Chapter VIII: Part IV (2)

There is a dale in Ida, lovelier Than any in old Ionia, beautiful With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn A path thro’ steepdown granite walls below Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall And many a snowycolumned range divine, Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, The work of Gods—bright on the dark-blue sky The windy citadel of Ilion Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came Mournful Œnone wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a vine-entwinèd stone, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. The grasshopper is silent in the grass, The lizard with his shadow on the stone Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged[21] Cicala in the noonday leapeth not Along the water-rounded granite-rock. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lilycradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, And dewydark aloft the mountain pine; Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I sate alone: the goldensandalled morn Rosehued the scornful hills: I sate alone With downdropt eyes: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he came: a leopard skin From his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God’s: And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens When the wind blows the foam; and I called out, ‘Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo, Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo’.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He, mildly smiling, in his milk-white palm Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven Ambrosially smelling. From his lip, Curved crimson, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

“‘My own Œnone, Beautifulbrowed Œnone, mine own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n “For the most fair,” in aftertime may breed Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sore Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion; And all the colour of my afterlife Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day Herè and Pallas and the floating grace Of laughter-loving Aphrodite meet In manyfolded Ida to receive This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand Award the palm. Within the green hillside, Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein Thou unbeholden may’st behold, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney hills. They came—all three—the Olympian goddesses. Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower, Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, Shadowed with singing-pine; and all the while, Above, the overwandering ivy and vine This way and that in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. On the treetops a golden glorious cloud Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. How beautiful they were, too beautiful To look upon! but Paris was to me More lovelier than all the world beside.

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. First spake the imperial Olympian With archèd eyebrow smiling sovranly, Fulleyèd here. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestioned, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine— Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.’

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power ‘Which in all action is the end of all. Power fitted to the season, measured by The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance evermore. Such boon from me Heaven’s Queen to thee kingborn, A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in this Only are likest gods, who have attained Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy; The changeless calm of undisputed right, The highest height and topmost strength of power.’

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm’s length, so much the thought of power Flattered his heart: but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbs O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold; The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snowcold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

“‘Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrol Are the three hinges of the gates of Life, That open into power, everyway Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud. Yet not for power (power of herself Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law Acting the law we live by without fear, And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

(Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.) Not as men value gold because it tricks And blazons outward Life with ornament, But rather as the miser, for itself. Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood. The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect Each other, bound in one with hateful love. So both into the fountain and the stream A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me, And look upon me and consider me, So shall thou find me fairest, so endurance, Like to an athlete’s arm, shall still become Sinewed with motion, till thine active will (As the dark body of the Sun robed round With his own ever-emanating lights) Be flooded o’er with her own effluences, And thereby grow to freedom.’

“Here she ceased And Paris pondered. I cried out, ‘Oh, Paris, Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite oceanborn, Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers upward drew From her warm brow and bosom her dark hair Fragrant and thick, and on her head upbound In a purple band: below her lucid neck Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot Gleamed rosywhite, and o’er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whispered in his ear, ‘I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece’. I only saw my Paris raise his arm: I only saw great Herè’s angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone. And I shall be alone until I die.

“Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close-close to thine in that quickfalling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines— My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, or lower down Filling greengulphèd Ida, all between The snowy peak and snowwhite cataract Fostered the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, nevermore Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist Sweep thro’ them—never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

“Oh! mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears? Oh happy tears, and how unlike to these! Oh happy Heaven, how can’st thou see my face? Oh happy earth, how can’st thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life. And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids—let me die.

“Yet, mother Ida, hear me ere I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born. I will not die alone. “Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill, happy laughter, etc. (Same as last stanza of subsequent editions.)

[1] Tennyson, as we learn from his _Life_ (vol. i., p. 83), began _Œnone_ while he and Arthur Hallam were in Spain, whither they went with money for the insurgent allies of Torrigos in the summer of 1830. He wrote part of it in the valley of Cauteretz in the Pyrenees, the picturesque beauty of which fascinated him and not only suggested the scenery of this Idyll, but inspired many years afterwards the poem _All along the valley_. The exquisite scene with which the Idyll opens bears no resemblance at all to Mount Ida and the Troad.

[2] Gargarus or Gargaron is the highest peak of the Ida range, rising about 4650 feet above the level of the sea.

[3] The epithet many-fountain’d πλπῖδαοξ is Homer’s stock epithet for Ida. _Cf. Iliad_, viii., 47; xiv., 283, etc., etc.

