Chapter IX: Part IV (3)

There’s not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook’ll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow’ll come back again with summer o’er the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun’ll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You’ll bury me,[2] my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you’ll come[3] sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,[4] With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive[5] me now; You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;[6] Nay, nay, you must not weep,[7] nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you[8] have another child.

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho’ you’ll[9] not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho’ I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you[10] say, And be often, often with you when you think[11] I’m far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And you[12] see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don’t let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She’ll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She’ll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: Let her take ’em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I’m gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born.[13]> All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

[1] 1833. The may upon.

[2] 1833. Ye’ll bury me.

[3] 1833. And ye’ll come.

[4] 1833. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass.

[5] 1833. But ye’ll forgive.

[6] 1833. Ye’ll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow. 1850. And foregive me ere I go.

[7] 1833. Ye must not weep.

[8] 1833. Ye ... ye.

[9] 1833. Ye’ll.

[10] 1833. Ye.

[11] 1833. Ye when ye think.

[12] 1833. Ye.

[13] 1833. Call me when it begins to dawn. 1842. Before the day is born.

Conclusion

Added in 1842.

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done! But still I think it can’t be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.[1]

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show’d[2] me all the sin. Now, tho’ my lamp was lighted late, there’s One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray’d for both, and so I felt resign’d, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, And then did something speak to me—I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, “It’s not for them: it’s mine”. And if it comes[3] three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem’d to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away.

And say to Robin[4] a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There’s many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine— Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun— For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home— And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come— To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast— And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

[1] 1842.

But still it can’t be long, mother, before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, he preaches words of peace.

Present reading 1843.

[2] 1842-1848.

He show’d me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin. Now, though, etc.

1850. For show’d he me all the sin.

[3] 1889. Come.

[4] 1842. Robert. 1843. Robin restored.

The Lotos Eaters

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

This charming poem is founded on _Odyssey_, ix., 82 _seq._

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

“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;[1] And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow[2] From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,[3] Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger’d low adown In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem’d the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, “We will return no more”; And all at once they sang, “Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam”.

Choric Song

1

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

2

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

3

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

4

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

5

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

6

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

7

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

8

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

[1] 1883. Above the valley burned the golden moon.

[2] 1883. River’s seaward flow.

[3] 1833. Three thunder-cloven thrones of oldest snow.

[4] _Cf._ Virgil, Æn., iv., 451:—

Tædet cæli convexa tueri.

Paraphrased from Moschus, _Idyll_, v., 11-15.

[5] For climbing up the wave _cf._ Virgil, _Æn._, i., 381: “Conscendi navilus æquor,” and _cf._ generally Bion, _Idyll_, v., 11-15.

[6] From Moschus, _Idyll_, v.,_passim_.

[7] 1833. The.

[8] The little isle, _i. e._, Ithaca.

[9] 1863 By.

[10] Added in 1842.

[11] 1833. Or, propt on lavish beds.

[12] 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Hear.

[13] 1833 to 1850 inclusive. Flowery peak.

[14] In 1833 we have the following, which in 1842 was excised and the present text substituted:—

We have had enough of motion, Weariness and wild alarm, Tossing on the tossing ocean, Where the tusked sea-horse walloweth In a stripe of grass-green calm, At noontide beneath the lee; And the monstrous narwhale swalloweth His foam-fountains in the sea. Long enough the wine-dark wave our weary bark did carry. This is lovelier and sweeter, Men of Ithaca, this is meeter, In the hollow rosy vale to tarry, Like a dreamy Lotos-eater, a delirious Lotos-eater! We will eat the Lotos, sweet As the yellow honeycomb, In the valley some, and some On the ancient heights divine; And no more roam, On the loud hoar foam, To the melancholy home At the limit of the brine, The little isle of Ithaca, beneath the day’s decline. We’ll lift no more the shattered oar, No more unfurl the straining sail; With the blissful Lotos-eaters pale We will abide in the golden vale Of the Lotos-land till the Lotos fail; We will not wander more. Hark! how sweet the horned ewes bleat On the solitary steeps, And the merry lizard leaps, And the foam-white waters pour; And the dark pine weeps, And the lithe vine creeps, And the heavy melon sleeps On the level of the shore: Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will not wander more, Surely, surely slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the ocean, and rowing with the oar, Oh! islanders of Ithaca, we will return no more.

