But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute.
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute.
Tennyson
]
[Footnote 7: 1833, 1842, 1843. My tablets. This affected phrase was
altered to the present reading in 1845. ]
[Footnote 8: 1833. Holy. Altered to "only," 1842. ]
[Footnote 9: 1833. Altho' to calm you I would take. Altered to present
reading, 1842. ]
"YOU ASK ME WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE. . . "
This is another poem which, though included among those belonging to
1833, was not published till 1842. It is an interesting illustration,
like the next poem but one, of Tennyson's political opinions; he was, he
said, "of the same politics as Shakespeare, Bacon and every sane man".
He was either ignorant of the politics of Shakespeare and Bacon or did
himself great injustice by the remark. It would have been more true to
say--for all his works illustrate it--that he was of the same politics
as Burke. He is here, and in all his poems, a Liberal-Conservative in
the proper sense of the term. At the time this trio of poems was written
England was passing through the throes which preceded, accompanied and
followed the Reform Bill, and the lessons which Tennyson preaches in
them were particularly appropriate. He belonged to the Liberal Party
rather in relation to social and religious than to political questions.
Thus he ardently supported the Anti-slavery Convention and advocated the
measure for abolishing subscription to the Thirty-nine Articles, but he
was, as a politician, on the side of Canning, Peel and the Duke of
Wellington, regarding as they did the new-born democracy with mingled
feelings of apprehension and perplexity. His exact attitude is indicated
by some verses written about this time published by his son ('Life', i. ,
69-70). If Mr. Aubrey de Vere is correct this and the following poem
were occasioned by some popular demonstrations connected with the Reform
Bill and its rejection by the House of Lords. See 'Life of Tennyson',
vol. i. , appendix.
You ask me, why, tho' [1] ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist, [2]
And languish for the purple seas?
It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land, where girt with friends or foes
A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where Freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But by degrees to fulness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive thought
Hath time and space to work and spread.
Should banded unions persecute
Opinion, and induce a time
When single thought is civil crime,
And individual freedom mute;
Tho' Power should make from land to land [3]
The name of Britain trebly great--
Tho' every channel [4] of the State
Should almost choke with golden sand--
Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The palms and temples of the South.
[Footnote 1: 1842 and 1851. Though. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1843. Whose spirits fail within the mist. Altered
to present reading in 1845. ]
[Footnote 3: All editions up to and including 1851. Though Power, etc. ]
[Footnote 4: 1842-1850. Though every channel. ]
"OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. . . "
First published in 1842, but it seems to have been written in 1834. The
fourth and fifth stanzas are given in a postscript of a letter from
Tennyson to James Spedding, dated 1834.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place [1] she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face--
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, [2]
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850 inclusive. Within her place. Altered to
present reading, 1850. ]
[Footnote 2: The "trisulci ignes" or "trisulca tela" of the Roman
poets. ]
"LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE FAR-BROUGHT. . . "
First published in 1842.
This poem had been written by 1834, for Tennyson sends it in a letter
dated that year to James Spedding (see 'Life',, i. , 173).
Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.
True love turn'd round on fixed poles,
Love, that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers and immortal souls.
But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings,
That every sophister can lime.
Deliver not the tasks of might
To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for day,
Tho' [1] sitting girt with doubtful light.
Make knowledge [2] circle with the winds;
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth [3] of minds.
Watch what main-currents draw the years:
Cut Prejudice against the grain:
But gentle words are always gain:
Regard the weakness of thy peers:
Nor toil for title, place, or touch
Of pension, neither count on praise:
It grows to guerdon after-days:
Nor deal in watch-words overmuch;
Not clinging to some ancient saw;
Not master'd by some modern term;
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm:
And in its season bring the law;
That from Discussion's lip may fall
With Life, that, working strongly, binds--
Set in all lights by many minds,
To close the interests of all.
For Nature also, cold and warm,
And moist and dry, devising long,
Thro' many agents making strong,
Matures the individual form.
Meet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.
So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.
A saying, hard to shape an act;
For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.
Ev'n now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom--
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.
A slow-develop'd strength awaits
Completion in a painful school;
Phantoms of other forms of rule,
New Majesties of mighty States--
The warders of the growing hour,
But vague in vapour, hard to mark;
And round them sea and air are dark
With great contrivances of Power.
Of many changes, aptly join'd,
Is bodied forth the second whole,
Regard gradation, lest the soul
Of Discord race the rising wind;
A wind to puff your idol-fires,
And heap their ashes on the head;
To shame the boast so often made, [4]
That we are wiser than our sires.
Oh, yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war--[5]
If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till Time shall close,
That Principles are rain'd in blood;
Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,
But with his hand against the hilt,
Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;
Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, [6]
Would serve his kind in deed and word,
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,
That knowledge takes the sword away--
Would love the gleams of good that broke
From either side, nor veil his eyes;
And if some dreadful need should rise
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:
To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
As we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw haste, half-sister to Delay.
