2
Thee nor carketh [2] care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Thee nor carketh [2] care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Tennyson
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.
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.