The fine picture in the text of the gods of Epicurus was no doubt immediately suggested by _Lucretius_, iii., 15 _seq._, while the _Icaromenippus_ of Lucian furnishes an excellent commentary on Tennyson’s picture of those gods and what they see. _Cf._ too the Song of the Parcae in Goethe’s _Iphigenie auf Tauris_, iv., 5.

A Dream of Fair Women

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

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

As when a man, that sails in a balloon, Downlooking sees the solid shining ground Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon, Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound:

And takes his flags and waves them to the mob, That shout below, all faces turned to where Glows ruby-like the far up crimson globe, Filled with a finer air:

So lifted high, the Poet at his will Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all, Higher thro’ secret splendours mounting still, Self-poised, nor fears to fall.

Hearing apart the echoes of his fame. While I spoke thus, the seedsman, memory, Sowed my deepfurrowed thought with many a name, Whose glory will not die.

I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade, _“The Legend of Good Women,”_ long ago Sung by the morning star[1] of song, who made His music heard below;

Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts, that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still.

And, for a while, the knowledge of his art Held me above the subject, as strong gales Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho’ my heart, Brimful of those wild tales,

Charged both mine eyes with tears. In every land I saw, wherever light illumineth, Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand The downward slope to death.[2]

Those far-renowned brides of ancient song Peopled the hollow dark, like burning stars, And I heard sounds of insult, shame, and wrong, And trumpets blown for wars;

And clattering flints batter’d with clanging hoofs: And I saw crowds in column’d sanctuaries; And forms that pass’d[3] at windows and on roofs Of marble palaces;

Corpses across the threshold; heroes tall Dislodging pinnacle and parapet Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall;[4] Lances in ambush set;

And high shrine-doors burst thro’ with heated blasts That run before the fluttering tongues of fire; White surf wind-scatter’d over sails and masts, And ever climbing higher;

Squadrons and squares of men in brazen plates, Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers woes, Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron grates, And hush’d seraglios.

So shape chased shape as swift as, when to land Bluster the winds and tides the self-same way, Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level sand, Torn from the fringe of spray.

I started once, or seem’d to start in pain, Resolved on noble things, and strove to speak, As when a great thought strikes along the brain, And flushes all the cheek.

And once my arm was lifted to hew down, A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, That bore a lady from a leaguer’d town; And then, I know not how,

All those sharp fancies, by down-lapsing thought Stream’d onward, lost their edges, and did creep Roll’d on each other, rounded, smooth’d and brought Into the gulfs of sleep.

At last methought that I had wander’d far In an old wood: fresh-wash’d in coolest dew, The maiden splendours of the morning star Shook in the steadfast[5] blue.

Enormous elmtree-boles did stoop and lean Upon the dusky brushwood underneath Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green, New from its silken sheath.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done, And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain, Half-fall’n across the threshold of the sun, Never to rise again.

There was no motion in the dumb dead air, Not any song of bird or sound of rill; Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre Is not so deadly still

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn’d Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,[6] And at the root thro’ lush green grasses burn’d The red anemone.

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn On those long, rank, dark wood-walks, drench’d in dew, Leading from lawn to lawn.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remember to have been Joyful and free from blame.

And from within me a clear under-tone Thrill’d thro’ mine ears in that unblissful clime “Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own, Until the end of time”.

At length I saw a lady[7] within call, Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,[8] And most divinely fair.

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes, Spoke slowly in her place.

“I had great beauty: ask thou not my name: No one can be more wise than destiny. Many drew swords and died. Where’er I came I brought calamity.”

“No marvel, sovereign lady[9]: in fair field Myself for such a face had boldly died,”[10] I answer’d free; and turning I appeal’d To one[11] that stood beside.

But she, with sick and scornful looks averse, To her full height her stately stature draws; “My youth,” she said, “was blasted with a curse: This woman was the cause.

“I was cut off from hope in that sad place,[12] Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears:[13] My father held his hand upon his face; I, blinded with my tears,

“Still strove to speak: my voice was thick with sighs As in a dream. Dimly I could descry The stern black-bearded kings with wolfish eyes, Waiting to see me die.

