Early Poems (continued 2)

The Sisters

First published in 1833.

The only alterations which have been made in it since have simply consisted in the alteration of “‘an’” for “and” in the third line of each stanza, and “through and through” for “thro’ and thro’” in line 29, and “wrapt” for “wrapped” in line 34. It is curious that in 1842 the original “bad” was altered to “bade,” but all subsequent editions keep to the original. It has been said that this poem was founded on the old Scotch ballad “The Twa Sisters” (see for that ballad Sharpe’s Ballad Book, No. x., p. 30), but there is no resemblance at all between the ballad and this poem beyond the fact that in each there are two sisters who are both loved by a certain squire, the elder in jealousy pushing the younger into a river and drowning her.

We were two daughters of one race: She was the fairest in the face: The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together and she fell; Therefore revenge became me well. O the Earl was fair to see! She died: she went to burning flame: She mix’d her ancient blood with shame. The wind is howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait: O the Earl was fair to see! I made a feast; I bad him come; I won his love, I brought him home. The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head: O the Earl was fair to see! I kiss’d his eyelids into rest: His ruddy cheek upon my breast. The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well. O the Earl was fair to see! I rose up in the silent night: I made my dagger sharp and bright. The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half-asleep his breath he drew, Three times I stabb’d him thro’ and thro’. O the Earl was fair to see! I curl’d and comb’d his comely head, He look’d so grand when he was dead. The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapt his body in the sheet, And laid him at his mother’s feet. O the Earl was fair to see!

To——

with the following poem.

I have not been able to ascertain to whom this dedication was addressed. Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that he thinks it was an imaginary person. The dedication explains the allegory intended. The poem appears to have been suggested, as we learn from Tennyson’s Life (vol. i., p. 150), by a remark of Trench to Tennyson when they were undergraduates at Trinity: “We cannot live in art”. It was the embodiment Tennyson added of his belief “that the God-like life is with man and for man”. Cf. his own lines in Love and Duty:—

It is a companion poem to the Vision of Sin; in that poem is traced the effect of indulgence in the grosser pleasures of sense, in this the effect of the indulgence in the more refined pleasures of sense.

I send you here a sort of allegory, (For you will understand it) of a soul,^[1] A sinful soul possess’d of many gifts, A spacious garden full of flowering weeds, A glorious Devil, large in heart and brain, That did love Beauty only, (Beauty seen In all varieties of mould and mind) And Knowledge for its beauty; or if Good, Good only for its beauty, seeing not That beauty, Good, and Knowledge, are three sisters That doat upon each other, friends to man, Living together under the same roof, And never can be sunder’d without tears. And he that shuts Love out, in turn shall be Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie Howling in outer darkness. Not for this Was common clay ta’en from the common earth, Moulded by God, and temper’d with the tears Of angels to the perfect shape of man.

