No More Learning

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". ]






ELEANORE

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, Eleanore. [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] Eleanore!


4

How may full-sail'd verse express,
How may measured words adore
The full-flowing harmony
Of thy swan-like stateliness,
Eleanore?
The luxuriant symmetry
Of thy floating gracefulness,
Eleanore?
Every turn and glance of thine,
Every lineament divine,
Eleanore,
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, Eleanore?


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 Eleanore.


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, Eleanore.


[Footnote 1: With the picture of Eleanore 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.