Chapter X: Part IV (4)

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.

[1] 1842 and 1851. Though.

[2] 1842 to 1843. Whose spirits fail within the mist. Altered to present reading in 1845.

[3] All editions up to and including 1851. Though Power, etc.

[4] 1842-1850. Though every channel.

“Of old sat Freedom on the heights”

First published in 1842, but it seems to have been written in 1834. The fourth and fifth stanzas are given in a postscript of a letter from Tennyson to James Spedding, dated 1834.

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place[1] she did rejoice, Self-gather’d in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro’ town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal’d The fullness of her face—

Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,[2] And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes!

[1] 1842 to 1850 inclusive. Within her place. Altered to present reading, 1850.

[2] The “trisulci ignes” or “trisulca tela” of the Roman poets.

“Love thou thy land, with love far-brought”

First published in 1842.

This poem had been written by 1834, for Tennyson sends it in a letter dated that year to James Spedding (see _Life_, i., 173).

Love thou thy land, with love far-brought From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro’ future time by power of thought.

True love turn’d round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time, Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might To weakness, neither hide the ray From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho’[1] sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge[2] circle with the winds; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth[3] of minds.

Watch what main-currents draw the years: Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain: Regard the weakness of thy peers:

Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days: Nor deal in watch-words overmuch;

Not clinging to some ancient saw; Not master’d by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm: And in its season bring the law;

That from Discussion’s lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds— Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all.

For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro’ many agents making strong, Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies, And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy.

A saying, hard to shape an act; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.

Ev’n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom— The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life.

A slow-develop’d strength awaits Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States—

The warders of the growing hour, But vague in vapour, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly join’d, Is bodied forth the second whole, Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind;

A wind to puff your idol-fires, And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made,[4] That we are wiser than our sires.

Oh, yet, if Nature’s evil star Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war—[5]

If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain’d in blood;

Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro’ shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, tho’ dogs of Faction bay,[6] Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away—

Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes; And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day, As we bear blossom of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw haste, half-sister to Delay.

[1] 1842 and so till 1851. Though.

[2] 1842. Knowledge is spelt with a capital K.

[3] 1842. Or growth.

[4] 1842. The boasting words we said.

[5] Possibly suggested by Homer’s expression, ἀνὰ πτολέμοιο γεφύρας, _Il_., viii., 549, and elsewhere; but Homer’s and Tennyson’s meaning can hardly be the same. In Homer the “bridges of war” seem to mean the spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in Tennyson the meaning is probably the obvious one.

[6] All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of Faction bay.

The Goose

This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in it.

This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation, is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes. The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free Trade question.

I knew an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm, He utter’d rhyme and reason, “Here, take the goose, and keep you warm, It is a stormy season”.

She caught the white goose by the leg, A goose—’twas no great matter. The goose let fall a golden egg With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf, And ran to tell her neighbours; And bless’d herself, and cursed herself, And rested from her labours.

And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff’d, The parson smirk’d and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack’d and cackled louder.

It clutter’d here, it chuckled there; It stirr’d the old wife’s mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl’d the pan and kettle.

“A quinsy choke thy cursed note!” Then wax’d her anger stronger: “Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer”.

Then yelp’d the cur, and yawl’d the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill’d the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor They flounder’d all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm, He utter’d words of scorning; “So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning”.

The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear’d the larder;

And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, “The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!”

The Epic

First published in 1842; “tho’” for “though” in line 44 has been the only alteration made since 1850.

This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after “The Epic” had been composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse “the faint Homeric echoes,” to give a reason for telling an old-world tale. The poet “mouthing out his hollow oes and aes” is, we are told, a good description of Tennyson’s tone and manner of reading.

At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas-eve,— The game of forfeits done—the girls all kiss’d Beneath the sacred bush and past away— The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl, Then half-way ebb’d: and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I bump’d the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners,[1] Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro’ the world, “at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by”. Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard’s shoulder, with “I hold by him”. “And I,” quoth Everard, “by the wassail-bowl.” “Why, yes,” I said, “we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that?” “You know,” said Frank, “he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books”—[2] And then to me demanding why? “Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said ’twas nothing—that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask. It pleased _me_ well enough.” “Nay, nay,” said Hall, “Why take the style of those heroic times? For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine[3] Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.” “But I,” Said Francis, “pick’d the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing its use will come. I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes.” He laugh’d, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick’d my ears; For I remember’d Everard’s college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result.

[1] A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833.

[2] 1842 to 1844. “You know,” said Frank, “he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire!” The present reading, 1850.

[3] 1842, 1843.v

Remodel models rather than the life? And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth).

Present reading, 1845.

Morte d’Arthur

This is Tennyson’s first study from Malory’s _Morte d’Arthur_. We learn from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, “out of a MS. in a little red book,” and again we learn that he repeated some lines of it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding “Not bad that, Fitz., is it?” (_Life_, i., 184). It is here represented as the eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, though Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, with what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, _The Idylls of the King_. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth and fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory’s _Romance_, which is followed very closely. It is called “an Homeric echo,” but the diction bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that of Homer, though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It is Tennyson’s masterpiece in “the grand style,” and is indeed as near perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so noble and impressive is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered except in the spelling of “mere” and “though” in lines 37, 77, 147, 155, 162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:—

“Across the ridge and pac’d beside the mere.”

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur’s table, man by man, Had fall’n in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,[1] A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: “The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,— Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more—but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand[2] Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword—and how I row’d across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou 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.

[1] _Cf. Morte d’Arthur_, xxxi., iv.:

“They led him betwixt them to a little chapel from the not far seaside”.

[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.”

[3] 1842-1853. Studs.

[4] Literally from Virgil (_Æn._, iv., 285).

“Atque animum nunc huc celerem nunc dividit illuc.”

[5] _Cf. Romance, Id._, v.:

“‘I saw nothing but the waters wap and the waves wan.’”

[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.”

[7] This line was not inserted till 1853.

[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.’”

[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.

[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.”

[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.”

[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?’”

[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.’”

[14] With this _cf_. 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.

[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.

[16] Paraphrased from _Odyssey_, vi., 42-5, or _Lucretius_, iii., 18-22.

[17] The expression “_crowned_ with summer _sea_” from _Odyssey_, x., 195: νῆσον τὴν πέρι πόντος απείριτος ἐσταφάνωται.

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.

[1] _Cf. Romeo and Juliet_, ii., vi.:—

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

[2] _Cf._ Keats, _Ode to Nightingale_:—

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

[3] _Cf_. Theocritus, _Id_., vii., 143:—παντ’ ὦσδεν θέρεος μάλα πἰονος.

[4] Provincial name for the goldfinch. See Tennyson’s letter to the Duke of Argyll, _Life_, ii., 221.

[5] This passage is imitated from Theocritus, vii., 143 _seqq_.

[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.

[7] So Massinger, _City Madam_, iii., 3:—

I am sublim’d. Gross earth Supports me not. _I walk on air_.

[8] _Cf._ Dante, _Inferno_, v., 81-83:—

Quali columbe dal desio chiamatè, Con l’ ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido Volan.

[9] 1842-1850. Lisping.

[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 prose story 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.