No More Learning

]


[Footnote 9: 1842-1850. Lisping. ]

[Footnote 10: In privately printed volume 1842. His. ]






DORA

First published in 1842.

This poem had been written as early as 1835, when it was read to
Fitzgerald and Spedding ('Life', i. , 182). No alterations were made in
the text after 1853. The story in this poem was taken even to the
minutest details from a prosestory of Miss Mitford's, namely, 'The Tale
of Dora Creswell' ('Our Village', vol. in. , 242-53), the only
alterations being in the names, Farmer Cresswell, Dora Creswell, Walter
Cresswell, and Mary Hay becoming respectively Allan, Dora, William, and
Mary Morrison. How carefully the poet has preserved the picturesque
touches of the original may be seen by comparing the following two
passages:--

And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
. . .
She rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat.

"A beautiful child lay on the ground at some distance, whilst a
young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a
rustic wreath of enamelled cornflowers, brilliant poppies . . . round
its hat. "

The style is evidently modelled closely on that of the 'Odyssey'.


With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought "I'll make them man and wife".
Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day
When Allan call'd his son, and said,
"My son: I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die:
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter: he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day,
For many years. " But William answer'd short;
"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,
I will not marry Dora". Then the old man
Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
"You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
And never more darken my doors again. "
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. [1] The more he look'd at her
The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
The month was out he left his father's house,
And hired himself to work within the fields;
And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed
A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing,
Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;
But if you speak with him that was my son,
Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
My home is none of yours. My will is law. "
And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
"It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change! "

And days went on, and there was born a boy
To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought
Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obey'd my uncle until now,
And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you:
You know there has not been for these five years
So full a harvest, let me take the boy,
And I will set him in my uncle's eye
Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone. "
And Dora took the child, and went her way
Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
Far off the farmer came into the field
And spied her not; for none of all his men
Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
But when the morrow came, she rose and took
The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
And made a little wreath of all the flowers
That grew about, and tied it round his hat
To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
Then when the farmer passed into the field
He spied her, and he left his men at work,
And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?
Whose child is that? What are you doing here? "
So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
And answer'd softly, "This is William's child? "
"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
Forbid you, Dora? " Dora said again:
"Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone! "
And Allan said: "I see it is a trick
Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more. "
So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant. She bow'd down her head,
Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down
And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that help'd her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more".
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be,
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back;
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child until he grows
Of age to help us. " So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her:
And Allan set him down, and Mary said:
"O Father! --if you let me call you so--
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me--
I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
'God bless him! ' he said, 'and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro'! ' Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before. "
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:
"I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.
I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.
May God forgive me! --I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children. " Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William. So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.


[Footnote 1: In 1842 thus:--

"Look to't,
Consider: take a month to think, and give
An answer to my wish; or by the Lord
That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore
Darken my doors again. " And William heard,
And answered something madly; bit his lips,
And broke away.

All editions previous to 1853 have

"Look to't. ]







AUDLEY COURT

First published in 1842.

Only four alterations were made in the text after 1842, all of which are
duly noted. Tennyson told his son that the poem was partially suggested
by Abbey Park at Torquay where it was written, and that the last lines
described the scene from the hill looking over the bay. He saw he said
"a star of phosphorescence made by the buoy appearing and disappearing
in the dark sea," but it is curious that the line describing that was
not inserted till long after the poem had been published. The poem,
though a trifle, is a triumph of felicitous description and expression,
whether we regard the pie or the moonlit bay.