The Palace of Art

First published in 1833, but altered so extensively on its republication in 1842 as to be practically rewritten. The alterations in it after 1842 were not numerous, consisting chiefly in the deletion of two stanzas after line 192 and the insertion of the three stanzas which follow in the present text, together with other minor verbal corrections, all of which have been noted. No alterations were made in the text after 1853. The allegory Tennyson explains in the dedicatory verses, but the framework of the poem was evidently suggested by Ecclesiastes ii. 1-17. The position of the hero is precisely that of Solomon. Both began by assuming that man is self-sufficing and the world sufficient; the verdict of the one in consequence being “vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” of the other what the poet here records. An admirable commentary on the poem is afforded by Matthew Arnold’s picture of the Romans before Christ taught the secret of the only real happiness possible to man. See Obermann Once More. The teaching of the poem has been admirably explained by Spedding. It “represents allegorically the condition of a mind which, in the love of beauty and the triumphant consciousness of knowledge and intellectual supremacy, in the intense enjoyment of its own power and glory, has lost sight of its relation to man and God”. See Tennyson’s Life, vol. i., p. 226.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. I said, “O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well”. A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish’d brass, I chose. The ranged ramparts bright From level meadow-bases of deep grass^[1] Suddenly scaled the light. Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf The rock rose clear, or winding stair. My soul would live alone unto herself In her high palace there. And “while the world^[2] runs round and round,” I said, “Reign thou apart, a quiet king, Still as, while Saturn^[3] whirls, his stedfast^[4] shade Sleeps on his luminous^[5] ring.” To which my soul made answer readily: “Trust me, in bliss I shall abide In this great mansion, that is built for me, So royal-rich and wide” ... Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth A flood of fountain-foam.^[6] And round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branch’d like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain-floods.^[6] And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands, Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky Dipt down to sea and sands.^[6] From those four jets four currents in one swell Across the mountain stream’d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell Lit up a torrent-bow.^[6] And high on every peak a statue seem’d To hang on tiptoe, tossing up A cloud of incense of all odour steam’d From out a golden cup.^[6] So that she thought, “And who shall gaze upon My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun, And that sweet incense rise?”^[6] For that sweet incense rose and never fail’d, And, while day sank or mounted higher, The light aerial gallery, golden-rail’d, Burnt like a fringe of fire.^[6] Likewise the deep-set windows, stain’d and traced, Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires From shadow’d grots of arches interlaced, And tipt with frost-like spires.^[6] ... Full of long-sounding corridors it was, That over-vaulted grateful gloom,^[7] Thro’ which the livelong day my soul did pass, Well-pleased, from room to room. Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, All various, each a perfect whole From living Nature, fit for every mood^[8] And change of my still soul. For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff’d cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn.^[9] One seem’d all dark and red—a tract of sand, And some one pacing there alone, Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, Lit with a low large moon.^[10]> One show’d an iron coast and angry waves. You seem’d to hear them climb and fall And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, Beneath the windy wall.^[11] And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, With shadow-streaks of rain.^[11] And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. In front they bound the sheaves. Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And hoary to the wind.^[11] And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr’d with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire.^[12] And one, an English home—gray twilight pour’d On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep—all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.^[13] Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design’d.^[14] ... Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm.^[15] Or in a clear-wall’d city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look’d at her. Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow’d to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee.^[16] Or mythic Uther’s deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch’d by weeping queens.^[17] Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay’d the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law.^[18] Or over hills with peaky tops engrail’d, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama^[19] slowly sail’d A summer fann’d with spice. Or sweet Europa’s^[20] mantle blew unclasp’d, From off her shoulder backward borne: From one hand droop’d a crocus: one hand grasp’d The mild bull’s golden horn.^[21] Or else flush’d Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle’s down, Sole as a flying star shot thro’ the sky Above^[22] the pillar’d town. Nor^[23] these alone: but every^[24] legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind^[25] Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design’d.^[26] Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round. For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp’d his song, And somewhat grimly smiled.^[27] And there the Ionian father of the rest;^[28] A million wrinkles carved his skin; A hundred winters snow’d upon his breast, From cheek and throat and chin.^[29] Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift.^[29] Below was all mosaic choicely plann’d With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail.^[29] The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil’d onward, prick’d with goads and stings; Here play’d, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings;^[29] Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure.^[29] But over these she trod: and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the shining Oriels, To sing her songs alone.^[29] And thro’ the topmost Oriels’ colour’d flame Two godlike faces gazed below; Plato the wise, and large-brow’d Verulam, The first of those who know.^[29] And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon’d fair In diverse raiment strange:^[30] Thro’ which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush’d in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon,^[31] drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echo’d song Throb thro’ the ribbed stone; Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive, Lord over Nature, Lord of^[32] the visible earth, Lord of the senses five; Communing with herself: “All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, ’Tis one to me”. She—when young night divine Crown’d dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils— Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow’d moons of gems, To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, “I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter’d to the height.^[33] “O all things fair to sate my various eyes! O shapes and hues that please me well! O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My Gods, with whom I dwell!^[34] “O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain.^[34] “In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep.”^[34] Then of the moral instinct would she prate, And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish’d Fate; And at the last she said: “I take possession of man’s mind and deed. I care not what the sects may brawl, I sit as God holding no form of creed, But contemplating all.”^[35] Full oft^[36] the riddle of the painful earth Flash’d thro’ her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne. And so she throve and prosper’d: so three years She prosper’d: on the fourth she fell,^[37] Like Herod,^[38] when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro’ with pangs of hell. Lest she should fail and perish utterly, God, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality,^[39] Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where’er she turn’d her sight, The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote “Mene, mene,” and divided quite The kingdom of her thought.^[40] Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn.^[41] “What! is not this my place of strength,” she said, “My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?” But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall. A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem’d my soul, ’Mid onward-sloping^[42] motions infinite Making for one sure goal. A still salt pool, lock’d in with bars of sand; Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white. A star that with the choral starry dance Join’d not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Roll’d round by one fix’d law. Back on herself her serpent pride had curl’d. “No voice,” she shriek’d in that lone hall, “No voice breaks thro’ the stillness of this world: One deep, deep silence all!” She, mouldering with the dull earth’s mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name; And death and life she hated equally, And nothing saw, for her despair, But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, No comfort anywhere; Remaining utterly confused with fears, And ever worse with growing time, And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime: Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem’d to hear the dully sound Of human footsteps fall. As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea; And knows not if it be thunder or a sound Of rocks^[43] thrown down, or one deep cry Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, “I have found A new land, but I die”. She howl’d aloud, “I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?” So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. “Make me a cottage in the vale,” she said, “Where I may mourn and pray.^[44] “Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are So lightly, beautifully built: Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.”^[45]

