Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Whither away, whither away, whither away? Fly no more! Whither away wi’ the singing sail? whither away wi’ the oar? Whither away from the high green field and the happy blossoming shore? Weary mariners, hither away, One and all, one and all, Weary mariners, come and play; We will sing to you all the day; Furl the sail and the foam will fall From the prow! one and all Furl the sail! drop the oar! Leap ashore! Know danger and trouble and toil no more. Whither away wi’ the sail and the oar? Drop the oar, Leap ashore, Fly no more! Whither away wi’ the sail? whither away wi’ the oar? Day and night to the billow, etc. ... over the lea; They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the cloverhill swells High over the full-toned sea. Merrily carol the revelling gales Over the islands free: From the green seabanks the rose downtrails To the happy brimmèd sea. Come hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we: We will kiss sweet kisses, etc. ... With pleasure and love and revelry; ... ridgèd sea. Ye will not find so happy a shore Weary mariners! all the world o’er; Oh! fly no more! Harken ye, harken ye, sorrow shall darken ye, Danger and trouble and toil no more; Whither away? Drop the oar; Hither away, Leap ashore; Oh! fly no more—no more. Whither away, whither away, whither away with the sail and the oar?

Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach’d them on the middle sea.

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea: Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimsoned shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me: Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day: Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight[1] and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; Hither, come hither and see; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the colour of cove and cave,

And sweet shall your welcome be: O hither, come hither, and be our lords For merry brides are we: We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden cords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o’er, all the world o’er? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more.

[1] Bight is properly the coil of a rope; it then came to mean a bend, and so a corner or bay. The same phrase occurs in the _Voyage of Maledune_, v.: “and flung them in bight and bay”.

The Deserted House

First printed in 1830, omitted in all the editions till 1848 when it was restored. The poem is of course allegorical, and is very much in the vein of many poems in Anglo-Saxon poetry.

1

Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide:

2

All within is dark as night: In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before.

3

Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro’[1] the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house.

4

Come away: no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground.

5

Come away: for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious— A great and distant city—have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us!

[1] 1848 and 1851. Through.

The Dying Swan

First printed in 1830.

The superstition here assumed is so familiar from the Classics as well as from modern tradition that it scarcely needs illustration or commentary. But see Plato, _Phaedrus_, xxxi., and Shakespeare, _King John_, v., 7.

1

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray.[1] With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And[2] loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went.

2

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the water[3] wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was[4] the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro’[5] the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

3

The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach[6] stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll’d Thro’[7] the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song.

[1] 1830. Grey.

[2] 1830 till 1848. Which.

[3] 1863. River.

[4] 1830. Sung.

[5] 1830. Through.

[6] A coronach is a funeral song or lamentation, from the Gaelic _Corranach_. _Cf_. Scott’s _Waverley_, ch. xv., “Their wives and daughters came clapping their hands and _crying the coronach_ and shrieking”.

[7] 1830 till 1851. Through.

A Dirge

First printed in 1830.

1

Now is done thy long day’s work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk[1] Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

2

Thee nor carketh[2] care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

3

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

4

Crocodiles wept tears for thee; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor’s tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O’er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

5

Round thee blow, self-pleached[3] deep, Bramble-roses, faint and pale, And long purples[4] of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep. Thro’[5] the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

6

The gold-eyed kingcups fine: The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

7

Wild words wander here and there; God’s great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused: But let them rave. The balm-cricket[6] carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

[1] Still used in the north of England for “birch”.

[2] Carketh. Here used transitively, “troubles,” though in Old English it is generally intransitive, meaning to be careful or thoughtful; it is from the Anglo-Saxon _Carian_; it became obsolete in the seventeenth century. The substantive cark, trouble or anxiety, is generally in Old English coupled with “care”.

[3] Self-pleached, self-entangled or intertwined. _Cf_. Shakespeare, “pleached bower,” _Much Ado_, iii., i., 7.

[4] 1830. “_Long purples_,” thus marking that the phrase is borrowed from Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, iv., vii., 169:—

and _long purples_ That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. It is the purple-flowered orchis, _orchis mascula_.

[5] 1830. Through.

[6] Balm cricket, the tree cricket; _balm_ is a corruption of _baum_.

Love and Death

First printed in 1830.