“The high masts flicker’d as they lay afloat; The crowds, the temples, waver’d, and the shore; The bright death quiver’d at the victim’s throat; Touch’d; and I knew no more.”[14]

Whereto the other with a downward brow: “I would the white cold heavy-plunging foam,[15] Whirl’d by the wind, had roll’d me deep below, Then when I left my home.”

Her slow full words sank thro’ the silence drear, As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping sea: Sudden I heard a voice that cried, “Come here, That I may look on thee”.

I turning saw, throned on a flowery rise, One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll’d; A queen, with swarthy cheeks[16] and bold black eyes, Brow-bound with burning gold.

She, flashing forth a haughty smile, began: “I govern’d men by change, and so I sway’d All moods. Tis long since I have seen a man. Once, like the moon, I made

“The ever-shifting currents of the blood According to my humour ebb and flow. I have no men to govern in this wood: That makes my only woe.

“Nay—yet it chafes me that I could not bend One will; nor tame and tutor with mine eye That dull cold-blooded Caesar. Prythee, friend, Where is Mark Antony?[17]

“The man, my lover, with whom I rode sublime On Fortune’s neck: we sat as God by God: The Nilus would have risen before his time And flooded at our nod.[18]

“We drank the Libyan[19] Sun to sleep, and lit Lamps which outburn’d Canopus. O my life In Egypt! O the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife,[20]

“And the wild kiss, when fresh from war’s alarms,[21] My Hercules, my Roman Antony, My mailèd Bacchus leapt into my arms, Contented there to die!

“And there he died: and when I heard my name Sigh’d forth with life, I would not brook my fear[22] Of the other: with a worm I balk’d his fame. What else was left? look here!”

(With that she tore her robe apart, and half The polish’d argent of her breast to sight Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, Showing the aspick’s bite.)

“I died a Queen. The Roman soldier found[23] Me lying dead, my crown about my brows, A name for ever!—lying robed and crown’d, Worthy a Roman spouse.”

Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Struck[24] by all passion, did fall down and glance From tone to tone, and glided thro’ all change Of liveliest utterance.

When she made pause I knew not for delight; Because with sudden motion from the ground She raised her piercing orbs, and fill’d with light The interval of sound.

Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest darts; As once they drew into two burning rings All beams of Love, melting the mighty hearts Of captains and of kings.

Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard A noise of some one coming thro’ the lawn, And singing clearer than the crested bird, That claps his wings at dawn.

“The torrent brooks of hallow’d Israel From craggy hollows pouring, late and soon, Sound all night long, in falling thro’ the dell, Far-heard beneath the moon.

“The balmy moon of blessed Israel Floods all the deep-blue gloom with beams divine: All night the splinter’d crags that wall the dell With spires of silver shine.”

As one that museth where broad sunshine laves The lawn by some cathedral, thro’ the door Hearing the holy organ rolling waves Of sound on roof and floor,

Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and tied To where he stands,—so stood I, when that flow Of music left the lips of her that died To save her father’s vow;

The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,[25] A maiden pure; as when she went along From Mizpeh’s tower’d gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song.

My words leapt forth: “Heaven heads the count of crimes With that wild oath”. She render’d answer high: “Not so, nor once alone; a thousand times I would be born and die.

“Single I grew, like some green plant, whose root Creeps to the garden water-pipes beneath, Feeding the flower; but ere my flower to fruit Changed, I was ripe for death.

“My God, my land, my father—these did move Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave, Lower’d softly with a threefold cord of love Down to a silent grave.

“And I went mourning, ‘No fair Hebrew boy Shall smile away my maiden blame among The Hebrew mothers’—emptied of all joy, Leaving the dance and song,

“Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Leaving the promise of my bridal bower, The valleys of grape-loaded vines that glow Beneath the battled tower

“The light white cloud swam over us. Anon We heard the lion roaring from his den;[26] We saw the large white stars rise one by one, Or, from the darken’d glen,

“Saw God divide the night with flying flame, And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became A solemn scorn of ills.