"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room
For love or money. Let us picnic there
At Audley Court. " I spoke, while Audley feast
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay,
To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
To Francis just alighted from the boat,
And breathing of the sea. "With all my heart,"
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' [1] the swarm,
And rounded by the stillness of the beach
To where the bay runs up its latest horn.
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd
The flat red granite; so by many a sweep
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd
The griffin-guarded gates and pass'd thro' all
The pillar'd dusk [2] of sounding sycamores
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge,
With all its casements bedded, and its walls
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.
There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid
A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,
Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,
And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made,
Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,
Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks [3]
Imbedded and injellied; last with these,
A flask of cider from his father's vats,
Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat
And talk'd old matters over; who was dead,
Who married, who was like to be, and how
The races went, and who would rent the hall:
Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was
This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm,
The fourfield system, and the price of grain; [4]
And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,
And came again together on the king
With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud;
And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung
To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang--
"Oh! who would fight and march and counter-march,
Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field,
And shovell'd up into a [5] bloody trench
Where no one knows? but let me live my life.
"Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk,
Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool,
Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints
Are full of chalk? but let me live my life.
"Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my name
Upon the cliffs that guard my native land,
I might as well have traced it in the sands;
The sea wastes all: but let me live my life.
"Oh! who would love? I wooed a woman once,
But she was sharper than an eastern wind,
And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn
Turns from the sea: but let me live my life. "
He sang his song, and I replied with mine:
I found it in a volume, all of songs,
Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride,
His books--the more the pity, so I said--
Came to the hammer here in March--and this--
I set the words, and added names I knew.
"Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream of me:
Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm,
And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.
"Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm;
Emilia, fairer than all else but thou,
For thou art fairer than all else that is.
"Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast:
Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip:
I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.
"I go, but I return: I would I were
The pilot of the darkness and the dream.
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me. "
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale,
The farmer's son who lived across the bay,
My friend; and I, that having wherewithal,
And in the fallow leisure of my life
A rolling stone of here and everywhere, [6]
Did what I would; but ere the night we rose
And saunter'd home beneath a moon that, just
In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf
Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd
The limit of the hills; and as we sank
From rock to rock upon the gloomy quay,
The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down
The bay was oily-calm: the harbour buoy
With one green sparkle ever and anon [7]
Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. [8]


[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850. Through. ]

[Footnote 2: 'cf'. Milton, 'Paradise Lost', ix. , 1106-7:--

A pillar'd shade
High overarch'd. ]


[Footnote 3: 1842. Golden yokes. ]

[Footnote 4: That is planting turnips, barley, clover and wheat, by
which land is kept constantly fresh and vigorous. ]

[Footnote 5: 1872. Some. ]

[Footnote 6: Inserted in 1857. ]

[Footnote 7: Here was inserted, in 1872, the line--Sole star of
phosphorescence in the calm. ]

[Footnote 8: Like the shepherd in Homer at the moonlit landscape,
'gegaethe de te phrena poimaen', 'Il'. , viii. , 559. ]






WALKING TO THE MAIL

First published in 1842. Not altered in any respect after 1853.


'John'. I'm glad I walk'd.
How fresh the meadows look
Above the river, and, but a month ago,
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.
Is yon plantation where this byway joins
The turnpike? [1]

'James'. Yes.

'John'. And when does this come by?

'James'. The mail? At one o'clock.

'John'. What is it now?

James'. A quarter to.

'John'. Whose house is that I see? [2]
No, not the County Member's with the vane:
Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half
A score of gables.

'James'. That? Sir Edward Head's:
But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.

'John'. Oh, his. He was not broken?

'James'. No, sir, he,
Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood
That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face
From all men, and commercing with himself,
He lost the sense that handles daily life--
That keeps us all in order more or less--
And sick of home went overseas for change.

'John'. And whither?

'James'. Nay, who knows? he's here and there.
But let him go; his devil goes with him,
As well as with his tenant, Jockey Dawes.

'John'. What's that?

'James-. You saw the man--on Monday, was it? --[3]
There by the hump-back'd willow; half stands up
And bristles; half has fall'n and made a bridge;
And there he caught the younker tickling trout--
Caught in 'flagrante'--what's the Latin word? --
'Delicto'; but his house, for so they say,
Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook
The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors,
And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay'd:
The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs,
And all his household stuff; and with his boy
Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt,
Sets out, [4] and meets a friend who hails him,
"What! You're flitting! " "Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost
(For they had pack'd the thing among the beds).
"Oh, well," says he, "you flitting with us too--
Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again". [5]

'John'. He left 'his' wife behind; for so I heard.

'James'. He left her, yes. I met my lady once:
A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.

'John'. Oh, yet, but I remember, ten years back--
'Tis now at least ten years--and then she was--
You could not light upon a sweeter thing:
A body slight and round and like a pear
In growing, modest eyes, a hand a foot
Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin
As clean and white as privet when it flowers.

'James'. Ay, ay, the blossom fades and they that loved
At first like dove and dove were cat and dog.
She was the daughter of a cottager,
Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride,
New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd
To what she is: a nature never kind!
Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say.
Kind nature is the best: those manners next
That fit us like a nature second-hand;
Which are indeed the manners of the great.

'John'. But I had heard it was this bill that past,
And fear of change at home, that drove him hence.