[4] A literal translation from a line in Callimachus, _Lavacrum Palladis_, 72: μεσαμβρινὴ δ’ ἔιχ’ ὅρος ἡσυχία (noonday quiet held the hill).

[5] So Theocritus, _Idyll_, vii., 22:— Ανίκα δὴ καὶ σαῦρος ἐφ’ αἱμασιᾶισι καθεύδει. (When indeed the very lizard is sleeping on the loose stones of the wall.)

[6] This extraordinary mistake in natural history (the cicala being of course loudest in mid noonday when the heat is greatest) Tennyson allowed to stand, till securing accuracy at the heavy price of a pointless pleonasm, he substituted in 1884 “and the winds are dead”.

[7] An echo from _Henry VI._, part ii., act ii., se. iii.:—

Mine eyes arc full of tears, my heart of grief.

[8] Œnone was the daughter of the River-God Kebren.

[9] For the myth here referred to see Ovid, _Heroides_, xvi., 179-80:—

Ilion aspicies, firmataque turribus altis Moenia, Phoeboeae; structa canore lyrae.

It was probably an application of the Theban legend of Amphion, and arose from the association of Apollo with Poseidon in founding Troy.

A fabric huge _Rose like an exhalation,_

(Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, i., 710-11.)

_Cf. Gareth and Lynette_, 254-7.

[10] The river Simois, so often referred to in the _Iliad_, had its origin in Mount Cotylus, and passing by Ilion joined the Scamander below the city.

[11] _Cf._ the σύνοφρυς κόρα (the maid of the meeting brows) of Theocritus, _Id._, viii., 72. This was considered a great beauty among the Greeks, Romans and Orientals. Ovid, _Ars. Amat_., iii., 201, speaks of women effecting this by art: “Arte, supercilii confinia nuda repletis”.

[12] The whole of this gorgeous passage is taken, with one or two additions and alterations in the names of the flowers, from _Iliad_, xiv., 347-52, with a reminiscence no doubt of Milton, _Paradise Lost_, iv., 695-702.

[13] The “_angry_ cheek” is a fine touch.

[14] This fine sentiment is, of course, a commonplace among ancient philosophers, but it may be interesting to put beside it a passage from Cicero, _De Finibus_, ii., 14, 45: “Honestum id intelligimus quod tale est ut, detractâ omni utilitate, sine ullis præmiis fructibusve per se ipsum possit jure laudari”. We are to understand by the truly honourable that which, setting aside all consideration of utility, may be rightly praised in itself, exclusive of any prospect of reward or compensation.

[15] This passage is very obscurely expressed, but the general meaning is clear: “Until endurance grow sinewed with action, and the full-grown will, circled through all experiences grow or become law, be identified with law, and commeasure perfect freedom”. The true moral ideal is to bring the will into absolute harmony with law, so that virtuous action becomes an instinct, the will no longer rebelling against the law, “service” being in very truth “perfect freedom”.

[16] The Paphos referred to is the old Paphos which was sacred to Aphrodite; it was on the south-west extremity of Cyprus.

[17] Adopted from a line excised in _Mariana in the South_. See _supra_.

[18] This was Eris.

[19] Helen.

[20] With these verses should be compared Schiller’s fine lyric _Kassandra_, and with the line, “All earth and air seem only burning fire,” from Webster’s _Duchess of Malfi_:—

The heaven o’er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur.

[21] In the Pyrenees, where part of this poem was written, I saw a very beautiful species of Cicala, which had scarlet wings spotted with black. Probably nothing of the kind exists in Mount Ida.

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_:—

For a man is not as God, But then most God-like being most a man.

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.

[1] 1833.

I send you, Friend, a sort of allegory, (You are an artist and will understand Its many lesser meanings) of a soul.

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]

[1] 1833.

I chose, whose ranged ramparts bright From great broad meadow bases of deep grass.

[2] 1833. “While the great world.”

[3] “The shadow of Saturn thrown upon the bright ring that surrounds the planet appears motionless, though the body of the planet revolves. Saturn rotates on its axis in the short period of ten and a half hours, but the shadow of this swiftly whirling mass shows no more motion than is seen in the shadow of a top spinning so rapidly that it seems to be standing still.” Rowe and Webb’s note, which I gladly borrow.