“When the next moon was roll’d into the sky, Strength came to me that equall’d my desire. How beautiful a thing it was to die For God and for my sire!

“It comforts me in this one thought to dwell, That I subdued me to my father’s will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, Sweetens the spirit still.

“Moreover it is written that my race Hew’d Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer[27] On Arnon unto Minneth.” Here her face Glow’d, as I look’d at her.

She lock’d her lips: she left me where I stood: “Glory to God,” she sang, and past afar, Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star.

Losing her carol I stood pensively, As one that from a casement leans his head, When midnight bells cease ringing suddenly, And the old year is dead.

“Alas! alas!” a low voice, full of care, Murmur’d beside me: “Turn and look on me: I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be.

“Would I had been some maiden coarse and poor! O me, that I should ever see the light! Those dragon eyes of anger’d Eleanor Do haunt me, day and night.”

She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust: To whom the Egyptian: “O, you tamely died! You should have clung to Fulvia’s waist, and thrust The dagger thro’ her side”.

With that sharp sound the white dawn’s creeping beams, Stol’n to my brain, dissolved the mystery Of folded sleep. The captain of my dreams Ruled in the eastern sky.

Morn broaden’d on the borders of the dark, Ere I saw her, who clasp’d in her last trance Her murder’d father’s head, or Joan of Arc,[28] A light of ancient France;

Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, Who kneeling, with one arm about her king, Drew forth the poison with her balmy breath,[29] Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep To gather and tell o’er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain Compass’d, how eagerly I sought to strike Into that wondrous track of dreams again! But no two dreams are like.

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years, In yearnings that can never be exprest By sighs or groans or tears;

Because all words, tho’ cull’d[30] with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

[1] Suggested apparently by Denham, _Verses on Cowley’s Death_:—

Old Chaucer, like the morning star To us discovers Day from far.

[2] Here follow in 1833 two stanzas excised in 1842:—

In every land I thought that, more or less, The stronger sterner nature overbore The softer, uncontrolled by gentleness And selfish evermore:

And whether there were any means whereby, In some far aftertime, the gentler mind Might reassume its just and full degree Of rule among mankind.

[3] 1833. Screamed.

[4] The Latin _testudo_ formed of the shields of soldiers held over their heads.

[5] 1883 to 1848 inclusive. Stedfast.

[6] 1833.

Clasping jasmine turned Its twined arms festooning tree to tree.

Altered to present reading, 1842.

[7] A lady, _i. e._, Helen.

[8] Tennyson has here noticed what is so often emphasised by Greek writers, that tallness was a great beauty in women. See Aristotle, _Ethics_, iv., 3, and Homer, _passim, Odyssey_, viii., 416; xviii., 190 and 248; xxi., 6. So Xenophon in describing Panthea emphasises her tallness, _Cyroped._, v.

[9] 1883. Sovran lady.

[10] As the old men say, _Iliad_, iii., 156-8.

[11] The one is Iphigenia.

[12] Aulis.

[13] It was not till 1884 that this line was altered to the reading of the final edition, _i. e._, “Which men called Aulis in those iron years”. For the “iron years” of that reading _cf._ Thomson, _Spring_, 384, “_iron_ times”.

[14] From 1833 till 1853 this stanza ran:— “The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat, The temples and the people and the shore, One drew a sharp knife thro’ my tender throat Slowly,—and nothing more”. It is curious that Tennyson should have allowed the last line to stand so long; possibly it may have been to defy Lockhart’s sarcastic commentary: “What touching simplicity, what pathetic resignation—he cut my throat, nothing more!” With Tennyson’s picture should be compared Æschylus, _Agamem._, 225-49, and Lucretius, i., 85-100. For the bold and picturesque substitution of the effect for the cause in the “bright death quiver’d” _cf._ Sophocles, _Electra_, 1395, νεακόνητον αἷμα χειροῖν ἔχων, “with the newly-whetted blood on his hands”. So “vulnus” is frequently used by Virgil, and _cf._ Silius Italicus, _Punica_, ix., 368-9:— Per pectora _sævas_ Exceptat _mortes_.

[15] She expresses the same wish in _Iliad_, iii., 73-4.