'James'. That was the last drop in the cup of gall.
I once was near him, when his bailiff brought
A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince
As from a venomous thing: he thought himself
A mark for all, and shudder'd, lest a cry
Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes
Should see the raw mechanic's bloody thumbs
Sweat on his blazon'd chairs; but, sir, you know
That these two parties still divide the world--
Of those that want, and those that have: and still
The same old sore breaks out from age to age
With much the same result. Now I myself, [6]
A Tory to the quick, was as a boy
Destructive, when I had not what I would.
I was at school--a college in the South:
There lived a flayflint near; we stole his fruit,
His hens, his eggs; but there was law for 'us';
We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She,
With meditative grunts of much content, [7]
Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud.
By night we dragg'd her to the college tower
From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair
With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow,
And on the leads we kept her till she pigg'd.
Large range of prospect had the mother sow,
And but for daily loss of one she loved,
As one by one we took them--but for this--
As never sow was higher in this world--
Might have been happy: but what lot is pure!
We took them all, till she was left alone
Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine,
And so return'd unfarrowed to her sty.

'John. ' They found you out?

'James. ' Not they.

'John. ' Well--after all--What know we of the secret of a man?
His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound,
That we should mimic this raw fool the world,
Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites,
As ruthless as a baby with a worm,
As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows
To Pity--more from ignorance than will,
But put your best foot forward, or I fear
That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes
With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand
As you shall see--three pyebalds and a roan.



[Footnote 1: 1842.

'John'. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the country looks!
Is yonder planting where this byway joins
The turnpike? ]


[Footnote 2: Thus 1843 to 1850:--

'John'. Whose house is that I see
Beyond the watermills?

'James'. Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad, etc. ]


[Footnote 3: Thus 1842 to 1851:--

'James'. You saw the man but yesterday:
He pick'd the pebble from your horse's foot.
His house was haunted by a jolly ghost
That rummaged like a rat. ]


[Footnote 4: 1842. Sets forth. Added in 1853. ]

[Footnote 5: This is a folk-lore story which has its variants, Mr.
Alfred Nutt tells me, in almost every country in Europe. The
Lincolnshire version of it is given in Miss Peacock's MS. collection of
Lincolnshire folk-lore, of which she has most kindly sent me a copy, and
it runs thus:--"There is a house in East Halton which is haunted by a
hob-thrush. . . . Some years ago, it is said, a family who had lived in the
house for more than a hundred years were much annoyed by it, and
determined to quit the dwelling. They had placed their goods on a
waggon, and were just on the point of starting when a neighbour asked
the farmer whether he was leaving. On this the hobthrush put his head
out of the splash-churn, which was amongst the household stuff, and
said, 'Ay, we're flitting'. Whereupon the farmer decided to give up the
attempt to escape from it and remain where he was. " The same story is
told of a Cluricaune in Croker's 'Fairy Legends and Traditions' in the
South of Ireland. See 'The Haunted Cellar' in p. 81 of the edition of
1862, and as Tennyson has elsewhere in 'Guinevere' borrowed a passage
from the same story (see 'Illustrations of Tennyson', p. 152) it is
probable that that was the source of the story here, though there the
Cluricaune uses the expression, "Here we go altogether". ]

[Footnote 6: 1842 and 1843. I that am. Now, I that am. ]

[Footnote 7: 1842.

scored upon the part
Which cherubs want. ]







THE EARLY POEMS OF

EDWIN MORRIS;

OR, THE LAKE

This poem first appeared in the seventh edition of the Poems, 1851. It
was written at Llanberis. Several alterations were made in the eighth
edition of 1853, since then none, with the exception of "breath" for
"breaths" in line 66.


O Me, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year,
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth
Of city life! I was a sketcher then:
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built
When men knew how to build, upon a rock,
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock:
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold,
New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires,
Here lived the Hills--a Tudor-chimnied bulk
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers.
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull
The curate; he was fatter than his cure.

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,
Long-learned names of agaric, moss and fern, [1]
Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks,
Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim,
Who read me rhymes elaborately good,
His own--I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd
All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail. [2]
And once I ask'd him of his early life,
And his first passion; and he answer'd me;
And well his words became him: was he not
A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence
Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke.