[4] 1833 and 1842. Steadfast.

[5] After this stanza in 1833 this, deleted in 1842:—

“And richly feast within thy palace hall, Like to the dainty bird that sups, Lodged in the lustrous crown-imperial, Draining the honey cups.”

[6]

In 1833 these eight stanzas were inserted after the stanza beginning, “I take possession of men’s minds and deeds”; in 1842 they were transferred, greatly altered, to their present position. For the alterations on them see _infra._

[7] 1833.

Gloom, Roofed with thick plates of green and orange glass Ending in stately rooms.

[8] 1833.

All various, all beautiful, Looking all ways, fitted to every mood.

[9] Here in 1833 was inserted the stanza, “One showed an English home,” afterwards transferred to its present position 85-88.

[10] 1833.

Some were all dark and red, a glimmering land Lit with a low round moon, Among brown rocks a man upon the sand Went weeping all alone.

[11]

These three stanzas were added in 1842.

[12] Thus in 1833:—

One seemed a foreground black with stones and slags, Below sun-smitten icy spires Rose striped with long white cloud the scornful crags, Deep trenched with thunder fires.

[13] Not inserted here in 1833, but the following in its place:—

Some showed far-off thick woods mounted with towers, Nearer, a flood of mild sunshine Poured on long walks and lawns and beds and bowers Trellised with bunchy vine.

[14] Inserted in 1842.

[15] Thus in 1833, followed by the note:—

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In yellow pastures sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx, Sat smiling, babe in arm.

When I first conceived the plan of the Palace of Art, I intended to have introduced both sculptures and paintings into it; but it is the most difficult of all things to _devise_ a statue in verse. Judge whether I have succeeded in the statues of Elijah and Olympias.

One was the Tishbite whom the raven fed, As when he stood on Carmel steeps, With one arm stretched out bare, and mocked and said, “Come cry aloud-he sleeps”.

Tall, eager, lean and strong, his cloak wind-borne Behind, his forehead heavenly bright From the clear marble pouring glorious scorn, Lit as with inner light.

One, was Olympias: the floating snake Rolled round her ancles, round her waist Knotted, and folded once about her neck, Her perfect lips to taste.

Round by the shoulder moved: she seeming blythe Declined her head: on every side The dragon’s curves melted and mingled with The woman’s youthful pride Of rounded limbs.

Or Venus in a snowy shell alone, Deep-shadowed in the glassy brine, Moonlike glowed double on the blue, and shone A naked shape divine.

[16] Inserted in 1842.

[17] Thus in 1833:—

Or that deep-wounded child of Pendragon Mid misty woods on sloping greens Dozed in the valley of Avilion, Tended by crowned queens.

The present reading is that of 1842. The reference is, of course, to King Arthur, the supposed son of Uther Pendragon.

In 1833 the following stanza, excised in 1842, followed:—

Or blue-eyed Kriemhilt from a craggy hold, Athwart the light-green rows of vine, Poured blazing hoards of Nibelungen gold, Down to the gulfy Rhine.

[18] Inserted in 1842 thus:—

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To listen for a footfall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay’d the Tuscan king to hear Of wisdom and of law.

List a footfall, 1843. Ausonian for Tuscan, 1850. The reference is to Egeria and Numa Pompilius. _Cf._ Juvenal, iii., 11-18:—

Hic ubi nocturnæ Numa constituebat amicæ ... In vallem Ægeriæ descendimus et speluneas Dissimiles veris.

and the beautiful passage in Byron’s _Childe Harold_, iv., st. cxv.-cxix.

[19] This is Camadev or Camadeo, the Cupid or God of Love of the Hindu mythology.

[20] This picture of Europa seems to have been suggested by Moschus, _Idyll_, ii., 121-5:—

ἡ δ’ αρ’ ἐφεζομένη Ζηνὸς βόεοις ἐπὶ νώτόις
τῇ μεν ἔχεν ταύρου δολιχὸν κέρας, ἐν χερὶ δ’ ἄλλῃ
εἴρυε πορφυρεας κόλπου πτύχας.

“Then, seated on the back of the divine bull, with one hand did she grasp the bull’s long horn and with the other she was catching up the purple folds of her garment, and the robe on her shoulders was swelled out.” See, too, the beautiful picture of the same scene in Achilles Tatius, _Clitophon and Leucippe_, lib. i., _ad init._; and in Politian’s finely picturesque poem.