Lady Clara Vere de Vere

Though this is placed among the poems published in 1833 it first appeared in print in 1842. The subsequent alterations were very slight, and after 1848 none at all were made.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother’s view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix’d a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife^[1] Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe’er it be, it seems to me, ’Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yoeman go.

The May Queen

The first two parts were first published in 1833.

The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald’s phrase, it is all Lincolnshire inland, as Locksley Hall is seaboard.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad^[1] New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline: But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you^[2] do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin^[3] leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,— But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be: They say his heart is breaking, mother—what is that to me? There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me any summer day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side ’ill come from far away, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day, And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. All the valley, mother, ’ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale ’ill merrily glance and play, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day, For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

New Year’s Eve

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on^[1] the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow’ll come back again with summer o’er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun’ll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You’ll bury me,^[2] my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you’ll come^[3] sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,^[4] With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive^[5] me now; You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;^[6] Nay, nay, you must not weep,^[7] nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you^[8] have another child. If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho’ you’ll^[9] not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho’ I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you^[10] say, And be often, often with you when you think^[11] I’m far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And you^[12] see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.^[13]> All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

Conclusion

Added in 1842.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here. O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! But still I think it can’t be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.^[1] O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d^[2] me all the sin. Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine”. And if it comes^[3] three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem’d to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin^[4] a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine— Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun— For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come— To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast— And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

The Lotos Eaters

First published in 1833, but when republished in 1842 the alterations in the way of excision, alteration, and addition were very extensive. The text of 1842 is practically the final text.

This charming poem is founded on Odyssey, ix., 82 seq.

“On the tenth day we set foot on the land of the lotos-eaters who eat a flowery food. So we stepped ashore and drew water.... When we had tasted meat and drink I sent forth certain of my company to go and make search what manner of men they were who here live upon the earth by bread.... Then straightway they went and mixed with the men of the lotos-eaters, and so it was that the lotos-eaters devised not death for our fellows but gave them of the lotos to taste. Now whosoever of them did eat the honey-sweet fruit of the lotos had no more wish to bring tidings nor to come back, but there he chose to abide with the lotos-eating men ever feeding on the lotos and forgetful of his homeward way. Therefore I led them back to the ships weeping and sore against their will ... lest haply any should eat of the lotos and be forgetful of returning.” (Lang and Butcher’s translation.) But in the details of his poem Tennyson has laid many other poets under contribution, notably Moschus, Idyll, v.; Bion, Idyll, v.; Spenser, Faerie Queen, II. vi. (description of the Idle Lake), and Thomson’s Castle of Indolence.

“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;^[1] And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow^[2] From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,^[3] Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more”; And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam”.

Choric Song

1

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

2

Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!” Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

3

Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

4

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.^[4] Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave?^[5] All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave^[6] In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

5

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other’s whisper’d speech: Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those^[7] old faces of our infancy Heap’d over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

6

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change; For surely now our household hearths are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten-years’ war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle?^[8] Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: ’Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with^[9] many wars And eyes grow dim with gazing on the pilot-stars^[10]

7

But, propt on beds^[11] of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine— To watch^[12] the emerald-colour’d water falling Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.