What time the mighty moon was gathering light[1] Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll’d his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight: “You must begone,” said Death, “these walks are mine”. Love wept and spread his sheeny vans[2] for flight; Yet ere he parted said, “This hour is thine; Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all”.[3]

[1] The expression is Virgil’s, _Georg_., i., 427: “Luna revertentes cum primum _colligit ignes_”.

[2] Vans used also for “wings” by Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ii., 927-8:—

His sail-broad _vans_
He spreads for flight.

So also Tasso, _Ger. Lib_., ix., 60: “Indi spiega al gran volo i _vanni_ aurati”.

[3] _Cf. Lockley Hall Sixty Years After_: “Love will conquer at the last”.

The Ballad of Oriana

First published in 1830, not in 1833.

This fine ballad was evidently suggested by the old ballad of Helen of Kirkconnel, both poems being based on a similar incident, and both being the passionate soliloquy of the bereaved lover, though Tennyson’s treatment of the subject is his own. Helen of Kirkconnel was one of the poems which he was fond of reciting, and Fitzgerald says that he used also to recite this poem, in a way not to be forgotten, at Cambridge tables. _Life_, i., p. 77.

My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb’d with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana.

In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana.

She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch’d my crest among them all, Oriana: She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana: The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana!

Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle’s brays, Oriana. Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen’d in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana.

They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb’d me where I lay, Oriana They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana?

I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within my heart my arrow lies, Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursed blow! Oriana! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.

Circumstance

First published in 1830.

Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash’d with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs[1] the round of life from hour to hour.

[1] 1830. Fill up.

The Merman

First printed in 1830.

1

Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne?

2

I would be a merman bold; I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss’d me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily.

3

There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar— Low thunder and light in the magic night— Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine:[1] Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss’d me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily.

[1] Almondine. This should be “almandine,” the word probably being a corruption of alabandina, a gem so called because found at Alabanda in Caria; it is a garnet of a violet or amethystine tint. _Cf._ Browning, _Fefine at the Fair_, xv., “that string of mock-turquoise, these _almandines_ of glass”.

The Mermaid

First printed in 1830.

1

Who would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne?

2

I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb’d I would sing and say, “Who is it loves me? who loves not me?” I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that[1] great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their[2] immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me.

3

But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the[3] crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss’d[4] by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me.

[1] Till 1857. The.

[2] Till 1857. The.

[3] 1830. ’I the. So till 1853.

[4] 1830 Kist.

Sonnet to J. M. K.

First printed in 1830, not in 1833.

This sonnet was addressed to John Mitchell Kemble, the well-known Editor of the _Beowulf_ and other Anglo-Saxon poems. He intended to go into the Church, but was never ordained, and devoted his life to early English studies. See memoir of him in _Dict, of Nat. Biography_.

My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master’s feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill’d from some worm-canker’d homily; But spurr’d at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God’s good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.

The Lady of Shalott

First published in 1833.

This poem was composed in its first form as early as May, 1832 or 1833, as we learn from Fitzgerald’s note—of the exact year he was not certain (_Life of Tennyson_, i., 147). The evolution of the poem is an interesting study. How greatly it was altered in the second edition of 1842 will be evident from the collation which follows. The text of 1842 became the permanent text, and in this no subsequent material alterations were made. The poem is more purely fanciful than Tennyson perhaps was willing to own; certainly his explanation of the allegory, as he gave it to Canon Ainger, is not very intelligible: “The new-born love for something, for some one in the wide world from which she has been so long excluded, takes her out of the region of shadows into that of realities”. Poe’s commentary is most to the point: “Why do some persons fatigue themselves in endeavours to unravel such phantasy pieces as the _Lady of Shallot_? As well unweave the ventum textilem”.—_Democratic Review_, Dec., 1844, quoted by Mr. Herne Shepherd. Mr. Palgrave says (selection from the _Lyric Poems of Tennyson_, p. 257) the poem was suggested by an Italian romance upon the Donna di Scalotta. On what authority this is said I do not know, nor can I identify the novel. In Novella, lxxxi., a collection of novels printed at Milan in 1804, there is one which tells but very briefly the story of Elaine’s love and death, “Qui conta come la Damigella di scalot mori per amore di Lancealotto di Lac,” and as in this novel Camelot is placed near the sea, this may be the novel referred to. In any case the poem is a fanciful and possibly an allegorical variant of the story of Elaine, Shalott being a form, through the French, of Astolat.