"My love for Nature is as old as I;
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that,
And three rich sennights more, my love for her.
My love for Nature and my love for her,
Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, [3]
Twin-sisters differently beautiful.
To some full music rose and sank the sun,
And some full music seem'd to move and change
With all the varied changes of the dark,
And either twilight and the day between;
For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again
Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet
To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe. " [4]

Or this or something like to this he spoke.
Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull,
"I take it, God made the woman for the man,
And for the good and increase of the world,
A pretty face is well, and this is well,
To have a dame indoors, that trims us up,
And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways
Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed
Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff.
I say, God made the woman for the man,
And for the good and increase of the world. "

"Parson," said I, "you pitch the pipe too low:
But I have sudden touches, and can run
My faith beyond my practice into his:
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill,
I do not hear the bells upon my cap,
I scarce hear [5] other music: yet say on.
What should one give to light on such a dream? "
I ask'd him half-sardonically.
"Give? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light
Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek;
"I would have hid her needle in my heart,
To save her little finger from a scratch
No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear
Her lightest breaths: her least remark was worth
The experience of the wise. I went and came;
Her voice fled always thro' the summer land;
I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days!
The flower of each, those moments when we met,
The crown of all, we met to part no more. "

Were not his words delicious, I a beast
To take them as I did? but something jarr'd;
Whether he spoke too largely; that there seem'd
A touch of something false, some self-conceit,
Or over-smoothness: howsoe'er it was,
He scarcely hit my humour, and I said:--

"Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me,
As in the Latin song I learnt at school,
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left? [6]
But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein:
I have I think--Heaven knows--as much within;
Have or should have, but for a thought or two,
That like a purple beech [7] among the greens
Looks out of place: 'tis from no want in her:
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust,
Or something of a wayward modern mind
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right. "

So spoke I knowing not the things that were.
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull:
"God made the woman for the use of man,
And for the good and increase of the world".
And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we paused
About the windings of the marge to hear
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms
And alders, garden-isles [8]; and now we left
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake,
Delighted with the freshness and the sound.
But, when the bracken rusted on their crags,
My suit had wither'd, nipt to death by him
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk,
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles. [9]

'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more:
She sent a note, the seal an _Elle vous suit_, [10]
The close "Your Letty, only yours"; and this
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of morn
Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran
My craft aground, and heard with beating heart
The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving keel;
And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved,
Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: [11]
Then low and sweet I whistled thrice; and she,
She turn'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, I breathed
In some new planet: a silent cousin stole
Upon us and departed: "Leave," she cried,
"O leave me! " "Never, dearest, never: here
I brave the worst:" and while we stood like fools
Embracing, all at once a score of pugs
And poodles yell'd within, and out they came
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles. "What, with him!
"Go" (shrill'd the cottonspinning chorus) "him! "
I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen "Him! "
Again with hands of wild rejection "Go! --
Girl, get you in! " She went--and in one month [12]
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds,
To lands in Kent and messuages in York,
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile
And educated whisker. But for me,
They set an ancient creditor to work:
It seems I broke a close with force and arms:
There came a mystic token from the king
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy!
I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd:
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below:
I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the storm;
So left the place, [13] left Edwin, nor have seen
Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to hear.
Nor cared to hear? perhaps; yet long ago
I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed,
It may be, for her own dear sake but this,
She seems a part of those fresh days to me;
For in the dust and drouth of London life
She moves among my visions of the lake,
While the prime swallow dips his wing, or then
While the gold-lily blows, and overhead
The light cloud smoulders on the summer crag.


[Footnote 1: Agaric (some varieties are deadly) is properly the fungus
on the larch; it then came to mean fungus generally. Minshew calls it "a
white soft mushroom". See Halliwell, 'Dict. of Archaic and Provincial
Words, sub vocent'. ]

[Footnote 2: The Latin factus 'ad unguem'. For Crichton, a half-mythical
figure, see Tytler's 'Life' of him. ]

[Footnote 3: 1851. Of different ages, like twin-sisters throve. ]

[Footnote 4: 1853. To breathe, to wake. ]

[Footnote 5: 1872. Have. ]

[Footnote 6: The reference is to the 'Acme' and 'Septimius' of Catullus,
xliv. --

Hoc ut dixit,
Amor, sinistram, ut ante,
Dextram sternuit approbationem. ]


[Footnote 7: 1851. That like a copper beech. ]

[Footnote 8: 1851.

garden-isles; and now we ran
By ripply shallows. ]


[Footnote 9: 1851. The rainy isles. ]

[Footnote 10: Cf. Byron, 'Don Juan', i. , xcvii. :--

The seal a sunflower--'elle vous suit partout'. ]


[Footnote 11: 'Cf'. Milton, 'Par. Lost', iv. , 268-9:--

Not that fair field
Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers
. . .
Was gather'd. ]


[Footnote 12: 1851.

"Go Sir! " Again they shrieked the burthen "Him! "
Again with hands of wild rejection "Go!
Girl, get you in" to her--and in one month, etc. ]


[Footnote 13: 1851.

I read and wish'd to crush the race of man,
And fled by night; turn'd once upon the hills;
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake; and then
I left the place, etc. ]




ST. SIMEON STYLITES

First published in 1842, reprinted in all the subsequent editions of the
poems but with no alterations in the text, except that in eighth line
from the end "my" was substituted for "mine" in 1846. Tennyson informed
a friend that it was not from the 'Acta Sanctorum', but from Hone's
'Every-Day Book', vol. i. , pp. 35-36, that he got the material for this
poem, and a comparison with the narrative in Hone and the poem seems to
show that this was the case.

It is not easy to identify the St. Simeon Stylites of Hone's narrative
and Tennyson's poem, whether he is to be identified with St. Simeon the
Elder, of whom there are three memoirs given in the 'Acta Sanctorum',
tom. i. , 5th January, 261-286, or with St. Simeon Stylites, Junior, of
whom there is an elaborate biography in Greek by Nicephorus printed with
a Latin translation and notes in the 'Acta Sanctorum', tom. v. , 24th
May, 298-401. It seems clear that whoever compiled the account
popularised by Hone had read both and amalgamated them. The main lines
in the story of both saints are exactly the same. Both stood on columns,
both tortured themselves in the same ways, both wrought miracles, and
both died at their posts of penance. St. Simeon the Elder was born at
Sisan in Syria about A. D. 390, and was buried at Antioch in A. D. 459 or
460. The Simeon the Younger was born at Antioch A. D. 521 and died in
A. D. 592. His life, which is of singular interest, is much more
elaborately related.

This poem is not simply a dramatic study. It bears very directly on
Tennyson's philosophy of life. In these early poems he has given us four
studies in the morbid anatomy of character: 'The Palace of Art', which
illustrates the abuse of aesthetic and intellectual enjoyment of self;
'The Vision of Sin', which illustrates the effects of similar indulgence
in the grosser pleasures of the senses; 'The Two Voices', which
illustrates the mischief of despondent self-absorption, while the
present poem illustrates the equally pernicious indulgence in an
opposite extreme, asceticism affected for the mere gratification of
personal vanity.


Altho' I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,
Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom, and to clamour, morn and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,
Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.
Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;
And I had hoped that ere this period closed
Thou wouldst have caught me up into Thy rest,
Denying not these weather-beaten limbs
The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.
O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,
Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.
Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold to this, were still
Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,
Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush'd
My spirit flat before thee. O Lord, Lord,
Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,
For I was strong and hale of body then;
And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt away,
Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard
Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon,
I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with sound
Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw
An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.
Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;
I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,
So that I scarce can hear the people hum
About the column's base, and almost blind,
And scarce can recognise the fields I know;
And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;
Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry,
While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,
Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,
Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.
O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,
Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?
Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?
Show me the man hath suffered more than I.
For did not all thy martyrs die one death?
For either they were stoned, or crucified,
Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn
In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here
To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.
Bear witness, if I could have found a way
(And heedfully I sifted all my thought)
More slowly-painful to subdue this home
Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,
I had not stinted practice, O my God.
For not alone this pillar-punishment, [1]
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the well,
Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;
And spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin,
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this
I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. [2]
Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,
I lived up there on yonder mountain side.
My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;
Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice
Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,
Except the spare chance-gift of those that came
To touch my body and be heal'd, and live:
And they say then that I work'd miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,
Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, [3]
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;
And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose
Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew
Twice ten long weary weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.
I think that I have borne as much as this--
Or else I dream--and for so long a time,
If I may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns--
So much--even so. And yet I know not well,
For that the evil ones comes here, and say,
"Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long
For ages and for ages! " then they prate
Of penances I cannot have gone thro',
Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,
Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies,
That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet
Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints
Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men on earth
House in the shade of comfortable roofs,
Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,
And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,
I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light,
Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,
To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;
Or in the night, after a little sleep,
I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet
With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.
I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back;
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.
O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:
'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!
They think that I am somewhat. What am I?
The silly people take me for a saint,
And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:
And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)
Have all in all endured as much, and more
Than many just and holy men, whose names
Are register'd and calendar'd for saints.
Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.
What is it I can have done to merit this?
I am a sinner viler than you all.
It may be I have wrought some miracles, [4]
And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that?