8

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:^[13] The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, ’tis whisper’d—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.^[14]

A Dream of Fair Women

First published in 1833 but very extensively altered on its republication in 1842. It had been written by June, 1832, and appears to have been originally entitled Legend of Fair Women (see Spedding’s letter dated 21st June, 1832, Life, i., 116). In nearly every edition between 1833 and 1853 it was revised, and perhaps no poem proves more strikingly the scrupulous care which Tennyson took to improve what he thought susceptible of improvement. The work which inspired it, Chaucer’s Legend of Good Women, was written about 1384, thus “preluding” by nearly two hundred years the “spacious times of great Elizabeth”. There is no resemblance between the poems beyond the fact that both are visions and both have as their heroines illustrious women who have been unfortunate. Cleopatra is the only one common to the two poems. Tennyson’s is an exquisite work of art—the transition from the anarchy of dreams to the dreamland landscape and to the sharply penned figures—the skill with which the heroines (what could be more perfect that Cleopatra and Jephtha’s daughter?) are chosen and contrasted—the wonderful way in which the Iphigenia of Euripides and Lucretius and the Cleopatra of Shakespeare are realised are alike admirable.

The poem opened in 1833 with the following strangely irrelevant verses, excised in 1842, which as Fitzgerald observed “make a perfect poem by themselves without affecting the ‘dream’”:—

As when a man, that sails in a balloon, Downlooking sees the solid shining ground Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon, Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound: And takes his flags and waves them to the mob, That shout below, all faces turned to where Glows ruby-like the far up crimson globe, Filled with a finer air: So lifted high, the Poet at his will Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all, Higher thro’ secret splendours mounting still, Self-poised, nor fears to fall. Hearing apart the echoes of his fame. While I spoke thus, the seedsman, memory, Sowed my deepfurrowed thought with many a name, Whose glory will not die. I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, “The Legend of Good Women,” long ago Sung by the morning star^[1] of song, who made His music heard below; Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho’ my heart, Brimful of those wild tales, Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death.^[2] Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars; And clattering flints batter’d with clanging hoofs: And I saw crowds in column’d sanctuaries; And forms that pass’d^[3] at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces; Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;^[4] Lances in ambush set; And high shrine-doors burst thro’ with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; White surf wind-scatter’d over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher; Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush’d seraglios. So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray. I started once, or seem’d to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek. And once my arm was lifted to hew down, A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer’d town; And then, I know not how, All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Stream’d onward, lost their edges, and did creep Roll’d on each other, rounded, smooth’d and brought Into the gulfs of sleep. At last methought that I had wander’d far In an old wood: fresh-wash’d in coolest dew, The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast^[5] blue. Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath. The dim red morn had died, her journey done, And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall’n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again. There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn’d Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,^[6] And at the root thro’ lush green grasses burn’d The red anemone. I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks, drench’d in dew, Leading from lawn to lawn. The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame. And from within me a clear under-tone Thrill’d thro’ mine ears in that unblissful clime “Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time”. At length I saw a lady^[7] within call, Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,^[8] And most divinely fair. Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place. “I had great beauty: ask thou not my name: No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where’er I came I brought calamity.” “No marvel, sovereign lady^[9]: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died,”^[10] I answer’d free; and turning I appeal’d To one^[11] that stood beside. But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stature draws; “My youth,” she said, “was blasted with a curse: This woman was the cause. “I was cut off from hope in that sad place,^[12] Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears:^[13] My father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded with my tears, “Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die. “The high masts flicker’d as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver’d, and the shore; The bright death quiver’d at the victim’s throat; Touch’d; and I knew no more.”^[14] Whereto the other with a downward brow: “I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam,^[15] Whirl’d by the wind, had roll’d me deep below, Then when I left my home.” Her slow full words sank thro’ the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: Sudden I heard a voice that cried, “Come here, That I may look on thee”. I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll’d; A queen, with swarthy cheeks^[16] and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold. She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: “I govern’d men by change, and so I sway’d All moods. Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made “The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humour ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood: That makes my only woe. “Nay—yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, Where is Mark Antony?^[17] “The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune’s neck: we sat as God by God: The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod.^[18] “We drank the Libyan^[19] Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn’d Canopus. O my life In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife,^[20] “And the wild kiss, when fresh from war’s alarms,^[21] My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailèd Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die! “And there he died: and when I heard my name Sigh’d forth with life, I would not brook my fear^[22] Of the other: with a worm I balk’d his fame. What else was left? look here!” (With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish’d argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick’s bite.) “I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found^[23] Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name for ever!—lying robed and crown’d, Worthy a Roman spouse.” Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck^[24] by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro’ all change Of liveliest utterance. When she made pause I knew not for delight; Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and fill’d with light The interval of sound. Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings. Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro’ the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird, That claps his wings at dawn. “The torrent brooks of hallow’d Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro’ the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon. “The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: All night the splinter’d crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine.” As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro’ the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor, Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied To where he stands,—so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father’s vow; The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,^[25] A maiden pure; as when she went along From Mizpeh’s tower’d gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song. My words leapt forth: “Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath”. She render’d answer high: “Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times I would be born and die. “Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death. “My God, my land, my father—these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower’d softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave. “And I went mourning, ‘No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers’—emptied of all joy, Leaving the dance and song, “Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower “The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den;^[26] We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken’d glen, “Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills. “When the next moon was roll’d into the sky, Strength came to me that equall’d my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire! “It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father’s will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still. “Moreover it is written that my race Hew’d Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer^[27] On Arnon unto Minneth.” Here her face Glow’d, as I look’d at her. She lock’d her lips: she left me where I stood: “Glory to God,” she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star. Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead. “Alas! alas!” a low voice, full of care, Murmur’d beside me: “Turn and look on me: I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be. “Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! O me, that I should ever see the light! Those dragon eyes of anger’d Eleanor Do haunt me, day and night.” She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: To whom the Egyptian: “O, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia’s waist, and thrust The dagger thro’ her side”. With that sharp sound the white dawn’s creeping beams, Stol’n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky. Morn broaden’d on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp’d in her last trance Her murder’d father’s head, or Joan of Arc,^[28] A light of ancient France; Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,^[29] Sweet as new buds in Spring. No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o’er Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like. As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By sighs or groans or tears; Because all words, tho’ cull’d^[30] with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

Margaret

First printed in 1833.

Another of Tennyson’s delicious fancy portraits, the twin sister to Adeline.

1

O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho’^[1] you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro’ a fleecy night.

2

You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull’d echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night.

3

What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet,^[2] Sang looking thro’ his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet,^[3] Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well?

4

A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow’s shade, Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch’d with a somewhat darker hue, And less aerially blue, But ever trembling thro’ the dew^[4] Of dainty-woeful sympathies.

5

O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak: Tie up the ringlets on your cheek: The sun is just about to set. The arching lines are tall and shady, And faint, rainy lights are seen, Moving in the leavy beech. Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Where all day long you sit between Joy and woe, and whisper each. Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro’ the jasmine-leaves.^[5]

The Blackbird

Not in 1833. This is another poem placed among the poems of 1833, but not printed till 1842.

The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park: The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,^[1] Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting.^[2] A golden bill! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry: Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares,^[3] Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all,^[4] or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

The Death of the Old Year

First printed in 1833.

Only one alteration has been made in this poem, in line 41, where in 1842 “one’ was altered to” twelve”.

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die. He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love, And the New-year will take ’em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go. He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o’er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: ’Tis nearly twelve^[1] o’clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

To J. S.

First published in 1833.

This beautiful poem was addressed to James Spedding on the death of his brother Edward.

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold,^[1] And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow^[2] In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. ’Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn’d; Once thro’ mine own doors Death did pass;^[3] One went, who never hath return’d. He will not smile—nor speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro’ a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander’d far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold^[4] and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look’d upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall’n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep. And tho’ mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro’ the brain,^[5] I will not even preach to you, “Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain”. Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done—to weep or not to weep. I will not say “God’s ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind”; For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,^[6] And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem’d distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters^[7] as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only^[8] silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. ’Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take^[9] The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

“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.

“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!

“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.

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.

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:—

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 seëst, 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 fëalty, 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 däis-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 seëst—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.

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”.