[16] Cleopatra. The skill with which Tennyson has here given us, in quintessence as it were, Shakespeare’s superb creation needs no commentary, but it is somewhat surprising to find an accurate scholar like Tennyson guilty of the absurdity of representing Cleopatra as of gipsy complexion. The daughter of Ptolemy Aulates and a lady of Pontus, she was of Greek descent, and had no taint at all of African intermixtures. See Peacock’s remarks in _Gryll Grange_, p. 206, 7th edit., 1861.

[17] After this in 1833 and in 1842 are the following stanzas, afterwards excised:—

“By him great Pompey dwarfs and suffers pain, A mortal man before immortal Mars; The glories of great Julius lapse and wane, And shrink from suns to stars.

“That man of all the men I ever knew Most touched my fancy. O! what days and nights We had in Egypt, ever reaping new Harvest of ripe delights.

“Realm-draining revels! Life was one long feast, What wit! what words! what sweet words, only made Less sweet by the kiss that broke ’em, liking best To be so richly stayed!

“What dainty strifes, when fresh from war’s alarms, My Hercules, my gallant Antony, My mailed captain leapt into my arms, Contented there to die!

“And in those arms he died: I heard my name Sighed forth with life: then I shook off all fear: Oh, what a little snake stole Caesar’s fame! What else was left? look here!”

“With that she tore her robe apart,” etc.

[18] This stanza was added in 1843.

[19] 1845-1848. Lybian.

[20] Added in 1845 as a substitute for

“What nights we had in Egypt! I could hit His humours while I crossed them: O the life I led him, and the dalliance and the wit, The flattery and the strife,

which is the reading of 1843. Canopus is a star in Argo, not visible in the West, but a conspicuous feature in the sky when seen from Egypt, as Pliny notices, _Hist. Nat._, vi., xxiv.

“Fatentes Canopum noctibus sidus ingens et clarum”.

_Cf._ Manilius, _Astron._, i., 216-17,

“Nusquam invenies fulgere Canopum donec Niliacas per pontum veneris oras,”

and Lucan, _Pharsal._, viii., 181-3.

[21] Substituted in 1843 for the reading of 1833 and 1842.

[22] Substituted in 1845 for the reading of 1833, 1842, 1843, which ran as recorded _supra_. 1845 to 1848. Lybian. And for the reading of 1843

Sigh’d forth with life I had no further fear, O what a little worm stole Caesar’s fame!

[23] A splendid transfusion of Horace’s lines about her, Ode I., xxxvii.

Invidens Privata deduci superto Non humilis mulier triumpho.

[24] 1833 and 1842. Touched.

[25] For the story of Jephtha’s daughter see Judges, chap. xi.

[26] All editions up to and including 1851. In his den.

[27] For reference see Judges xi, 33.

[28] 1833.

Ere I saw her, that in her latest trance Clasped her dead father’s heart, or Joan of Arc.

The reference is, of course, to the well-known story of Margaret Roper, the daughter of Sir Thomas More, who is said to have taken his head when he was executed and preserved it till her death.

[29] Eleanor, the wife of Edward I., is said to have thus saved his life when he was stabbed at Acre with a poisoned dagger.

[30] The earliest and latest editions, _i. e._, 1833 and 1853, have “tho’,” and all the editions between “though”. “Though culled,” etc.

Margaret

First printed in 1833.

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

1

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

2

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

3

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

4

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

5

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

[1] All editions except 1833 and 1853. Though.

[2] 1833. Lion-souled Plantagenet. For songs supposed to have been composed by Richard I. during the time of his captivity see Sismondi, _Littérature du Midi de l’Europe_, vol. i., p. 149, and _La Tour Ténébreuse_ (1705), which contains a poem said to have been written by Richard and Blondel in mixed Romance and Provençal, and a love-song in Norman French, which have frequently been reprinted. See, too, Barney’s _Hist. of Music_, vol. ii., p. 238, and Walpole’s _Royal and Noble Authors_, sub.-tit. “Richard I.,” and the fourth volume of Reynouard’s _Choix des Poésies des Troubadours_. All these poems are probably spurious.

[3] Chatelet was a poet-squire in the suite of the Marshal Damville, who was executed for a supposed intrigue with Mary Queen of Scots. See Tytler, _History of Scotland_, vi., p. 319, and Mr. Swinburne’s tragedy.