[Footnote 1: 1842 and so till 1851. Though. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842. Knowledge is spelt with a capital K. ]
[Footnote 3: 1842. Or growth. ]
[Footnote 4: 1842. The boasting words we said. ]
[Footnote 5: Possibly suggested by Homer's expression, [Greek: ana
ptolemoio gephuras], 'Il'. , viii. , 549, and elsewhere; but Homer's
and Tennyson's meaning can hardly be the same. In Homer the "bridges of
war" seem to mean the spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in
Tennyson the meaning is probably the obvious one. ]
[Footnote 6: All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of
Faction bay. ]
THE GOOSE
This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in
it.
This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation,
is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed
advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes.
The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the
goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such
advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to
confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price
which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting
from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free
Trade question.
I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season".
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose--'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note! "
Then wax'd her anger stronger:
"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not bear it longer".
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder'd all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning".
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger! "
THE EPIC
First published in 1842; "tho'" for "though" in line 44 has been the
only alteration made since 1850.
This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after "The Epic" had been
composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse "the
faint Homeric echoes," to give a reason for telling an old-world tale.
The poet "mouthing out his hollow oes and aes" is, we are told, a good
description of Tennyson's tone and manner of reading.
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,--
The game of forfeits done--the girls all kiss'd
Beneath the sacred bush and past away--
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners, [1]
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith
Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by". Francis, laughing, clapt his hand
On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him".
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl. "
"Why, yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way
At college: but another which you had,
I mean of verse (for so we held it then),
What came of that? " "You know," said Frank, "he burnt
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books "--[2]
And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir,
He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said 'twas nothing--that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased _me_ well enough. " "Nay, nay," said Hall,
"Why take the style of those heroic times?
For nature brings not back the Mastodon,
Nor we those times; and why should any man
Remodel models? these twelve books of mine [3]
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth,
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt. "
"But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth,
And have it: keep a thing its use will come.
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes. "
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;
For I remember'd Everard's college fame
When we were Freshmen: then at my request
He brought it; and the poet little urged,
But with some prelude of disparagement,
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes,
Deep-chested music, and to this result.
[Footnote 1: A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1844. "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic
of King Arthur in the fire! " The present reading, 1850. ]
[Footnote 3: 1842, 1843.
Remodel models rather than the life?
And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth).
Present reading, 1845. ]
MORTE D'ARTHUR
This is Tennyson's first study from Malory's 'Morte d'Arthur'. We learn
from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for
in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, "out of a MS.
in a little red book," and again we learn that he repeated some lines of
it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding "Not bad
that, Fitz. , is it? " ('Life', i. , 184). It is here represented as the
eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, though
Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, with
what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, 'The Idylls of the
King'. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth and
fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory's 'Romance', which is
followed very closely. It is called "an Homeric echo," but the diction
bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that of Homer,
though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It is
Tennyson's masterpiece in "the grand style," and is indeed as near
perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular
mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times
ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so noble and impressive
is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered
except in the spelling of "mere" and "though" in lines 37, 77, 147, 155,
162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:--
"Across the ridge and pac'd beside the mere. "
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, [1]
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand [2] Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. "
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word. "
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, [3]
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind, [4]
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded king.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, [5]
And the wild water lapping on the crag. "
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again [6]
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word. "
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, [7]
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,
"And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule,
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable against himself?
The king is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills. "
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost. "
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds. "
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, [8]
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king, [9]
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands. "
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, [10]
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. "
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh;'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear [11]
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die. "
So saying, from the pavement he hath rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear"
Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die ".
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, [12]
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne--were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, [13]
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless.
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds. "
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, [14]
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains [15] about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, [16] or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, [17]
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound. "
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn.
And on the mere the wailing died away.
Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell:
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,
And waked with silence, grunted "Good! " but we
Sat rapt: It was the tone with which he read--
Perhaps some modern touches here and there
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness--
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
I know not: but we sitting, as I said,
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
"There now--that's nothing! " drew a little back,
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue;
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd
To sail with Arthur under looming shores.
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore,
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die".
Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated--"Come again, and thrice as fair";
And, further inland, voices echoed--
"Come With all good things, and war shall be no more".
At this a hundred bells began to peal,
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.
[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Morte d'Arthur', xxxi. , iv. : "They led him betwixt
them to a little chapel from the not far seaside". ]
[Footnote 2: 'Cf. Id. ', v. :
"'Therefore,' said Arthur, 'take thou my good sword Excalibur and go
with it to yonder waterside. And when thou comest there I charge thee
throw my sword on that water and come again and tell me what thou
there seest. '
'My lord,' said Bedivere, 'your commandment shall be done and lightly
will I bring thee word again. '
So Sir Bedivere departed and by the way he beheld that noble sword,
that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones, and then he
said to himself, 'If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof
shall never come to good but harm and loss'. And then Sir Bedivere hid
Excalibur under a tree. "]
[Footnote 3: 1842-1853. Studs. ]
[Footnote 4: Literally from Virgil ('AEn. ', iv. , 285).
"Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc. "]
[Footnote 5: 'Cf. Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan. '"]
[Footnote 6: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'That is untruly said of thee,' said the king, 'therefore go thou
lightly again and do my command as thou to me art lief and dear; spare
not, but throw in. '
Then Sir Bedivere returned again and took the sword in his hand, and
then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword, and so
eft he hid the sword and returned again, and told the king that he had
been to the water and done his commandment. "]
[Footnote 7: This line was not inserted till 1853. ]
[Footnote 8: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'Ah, traitor untrue! ' said King Arthur, 'now thou hast betrayed me
twice. Who would have weened that thou that hast been so lief and
dear, and thou that art named a noble knight, would betray me for the
riches of the sword. But now go again lightly. . . . And but if thou do
not now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee I shall slay thee with
mine own hands. "']
[Footnote 9: There is a curious illustration of this in an anecdote told
of Queen Elizabeth. "Cecil intimated that she must go to bed, if it were
only to satisfy her people.
'Must! ' she exclaimed; 'is must a word to be addressed to princes?
Little man, little man, thy father if he had been alive durst not have
used that word, but thou hast grown presumptuous because thou knowest
that I shall die. '"
Lingard, 'Hist'. , vol. vi. , p. 316. ]
[Footnote 10: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the sword and lightly took it
up and went to the waterside, and then he bound the girdle about the
hilt and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might,
and then came an arm and a hand above the water, and met it and caught
it and so shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away
the hand with the sword in the water. "]
[Footnote 11: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'Alas,' said the king, 'help me hence for I dread me I have tarried
over long'.
Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back and so went with him to
that water. "]
[Footnote 12: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"And when they were at the waterside even fast by the bank hoved a
little barge and many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a
queen and all they had black hoods and all they wept and shrieked when
they saw King Arthur. 'Now put me into the barge,' said the king, and
so they did softly. And there received him three queens with great
mourning, and so they set him down and in one of their laps King
Arthur laid his head; and then that queen said: 'Ah, dear brother, why
have ye tarried so long from me? '"]
[Footnote 13: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"Then Sir Bedivere cried: 'Ah, my Lord Arthur, what shall become of me
now ye go from me and leave me here alone among mine enemies? '
'Comfort thyself,' said the king, 'and do as well as thou mayest, for
in me is no trust to trust in. For I will unto the vale of Avilion to
heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou never hear more of me, pray
for my soul. '"]
[Footnote 14: With this 'cf>/i>. Greene, 'James IV'. , v. , 4:--
"Should all things still remain in one estate
Should not in greatest arts some scars be found
Were all upright nor chang'd what world were this?
A chaos made of quiet, yet no world. "
And 'cf'. Shakespeare, 'Coriolanus', ii. , iii. :--
What custom wills in all things should we do it,
The dust on antique Time would be unswept,
And mountainous error too highly heaped
For Truth to overpeer. ]
[Footnote 15: 'Cf. ' Archdeacon Hare's "Sermon on the Law of
Self-Sacrifice".
"This is the golden chain of love whereby the whole creation is bound
to the throne of the Creator. "
For further illustrations see 'Illust. of Tennyson', p. 158. ]
[Footnote 16: Paraphrased from 'Odyssey', vi. , 42-5, or 'Lucretius',
iii. , 18-22. ]
[Footnote 17: The expression "'crowned' with summer 'sea'" from
'Odyssey', x. , 195: [Greek: naeson taen peri pontos apeiritos
estaphan_otai. ]]
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES
First published in 1842.
In the 'Gardener's Daughter' we have the first of that delightful series
of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary English life,
and named appropriately 'English Idylls'. The originator of this species
of poetry in England was Southey, in his 'English Eclogues', written
before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse,
Southey says: "The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to
any poems in our language. This species of composition has become
popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the
German idylls given me in conversation. " Southey's eclogues are eight in
number: 'The Old Mansion House', 'The Grandmother's Tale', 'Hannah',
'The Sailor's Mother', 'The Witch', 'The Ruined Cottage', 'The Last of
the Family' and 'The Alderman's Funeral'. Southey was followed by
Wordsworth in 'The Brothers' and 'Michael'. Southey has nothing of the
charm, grace and classical finish of his disciple, but how nearly
Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who
compares Tennyson's studies with 'The Ruined Cottage'. But Tennyson's
real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so
much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.
'The Gardener's Daughter' was written as early as 1835, as it was read
to Fitzgerald in that year ('Life of Tennyson', i. , 182). Tennyson
originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled 'The
Antechamber', which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he
afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the 'Life', i. , 233-4. This
poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with
ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent
editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form "tho'" is substituted
for "though".
This morning is the morning of the day,
When I and Eustace from the city went
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew
The fable of the city where we dwelt.
My Eustace might have sat for Hercules;
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws
The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little;--Juliet, she [1]
So light of foot, so light of spirit--oh, she
To me myself, for some three careless moons,
The summer pilot of an empty heart
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not
Such touches are but embassies of love,
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her,
And said to me, she sitting with us then,
"When will _you_ paint like this? " and I replied,
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest),
"'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived,
A more ideal Artist he than all,
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ashbuds in the front of March. "
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece ".
And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear
The windy clanging of the minster clock;
Although between it and the garden lies
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream,
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar,
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge
Crown'd with the minster-towers.
The fields between
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine,
And all about the large lime feathers low,
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. [2]
In that still place she, hoarded in herself,
Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he,
So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth,
So gross to express delight, in praise of her
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love,
And Beauty such a mistress of the world.
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,
Yet this is also true, that, long before
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name
My heart was like a prophet to my heart,
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes,
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds,
Born out of everything I heard and saw,
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul;
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm
To one that travels quickly, made the air
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought,
That verged upon them sweeter than the dream
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East,
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
And sure this orbit of the memory folds
For ever in itself the day we went
To see her. All the land in flowery squares,
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud [3]
Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge,
And May with me from head to heel. And now,
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these),
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze,
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood,
Leaning his horns into the neighbour field,
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods
Came voices of the well-contented doves.
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy,
But shook his song together as he near'd
His happy home, the ground. To left and right,
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills;
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm;
The redcap [4] whistled; [5] and the nightingale
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me,
"Hear how the bushes echo! by my life,
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing
Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for what they have? "
And I made answer, "Were there nothing else
For which to praise the heavens but only love,
That only love were cause enough for praise".
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought,
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us
To one green wicket in a privet hedge;
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned;
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool.
The garden stretches southward. In the midst
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.
The garden-glasses shone, and momently
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.
"Eustace," I said, "This wonder keeps the house. "
He nodded, but a moment afterwards
He cried, "Look! look! " Before he ceased I turn'd,
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.
For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft--
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape--
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.
A single stream of all her soft brown hair
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist--
Ah, happy shade--and still went wavering down,
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced
The greensward into greener circles, dipt,
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom,
And doubled his own warmth against her lips,
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.
So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil,
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd
Into the world without; till close at hand,
And almost ere I knew mine own intent,
This murmur broke the stillness of that air
Which brooded round about her: "Ah, one rose,
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips
Less exquisite than thine. " She look'd: but all
Suffused with blushes--neither self-possess'd
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,
Divided in a graceful quiet--paused,
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came,
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it,
And moved away, and left me, statue-like,
In act to render thanks. I, that whole day,
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.
So home we went, and all the livelong way
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.
"Now," said he, "will you climb the top of Art;
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim
The Titianic Flora. Will you match
My Juliet? you, not you,--the Master,
Love, A more ideal Artist he than all. "
So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,
Reading her perfect features in the gloom,
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,
And shaping faithful record of the glance
That graced the giving--such a noise of life
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal
The sliding season: all that night I heard
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odours on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all,
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.
Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a
Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk,
To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream
Served in the weeping elm; and more and more
A word could bring the colour to my cheek;
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew;
Love trebled life within me, and with each
The year increased. The daughters of the year,
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd:
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower
Danced into light, and died into the shade;
And each in passing touch'd with some new grace
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day,
Like one that never can be wholly known, [6]
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour
For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will,"
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes
Felt earth as air beneath me, [7] till I reach'd
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there.
There sat we down upon a garden mound,
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,
Between us, in the circle of his arms
Enwound us both; and over many a range
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers,
Across a hazy glimmer of the west,
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd;
We spoke of other things; we coursed about
The subject most at heart, more near and near,
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round
The central wish, until we settled there.
[Footnote 7: 1833, 1842, 1843. My tablets. This affected phrase was
altered to the present reading in 1845. ]
[Footnote 8: 1833. Holy. Altered to "only," 1842. ]
[Footnote 9: 1833. Altho' to calm you I would take. Altered to present
reading, 1842. ]
"YOU ASK ME WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE. . . "
This is another poem which, though included among those belonging to
1833, was not published till 1842. It is an interesting illustration,
like the next poem but one, of Tennyson's political opinions; he was, he
said, "of the same politics as Shakespeare, Bacon and every sane man".
He was either ignorant of the politics of Shakespeare and Bacon or did
himself great injustice by the remark. It would have been more true to
say--for all his works illustrate it--that he was of the same politics
as Burke. He is here, and in all his poems, a Liberal-Conservative in
the proper sense of the term. At the time this trio of poems was written
England was passing through the throes which preceded, accompanied and
followed the Reform Bill, and the lessons which Tennyson preaches in
them were particularly appropriate. He belonged to the Liberal Party
rather in relation to social and religious than to political questions.
Thus he ardently supported the Anti-slavery Convention and advocated the
measure for abolishing subscription to the Thirty-nine Articles, but he
was, as a politician, on the side of Canning, Peel and the Duke of
Wellington, regarding as they did the new-born democracy with mingled
feelings of apprehension and perplexity. His exact attitude is indicated
by some verses written about this time published by his son ('Life', i. ,
69-70). If Mr. Aubrey de Vere is correct this and the following poem
were occasioned by some popular demonstrations connected with the Reform
Bill and its rejection by the House of Lords. See 'Life of Tennyson',
vol. i. , appendix.
You ask me, why, tho' [1] ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist, [2]
And languish for the purple seas?
It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land, where girt with friends or foes
A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where Freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But by degrees to fulness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive thought
Hath time and space to work and spread.
Should banded unions persecute
Opinion, and induce a time
When single thought is civil crime,
And individual freedom mute;
Tho' Power should make from land to land [3]
The name of Britain trebly great--
Tho' every channel [4] of the State
Should almost choke with golden sand--
Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth,
Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The palms and temples of the South.
[Footnote 1: 1842 and 1851. Though. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1843. Whose spirits fail within the mist. Altered
to present reading in 1845. ]
[Footnote 3: All editions up to and including 1851. Though Power, etc. ]
[Footnote 4: 1842-1850. Though every channel. ]
"OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. . . "
First published in 1842, but it seems to have been written in 1834. The
fourth and fifth stanzas are given in a postscript of a letter from
Tennyson to James Spedding, dated 1834.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place [1] she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face--
Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, [2]
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850 inclusive. Within her place. Altered to
present reading, 1850. ]
[Footnote 2: The "trisulci ignes" or "trisulca tela" of the Roman
poets. ]
"LOVE THOU THY LAND, WITH LOVE FAR-BROUGHT. . . "
First published in 1842.
This poem had been written by 1834, for Tennyson sends it in a letter
dated that year to James Spedding (see 'Life',, i. , 173).
Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.
True love turn'd round on fixed poles,
Love, that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers and immortal souls.
But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings,
That every sophister can lime.
Deliver not the tasks of might
To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for day,
Tho' [1] sitting girt with doubtful light.
Make knowledge [2] circle with the winds;
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth [3] of minds.
Watch what main-currents draw the years:
Cut Prejudice against the grain:
But gentle words are always gain:
Regard the weakness of thy peers:
Nor toil for title, place, or touch
Of pension, neither count on praise:
It grows to guerdon after-days:
Nor deal in watch-words overmuch;
Not clinging to some ancient saw;
Not master'd by some modern term;
Not swift nor slow to change, but firm:
And in its season bring the law;
That from Discussion's lip may fall
With Life, that, working strongly, binds--
Set in all lights by many minds,
To close the interests of all.
For Nature also, cold and warm,
And moist and dry, devising long,
Thro' many agents making strong,
Matures the individual form.
Meet is it changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees,
All but the basis of the soul.
So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.
A saying, hard to shape an act;
For all the past of Time reveals
A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.
Ev'n now we hear with inward strife
A motion toiling in the gloom--
The Spirit of the years to come
Yearning to mix himself with Life.
A slow-develop'd strength awaits
Completion in a painful school;
Phantoms of other forms of rule,
New Majesties of mighty States--
The warders of the growing hour,
But vague in vapour, hard to mark;
And round them sea and air are dark
With great contrivances of Power.
Of many changes, aptly join'd,
Is bodied forth the second whole,
Regard gradation, lest the soul
Of Discord race the rising wind;
A wind to puff your idol-fires,
And heap their ashes on the head;
To shame the boast so often made, [4]
That we are wiser than our sires.
Oh, yet, if Nature's evil star
Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
To follow flying steps of Truth
Across the brazen bridge of war--[5]
If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till Time shall close,
That Principles are rain'd in blood;
Not yet the wise of heart would cease
To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,
But with his hand against the hilt,
Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;
Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, [6]
Would serve his kind in deed and word,
Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,
That knowledge takes the sword away--
Would love the gleams of good that broke
From either side, nor veil his eyes;
And if some dreadful need should rise
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:
To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
As we bear blossom of the dead;
Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
Raw haste, half-sister to Delay.
[Footnote 1: 1842 and so till 1851. Though. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842. Knowledge is spelt with a capital K. ]
[Footnote 3: 1842. Or growth. ]
[Footnote 4: 1842. The boasting words we said. ]
[Footnote 5: Possibly suggested by Homer's expression, [Greek: ana
ptolemoio gephuras], 'Il'. , viii. , 549, and elsewhere; but Homer's
and Tennyson's meaning can hardly be the same. In Homer the "bridges of
war" seem to mean the spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in
Tennyson the meaning is probably the obvious one. ]
[Footnote 6: All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of
Faction bay. ]
THE GOOSE
This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in
it.
This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation,
is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed
advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes.
The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the
goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such
advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to
confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price
which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting
from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free
Trade question.
I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season".
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose--'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note! "
Then wax'd her anger stronger:
"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not bear it longer".
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder'd all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning".
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger! "
THE EPIC
First published in 1842; "tho'" for "though" in line 44 has been the
only alteration made since 1850.
This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after "The Epic" had been
composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse "the
faint Homeric echoes," to give a reason for telling an old-world tale.
The poet "mouthing out his hollow oes and aes" is, we are told, a good
description of Tennyson's tone and manner of reading.
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,--
The game of forfeits done--the girls all kiss'd
Beneath the sacred bush and past away--
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners, [1]
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith
Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by". Francis, laughing, clapt his hand
On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him".
"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl. "
"Why, yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way
At college: but another which you had,
I mean of verse (for so we held it then),
What came of that? " "You know," said Frank, "he burnt
His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books "--[2]
And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir,
He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said 'twas nothing--that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased _me_ well enough. " "Nay, nay," said Hall,
"Why take the style of those heroic times?
For nature brings not back the Mastodon,
Nor we those times; and why should any man
Remodel models? these twelve books of mine [3]
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth,
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt. "
"But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth,
And have it: keep a thing its use will come.
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes. "
He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse
That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;
For I remember'd Everard's college fame
When we were Freshmen: then at my request
He brought it; and the poet little urged,
But with some prelude of disparagement,
Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes,
Deep-chested music, and to this result.
[Footnote 1: A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833. ]
[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1844. "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic
of King Arthur in the fire! " The present reading, 1850. ]
[Footnote 3: 1842, 1843.
Remodel models rather than the life?
And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth).
Present reading, 1845. ]
MORTE D'ARTHUR
This is Tennyson's first study from Malory's 'Morte d'Arthur'. We learn
from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for
in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, "out of a MS.
in a little red book," and again we learn that he repeated some lines of
it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding "Not bad
that, Fitz. , is it? " ('Life', i. , 184). It is here represented as the
eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, though
Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, with
what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, 'The Idylls of the
King'. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth and
fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory's 'Romance', which is
followed very closely. It is called "an Homeric echo," but the diction
bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that of Homer,
though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It is
Tennyson's masterpiece in "the grand style," and is indeed as near
perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular
mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times
ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so noble and impressive
is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered
except in the spelling of "mere" and "though" in lines 37, 77, 147, 155,
162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:--
"Across the ridge and pac'd beside the mere. "
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, [1]
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand [2] Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word. "
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word. "
So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, [3]
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind, [4]
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded king.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, [5]
And the wild water lapping on the crag. "
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again [6]
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word. "
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, [7]
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,
"And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule,
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable against himself?
The king is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills. "
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost. "
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds. "
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, [8]
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king, [9]
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands. "
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, [10]
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen? "
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere. "
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh;'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear [11]
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die. "
So saying, from the pavement he hath rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.
But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear"
Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die ".
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, [12]
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne--were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, [13]
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless.
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds. "
And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways, [14]
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains [15] about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, [16] or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, [17]
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound. "
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn.
And on the mere the wailing died away.
Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long
Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell:
At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,
And waked with silence, grunted "Good! " but we
Sat rapt: It was the tone with which he read--
Perhaps some modern touches here and there
Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness--
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
I know not: but we sitting, as I said,
The cock crew loud; as at that time of year
The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:
Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,
"There now--that's nothing! " drew a little back,
And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue;
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd
To sail with Arthur under looming shores.
Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,
To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore,
King Arthur, like a modern gentleman
Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die".
Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated--"Come again, and thrice as fair";
And, further inland, voices echoed--
"Come With all good things, and war shall be no more".
At this a hundred bells began to peal,
That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed
The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.
[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Morte d'Arthur', xxxi. , iv. : "They led him betwixt
them to a little chapel from the not far seaside". ]
[Footnote 2: 'Cf. Id. ', v. :
"'Therefore,' said Arthur, 'take thou my good sword Excalibur and go
with it to yonder waterside. And when thou comest there I charge thee
throw my sword on that water and come again and tell me what thou
there seest. '
'My lord,' said Bedivere, 'your commandment shall be done and lightly
will I bring thee word again. '
So Sir Bedivere departed and by the way he beheld that noble sword,
that the pommel and the haft were all of precious stones, and then he
said to himself, 'If I throw this rich sword in the water, thereof
shall never come to good but harm and loss'. And then Sir Bedivere hid
Excalibur under a tree. "]
[Footnote 3: 1842-1853. Studs. ]
[Footnote 4: Literally from Virgil ('AEn. ', iv. , 285).
"Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc. "]
[Footnote 5: 'Cf. Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan. '"]
[Footnote 6: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'That is untruly said of thee,' said the king, 'therefore go thou
lightly again and do my command as thou to me art lief and dear; spare
not, but throw in. '
Then Sir Bedivere returned again and took the sword in his hand, and
then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword, and so
eft he hid the sword and returned again, and told the king that he had
been to the water and done his commandment. "]
[Footnote 7: This line was not inserted till 1853. ]
[Footnote 8: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'Ah, traitor untrue! ' said King Arthur, 'now thou hast betrayed me
twice. Who would have weened that thou that hast been so lief and
dear, and thou that art named a noble knight, would betray me for the
riches of the sword. But now go again lightly. . . . And but if thou do
not now as I bid thee, if ever I may see thee I shall slay thee with
mine own hands. "']
[Footnote 9: There is a curious illustration of this in an anecdote told
of Queen Elizabeth. "Cecil intimated that she must go to bed, if it were
only to satisfy her people.
'Must! ' she exclaimed; 'is must a word to be addressed to princes?
Little man, little man, thy father if he had been alive durst not have
used that word, but thou hast grown presumptuous because thou knowest
that I shall die. '"
Lingard, 'Hist'. , vol. vi. , p. 316. ]
[Footnote 10: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the sword and lightly took it
up and went to the waterside, and then he bound the girdle about the
hilt and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might,
and then came an arm and a hand above the water, and met it and caught
it and so shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away
the hand with the sword in the water. "]
[Footnote 11: 'Romance, Id. ', v. :
"'Alas,' said the king, 'help me hence for I dread me I have tarried
over long'.
Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back and so went with him to
that water. "]
[Footnote 12: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"And when they were at the waterside even fast by the bank hoved a
little barge and many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a
queen and all they had black hoods and all they wept and shrieked when
they saw King Arthur. 'Now put me into the barge,' said the king, and
so they did softly. And there received him three queens with great
mourning, and so they set him down and in one of their laps King
Arthur laid his head; and then that queen said: 'Ah, dear brother, why
have ye tarried so long from me? '"]
[Footnote 13: 'Romance, Id'. , v. :
"Then Sir Bedivere cried: 'Ah, my Lord Arthur, what shall become of me
now ye go from me and leave me here alone among mine enemies? '
'Comfort thyself,' said the king, 'and do as well as thou mayest, for
in me is no trust to trust in. For I will unto the vale of Avilion to
heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou never hear more of me, pray
for my soul. '"]
[Footnote 14: With this 'cf>/i>. Greene, 'James IV'. , v. , 4:--
"Should all things still remain in one estate
Should not in greatest arts some scars be found
Were all upright nor chang'd what world were this?
A chaos made of quiet, yet no world. "
And 'cf'. Shakespeare, 'Coriolanus', ii. , iii. :--
What custom wills in all things should we do it,
The dust on antique Time would be unswept,
And mountainous error too highly heaped
For Truth to overpeer. ]
[Footnote 15: 'Cf. ' Archdeacon Hare's "Sermon on the Law of
Self-Sacrifice".
"This is the golden chain of love whereby the whole creation is bound
to the throne of the Creator. "
For further illustrations see 'Illust. of Tennyson', p. 158. ]
[Footnote 16: Paraphrased from 'Odyssey', vi. , 42-5, or 'Lucretius',
iii. , 18-22. ]
[Footnote 17: The expression "'crowned' with summer 'sea'" from
'Odyssey', x. , 195: [Greek: naeson taen peri pontos apeiritos
estaphan_otai. ]]
THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES
First published in 1842.
In the 'Gardener's Daughter' we have the first of that delightful series
of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary English life,
and named appropriately 'English Idylls'. The originator of this species
of poetry in England was Southey, in his 'English Eclogues', written
before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse,
Southey says: "The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to
any poems in our language. This species of composition has become
popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the
German idylls given me in conversation. " Southey's eclogues are eight in
number: 'The Old Mansion House', 'The Grandmother's Tale', 'Hannah',
'The Sailor's Mother', 'The Witch', 'The Ruined Cottage', 'The Last of
the Family' and 'The Alderman's Funeral'. Southey was followed by
Wordsworth in 'The Brothers' and 'Michael'. Southey has nothing of the
charm, grace and classical finish of his disciple, but how nearly
Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who
compares Tennyson's studies with 'The Ruined Cottage'. But Tennyson's
real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so
much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.
'The Gardener's Daughter' was written as early as 1835, as it was read
to Fitzgerald in that year ('Life of Tennyson', i. , 182). Tennyson
originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled 'The
Antechamber', which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he
afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the 'Life', i. , 233-4. This
poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with
ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent
editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form "tho'" is substituted
for "though".
This morning is the morning of the day,
When I and Eustace from the city went
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew
The fable of the city where we dwelt.
My Eustace might have sat for Hercules;
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws
The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little;--Juliet, she [1]
So light of foot, so light of spirit--oh, she
To me myself, for some three careless moons,
The summer pilot of an empty heart
Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not
Such touches are but embassies of love,
To tamper with the feelings, ere he found
Empire for life? but Eustace painted her,
And said to me, she sitting with us then,
"When will _you_ paint like this? " and I replied,
(My words were half in earnest, half in jest),
"'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived,
A more ideal Artist he than all,
Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair
More black than ashbuds in the front of March. "
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece ".
And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it
In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear
The windy clanging of the minster clock;
Although between it and the garden lies
A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream,
That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar,
Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge
Crown'd with the minster-towers.
The fields between
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine,
And all about the large lime feathers low,
The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. [2]
In that still place she, hoarded in herself,
Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived
Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he,
So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth,
So gross to express delight, in praise of her
Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love,
And Beauty such a mistress of the world.
And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,
Yet this is also true, that, long before
I look'd upon her, when I heard her name
My heart was like a prophet to my heart,
And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes,
That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds,
Born out of everything I heard and saw,
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul;
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm
To one that travels quickly, made the air
Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought,
That verged upon them sweeter than the dream
Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East,
Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.
And sure this orbit of the memory folds
For ever in itself the day we went
To see her. All the land in flowery squares,
Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,
Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud [3]
Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure
Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge,
And May with me from head to heel. And now,
As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were
The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound
(For those old Mays had thrice the life of these),
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze,
And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood,
Leaning his horns into the neighbour field,
And lowing to his fellows. From the woods
Came voices of the well-contented doves.
The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy,
But shook his song together as he near'd
His happy home, the ground. To left and right,
The cuckoo told his name to all the hills;
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm;
The redcap [4] whistled; [5] and the nightingale
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me,
"Hear how the bushes echo! by my life,
These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing
Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for what they have? "
And I made answer, "Were there nothing else
For which to praise the heavens but only love,
That only love were cause enough for praise".
Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought,
And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,
We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;
Down which a well-worn pathway courted us
To one green wicket in a privet hedge;
This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk
Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned;
And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew
Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool.
The garden stretches southward. In the midst
A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.
The garden-glasses shone, and momently
The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.
"Eustace," I said, "This wonder keeps the house. "
He nodded, but a moment afterwards
He cried, "Look! look! " Before he ceased I turn'd,
And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.
For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,
That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,
And blown across the walk. One arm aloft--
Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape--
Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.
A single stream of all her soft brown hair
Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers
Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering
Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist--
Ah, happy shade--and still went wavering down,
But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced
The greensward into greener circles, dipt,
And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!
But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd
Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom,
And doubled his own warmth against her lips,
And on the bounteous wave of such a breast
As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,
She stood, a sight to make an old man young.
So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose
In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil,
Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd
Into the world without; till close at hand,
And almost ere I knew mine own intent,
This murmur broke the stillness of that air
Which brooded round about her: "Ah, one rose,
One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,
Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips
Less exquisite than thine. " She look'd: but all
Suffused with blushes--neither self-possess'd
Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,
Divided in a graceful quiet--paused,
And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound
Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips
For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came,
Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it,
And moved away, and left me, statue-like,
In act to render thanks. I, that whole day,
Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there
Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star
Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.
So home we went, and all the livelong way
With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.
"Now," said he, "will you climb the top of Art;
You cannot fail but work in hues to dim
The Titianic Flora. Will you match
My Juliet? you, not you,--the Master,
Love, A more ideal Artist he than all. "
So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,
Reading her perfect features in the gloom,
Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,
And shaping faithful record of the glance
That graced the giving--such a noise of life
Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice
Call'd to me from the years to come, and such
A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.
And all that night I heard the watchmen peal
The sliding season: all that night I heard
The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.
The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odours on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all,
Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm
Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.
Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a
Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk,
To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream
Served in the weeping elm; and more and more
A word could bring the colour to my cheek;
A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew;
Love trebled life within me, and with each
The year increased. The daughters of the year,
One after one, thro' that still garden pass'd:
Each garlanded with her peculiar flower
Danced into light, and died into the shade;
And each in passing touch'd with some new grace
Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day,
Like one that never can be wholly known, [6]
Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour
For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will,"
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes
Felt earth as air beneath me, [7] till I reach'd
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there.
There sat we down upon a garden mound,
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,
Between us, in the circle of his arms
Enwound us both; and over many a range
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers,
Across a hazy glimmer of the west,
Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd;
We spoke of other things; we coursed about
The subject most at heart, more near and near,
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round
The central wish, until we settled there.
