No More Learning

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. [8]
Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her,
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved;
And in that time and place she answer'd me,
And in the compass of three little words,
More musical than ever came in one,
The silver fragments of a broken voice,
Made me most happy, faltering [9] "I am thine".
Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say
That my desire, like all strongest hopes,
By its own energy fulfilled itself,
Merged in completion? Would you learn at full
How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades
Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed
I had not staid so long to tell you all,
But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes,
Holding the folded annals of my youth;
And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,
And with a flying finger swept my lips,
And spake, "Be wise: not easily forgiven
Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar
The secret bridal chambers of the heart.
Let in the day". Here, then, my words have end.
Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells--
Of that which came between, more sweet than each,
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves
That tremble round a nightingale--in sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
Stole from her [10] sister Sorrow. Might I not tell
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
And vows, where there was never need of vows,
And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap
Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above
The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale
Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;
Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit,
Spread the light haze along the river-shores,
And in the hollows; or as once we met
Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain
Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,
And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.
But this whole hour your eyes have been intent
On that veil'd picture--veil'd, for what it holds
May not be dwelt on by the common day.
This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul;
Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time
Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there,
As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,
My first, last love; the idol of my youth,
The darling of my manhood, and, alas!
Now the most blessed memory of mine age.


[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Romeo and Juliet', ii. , vi. :--

O so light a foot
Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. ]


[Footnote 2: 'Cf. ' Keats, 'Ode to Nightingale':--

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. ]


[Footnote 3: 'Cf'. Theocritus, 'Id'. , vii. , 143:--

[Greek: pant' _osden thereos mala pionos. ]]


[Footnote 4: Provincial name for the goldfinch. See Tennyson's letter to
the Duke of Argyll, 'Life', ii. , 221. ]

[Footnote 5: This passage is imitated from Theocritus, vii. , 143
'seqq'. ]

[Footnote 6: This passage originally ran:--$

Her beauty grew till drawn in narrowing arcs
The southing autumn touch'd with sallower gleams
The granges on the fallows. At that time,
Tir'd of the noisy town I wander'd there.
The bell toll'd four, and by the time I reach'd
The wicket-gate I found her by herself.

But Fitzgerald pointing out that the autumn landscape was taken from the
background of Titian (Lord Ellesmere's 'Ages of Man') Tennyson struck
out the passage. If this was the reason he must have been in an
unusually scrupulous mood. See his 'Life', i. , 232. ]

[Footnote 7: So Massinger, 'City Madam', iii. , 3:--

I am sublim'd.
Gross earth
Supports me not.
'I walk on air'. ]


[Footnote 8: Cf. Dante, 'Inferno', v. , 81-83:--

Quali columbe dal desio chiamate,
Con 1' ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido Volan. ]


[Footnote 9: 1842-1850. Lisping. ]

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






DORA

First published in 1842.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


[Footnote 1: In 1842 thus:--

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

All editions previous to 1853 have

"Look to't. ]







AUDLEY COURT

First published in 1842.

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


"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room
For love or money. Let us picnic there
At Audley Court. " I spoke, while Audley feast
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay,
To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
To Francis just alighted from the boat,
And breathing of the sea. "With all my heart,"
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' [1] the swarm,
And rounded by the stillness of the beach
To where the bay runs up its latest horn.