[4] 1833.

And more aërially blue, And ever trembling thro’ the dew.

[5] 1833. Jasmin-leaves.

The Blackbird

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

The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park: The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho’ I spared thee all the spring,[1] Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting.[2]

A golden bill! the silver tongue, Cold February loved, is dry: Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,[3] Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all,[4] or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

[1] 1842. Yet, though I spared thee kith and kin. And so till 1853, when it was altered to the present reading.

[2] 1842 to 1851. Jennetin, altered in 1853 to present reading.

[3] 1842. I better brook the drawling stares. Altered, 1843.

[4] 1842. Not hearing thee at all. Altered, 1843.

The Death of the Old Year

First printed in 1833.

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

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love, And the New-year will take ’em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I’ve half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o’er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he’ll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: ’Tis nearly twelve[1] o’clock. Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

[1] 1833. One.

To J. S.

First published in 1833.

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

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold,[1] And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow[2] In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe.

’Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn’d; Once thro’ mine own doors Death did pass;[3] One went, who never hath return’d.

He will not smile—nor speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro’ a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander’d far Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold[4] and just Was never born into the earth.

I have not look’d upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall’n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho’ mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro’ the brain,[5] I will not even preach to you, “Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain”.

Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done—to weep or not to weep.

I will not say “God’s ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind”; For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind.

His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,[6] And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem’d distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters[7] as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth, How _should_ I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say:

For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only[8] silence suiteth best.

Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. ’Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take[9] The place of him that sleeps in peace.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

[1] Possibly suggested by Tasso, _Gerus._, lib. xx., st. lviii.:—

Qual vento a cui s’oppone o selva o colle Doppía nella contesa i soffi e l’ ira; Ma con fiato piu placido e più molle Per le compagne libere poi spira.

[2] 1833.

My heart this knowledge bolder made, Or else it had not dared to flow.

Altered in 1842.

[3] Tennyson’s father died in March, 1831.

[4] 1833. Mild.

[5] _Cf._ Gray’s Alcaic stanza on West’s death:—

O lacrymarum fons tenero sacros _Ducentium ortus ex animo_.

[6] 1833. Sunken sun. Altered to present reading, 1842. The image may have been suggested by Henry Vaughan, _Beyond the Veil_:—

Their very memory is fair and bright, ... It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast Like stars ... Or those faint beams in which the hill is drest After the sun’s remove.

[7] 1833, 1842, 1843. My tablets. This affected phrase was altered to the present reading in 1845.

[8] 1833. Holy. Altered to “only,” 1842.

[9] 1833. Altho’ to calm you I would take. Altered to present reading, 1842.

“You ask me, why, tho’ ill at ease”

This is another poem which, though included among those belonging to 1833, was not published till 1842. It is an interesting illustration, like the next poem but one, of Tennyson’s political opinions; he was, he said, “of the same politics as Shakespeare, Bacon and every sane man”. He was either ignorant of the politics of Shakespeare and Bacon or did himself great injustice by the remark. It would have been more true to say—for all his works illustrate it—that he was of the same politics as Burke. He is here, and in all his poems, a Liberal-Conservative in the proper sense of the term. At the time this trio of poems was written England was passing through the throes which preceded, accompanied and followed the Reform Bill, and the lessons which Tennyson preaches in them were particularly appropriate. He belonged to the Liberal Party rather in relation to social and religious than to political questions. Thus he ardently supported the Anti-slavery Convention and advocated the measure for abolishing subscription to the Thirty-nine Articles, but he was, as a politician, on the side of Canning, Peel and the Duke of Wellington, regarding as they did the new-born democracy with mingled feelings of apprehension and perplexity. His exact attitude is indicated by some verses written about this time published by his son (_Life_, i., 69-70). If Mr. Aubrey de Vere is correct this and the following poem were occasioned by some popular demonstrations connected with the Reform Bill and its rejection by the House of Lords. See _Life of Tennyson_, vol. i., appendix.

You ask me, why, tho’[1] ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist,[2] And languish for the purple seas?

It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will;

A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.

Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute;