaetai haemin aei thrulousin oti out + akouomen akribes ouden oute or_omen] + + "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.] + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 11: The best commentary on this will be found in Herbert +Spencer's 'Psychology'.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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".] + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1830. + + The while she slumbereth alone, + _Over_ the purple coverlet, + The maiden's jet-black hair hath grown.] + + +[Footnote 2: 1830. Star-braided.] + +[Footnote 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.] + +[Footnote 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! + + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1851. In.] + +[Footnote 2: All editions up to and including 1850. In his ear.] + +[Footnote 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. + + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1851. And last of all.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Foonote 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. + + +[Foonote 1: 1842. The pensive mind that, self-involved.] + +[Foonote 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. + + The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, + The bramble cast her berry, + The gin within the juniper + Began to make him merry. + + 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. + + +[Foonote 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.] + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 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! + + +[Footnote 1: In 'Keepsake': not capital in Thou.] + +[Footnote 2: In 'Keepsake': On.] + +[Footnote 3: In 'Keepsake': Strews.] + +[Footnote 4: In 'Keepsake': not capitals in Heavenly and Bridegroom.] + +[Footnote 5: In 'Keepsake': To wash me pure from sin.] + +[Footnote 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' [3] 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' [3] 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, [5] + 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 1842 and all previous to 1853. To full and kindly.] + +[Footnote 2: All previous to 1853:-- + + Like Hezekiah's, backward runs + The shadow of my days.] + + +[Footnote 3: All previous to 1853. Though.] + +[Footnote 4: The expression is Shakespeare's, 'Twelfth Night', v., i., + + "and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges".] + + +[Footnote 5: 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! + + +[Footnote 1: In Examiner and in 1850. My curse upon the.] + +[Footnote 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 Saenger'.] + + + + + + + + +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. + + +[Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 2: The Akrokeraunian walls: the promontory now called Glossa.] + +[Footnote 3: Tomohr, 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 Tomohr 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." + + +[Footnote 1: All up to and including 1850. Brooch.] + +[Footnote 2: All up to and including 1850. Though.] + +[Footnote 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".] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: Up to 1848. Linden.] + +[Footnote 2: All editions up to and including 1850. On mosses thick.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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 aesthetic 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] + + +[Footnote 1: A reference to the famous passage in the 'Phoedrus' where +Plato compares the soul to a chariot drawn by the two-winged steeds.] + +Footnote 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.] + + +[Footnote 3: See footnote to last line.] + +[Footnote 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]**[Footnote: 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."] + + +[Footnote 5: 1842 and 1843. The tyrant's.] + +[Footnote 6: 1842. Said.] + +[Footnote 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."] + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 1: 'The Keepsake':--But go thou by.] + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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. + + +[Footnote 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". + + +[Footnote 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 broadimbased 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 damned 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 + + 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 + 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 bloomed 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 bloomed 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 bloomed 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. + + +[Footnote 1: His crispe hair in ringis was yronne.--Chaucer, _Knight's +Tale._ (Tennyson's note.)] + + + + + + + + +SONG + + + I + + Every day hath its night: + Every night its morn: + Thorough dark and bright + Winged 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! 0 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 mailed 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 + +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, it 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 + 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, + 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, + 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, + 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. + + 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 frocked: + Like, unlike, they roam together + Under a summervault of golden weather; + Like, unlike, they sing together + Side by side, + Mid May's darling goldenlocked, + Summer's tanling diamondeyed. + + + + + + +WE ARE FREE + +Reprinted among 'Juvenilia' in 1871 and onward without alteration, +except that it is printed as two stanzas. + + 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 crisped sea, + Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow + Atween the blossoms, "We are free". + + + +[Greek: Oi Rheontes] + + 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-- + +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 parched 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. + + + + + + +BUONAPARTE + +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 + +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 Soloe + Past Thymiaterion, in calmed 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 + + + I + + The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, + Guard it well, guard it warily, + Singing airily, + Standing about the charmed 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 scaled 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 charmed 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 the footnote) has not +been reprinted. + + 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] + + +[Footnote 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 + 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 armed 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 + +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-- + +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 +Academicae Praemiis annuis dignatae, et in Curia Cantabrigiensi +Recitatae 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! + + +[Footnote 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 EARLY POEMS OF ALFRED LORD TENNYSON *** + +***** This file should be named 8601.txt or 8601.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 public domain print editions 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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