[21] In 1833 thus:—

Europa’s scarf blew in an arch, unclasped, From her bare shoulder backward borne.

Off inserted in 1842. Here in 1833 follows a stanza, excised in 1842:—

He thro’ the streaming crystal swam, and rolled Ambrosial breaths that seemed to float In light-wreathed curls. She from the ripple cold Updrew her sandalled foot.

[22] 1833. Over.

[23] 1833. Not.

[24] 1833. Many a.

[25] The Caucasian range forms the north-west margin of the great tableland of Western Asia, and as it was the home of those races who afterwards peopled Europe and Western Asia and so became the fathers of civilisation and culture, the “Supreme Caucasian mind” is a historically correct but certainly recondite expression for the intellectual flower of the human race, for the perfection of human ability.

[26] 1833. Broidered in screen and blind.

In the edition of 1833 appear the following stanzas, excised in 1842:—

So that my soul beholding in her pride All these, from room to room did pass; And all things that she saw, she multiplied, A many-faced glass.

And, being both the sower and the seed, Remaining in herself became All that she saw, Madonna, Ganymede, Or the Asiatic dame—

Still changing, as a lighthouse in the night Changeth athwart the gleaming main, From red to yellow, yellow to pale white, Then back to red again.

“From change to change four times within the womb The brain is moulded,” she began, “So thro’ all phases of all thought I come Into the perfect man.

“All nature widens upward: evermore The simpler essence lower lies, More complex is more perfect, owning more Discourse, more widely wise.

“I take possession of men’s minds and deeds. I live in all things great and small. I dwell apart, holding no forms of creeds, But contemplating all.”

Four ample courts there were, East, West, South, North, In each a squarèd lawn where from A golden-gorged dragon spouted forth The fountain’s diamond foam.

All round the cool green courts there ran a row Of cloisters, branched like mighty woods, Echoing all night to that sonorous flow Of spouted fountain floods.

From those four jets four currents in one swell Over the black rock streamed below In steamy folds, that, floating as they fell, Lit up a torrent bow.

And round the roofs ran gilded galleries That gave large view to distant lands, Tall towns and mounds, and close beneath the skies Long lines of amber sands.

Huge incense-urns along the balustrade, Hollowed of solid amethyst, Each with a different odour fuming, made The air a silver mist.

Far-off ’twas wonderful to look upon Those sumptuous towers between the gleam Of that great foam-bow trembling in the sun, And the argent incense-steam;

And round the terraces and round the walls, While day sank lower or rose higher, To see those rails with all their knobs and balls, Burn like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deepset windows, stained and traced. Burned, like slow-flaming crimson fires, From shadowed grots of arches interlaced, And topped with frostlike spires.

[27] 1833.

There deep-haired Milton like an angel tall Stood limnèd, Shakspeare bland and mild, Grim Dante pressed his lips, and from the wall The bald blind Homer smiled.

Recast in its present form in 1842. After this stanza in 1833 appear the following stanzas, excised in 1842:—

And underneath fresh carved in cedar wood, Somewhat alike in form and face, The Genii of every climate stood, All brothers of one race:

Angels who sway the seasons by their art, And mould all shapes in earth and sea; And with great effort build the human heart From earliest infancy.

And in the sun-pierced Oriels’ coloured flame Immortal Michæl Angelo Looked down, bold Luther, large-browed Verulam, The King of those who know.[A]

Cervantes, the bright face of Calderon, Robed David touching holy strings, The Halicarnassean, and alone, Alfred the flower of kings.

Isaiah with fierce Ezekiel, Swarth Moses by the Coptic sea, Plato, Petrarca, Livy, and Raphael, And eastern Confutzer.

[A] Il maëstro di color chi sanno.—Dante, _Inf._, iii.

[28] Homer. _Cf._ Pope’s _Temple of Fame_, 183-7:—

Father of verse in holy fillets dress’d, His silver beard wav’d gently o’er his breast, Though blind a boldness in his looks appears, In years he seem’d but not impaired by years.

[29]

All these stanzas were added in 1842. In 1833 appear the following stanzas, excised in 1842:—

As some rich tropic mountain, that infolds All change, from flats of scattered palms Sloping thro’ five great zones of climate, holds His head in snows and calms—

Full of her own delight and nothing else, My vain-glorious, gorgeous soul Sat throned between the shining oriels, In pomp beyond control;

With piles of flavorous fruits in basket-twine Of gold, upheaped, crushing down Musk-scented blooms—all taste—grape, gourd or pine— In bunch, or single grown—

Our growths, and such as brooding Indian heats Make out of crimson blossoms deep, Ambrosial pulps and juices, sweets from sweets Sun-changed, when sea-winds sleep.

With graceful chalices of curious wine, Wonders of art—and costly jars, And bossed salvers. Ere young night divine Crowned dying day with stars,

Making sweet close of his delicious toils, She lit white streams of dazzling gas, And soft and fragrant flames of precious oils In moons of purple glass

Ranged on the fretted woodwork to the ground. Thus her intense untold delight, In deep or vivid colour, smell and sound, Was nattered day and night.[A]

[A] If the poem were not already too long, I should have inserted in the text the following stanzas, expressive of the joy wherewith the soul contemplated the results of astronomical experiment. In the centre of the four quadrangles rose an immense tower.

Hither, when all the deep unsounded skies Shuddered with silent stars she clomb, And as with optic glasses her keen eyes Pierced thro’ the mystic dome,

Regions of lucid matter taking forms, Brushes of fire, hazy gleams, Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like swarms Of suns, and starry streams.

She saw the snowy poles of moonless Mars, That marvellous round of milky light Below Orion, and those double stars Whereof the one more bright Is circled by the other, etc.

[30] Thus in 1833:—

And many more, that in their lifetime were Full-welling fountain heads of change, Between the stone shafts glimmered, blazoned fair In divers raiment strange.

[31] The statue of Memnon near Thebes in Egypt when first struck by the rays of the rising sun is said to have become vocal, to have emitted responsive sounds. See for an account of this _Pausanias_, i., 42; Tacitus, _Annals_, ii., 61; and Juvenal, _Sat._, xv., 5:

“Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone Chordæ,”

and compare Akenside’s verses, _Plea. of Imag._, i., 109-113:—

Old Memnon’s image, long renown’d By fabling Nilus: to the quivering touch Of Titan’s ray, with each repulsive string Consenting, sounded thro’ the warbling air Unbidden strains.

[32] 1833. O’.

[33] Here added in 1842 and remaining till 1851 when they were excised are two stanzas:—

“From shape to shape at first within the womb The brain is modell’d,” she began, “And thro’ all phases of all thought I come Into the perfect man. “All nature widens upward. Evermore The simpler essence lower lies: More complex is more perfect, owning more Discourse, more widely wise.”

[34]

These stanzas were added in 1851.

[35] Added in 1842, with the following variants which remained till 1851, when the present text was substituted:—

“I take possession of men’s minds and deeds. I live in all things great and small. I sit apart holding no forms of creeds, But contemplating all.”

[36] 1833. Sometimes.

[37] And intellectual throne

Of full-sphered contemplation. So three years She throve, but on the fourth she fell.

And so the text remained till 1850, when the present reading was substituted.

[38] For the reference to Herod see _Acts_ xii. 21-23.

[39] Cf. Hallam’s _Remains_, p. 132: “That, _i. e._ Redemption,” is in the power of God’s election with whom alone rest _the abysmal secrets of personality_.

[40] See _Daniel_ v. 24-27.

[41] In 1833 the following stanza, excised in 1842:—

“Who hath drawn dry the fountains of delight, That from my deep heart everywhere Moved in my blood and dwelt, as power and might Abode in Sampson’s hair?”

[42] 1833. Downward-sloping.

[43] 1833.

Or the sound Of stones.

So till 1851, when “a sound of rocks” was substituted.

[44] 1833. “Dying the death I die?” Present reading substituted in 1842.

[45] Because intellectual and æsthetic pleasures are _abused_ and their purpose and scope mistaken, there is no reason why they should not be enjoyed. See the allegory in _In Memoriam_, ciii., stanzas 12-13.

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.

[1] 1842 and 1843. “The gardener Adam and his wife.” In 1845 it was altered to the present text.

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.

[1] 1833. “Blythe” for “glad”.

[2] 1883. Ye.

[3] 1842. Robert. This is a curious illustration of Tennyson’s scrupulousness about trifles: in 1833 it was “Robin,” in 1842 “Robert,” then in 1843 and afterwards he returned to “Robin”.

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.