Chapter XIII: Part IV (7)

“To pass, when Life her light withdraws, Not void of righteous self-applause, Nor in a merely selfish cause—

“In some good cause, not in mine own, To perish, wept for, honour’d, known, And like a warrior overthrown;

“Whose eyes are dim with glorious tears, When, soil’d with noble dust, he hears His country’s war-song thrill his ears:

“Then dying of a mortal stroke, What time the foeman’s line is broke. And all the war is roll’d in smoke.”[2]

“Yea!” said the voice, “thy dream was good, While thou abodest in the bud. It was the stirring of the blood.

“If Nature put not forth her power[2] About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?

“Then comes the check, the change, the fall. Pain rises up, old pleasures pall. There is one remedy for all.

“Yet hadst thou, thro’ enduring pain, Link’d month to month with such a chain Of knitted purport, all were vain.

“Thou hadst not between death and birth Dissolved the riddle of the earth. So were thy labour little worth.

“That men with knowledge merely play’d, I told thee—hardly nigher made, Tho’ scaling slow from grade to grade;

“Much less this dreamer, deaf and blind, Named man, may hope some truth to find, That bears relation to the mind.

“For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

“Cry, faint not: either Truth is born Beyond the polar gleam forlorn, Or in the gateways of the morn.

“Cry, faint not, climb: the summits slope Beyond the furthest nights of hope, Wrapt in dense cloud from base to cope.

“Sometimes a little corner shines, As over rainy mist inclines A gleaming crag with belts of pines.

“I will go forward, sayest thou, I shall not fail to find her now. Look up, the fold is on her brow.

“If straight thy track, or if oblique, Thou know’st not. Shadows thou dost strike, Embracing cloud, Ixion-like;

“And owning but a little more Than beasts, abidest lame and poor, Calling thyself a little lower

“Than angels. Cease to wail and brawl! Why inch by inch to darkness crawl? There is one remedy for all.”

“O dull, one-sided voice,” said I, “Wilt thou make everything a lie, To flatter me that I may die?

“I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.

“I cannot hide that some have striven, Achieving calm, to whom was given The joy that mixes man with Heaven:

“Who, rowing hard against the stream, Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, And did not dream it was a dream”;

“But heard, by secret transport led,[3] Ev’n in the charnels of the dead, The murmur of the fountain-head—

“Which did accomplish their desire,— Bore and forbore, and did not tire, Like Stephen, an unquenched fire.

“He heeded not reviling tones, Nor sold his heart to idle moans, Tho’ cursed and scorn’d, and bruised with stones:

“But looking upward, full of grace, He pray’d, and from a happy place God’s glory smote him on the face.”

The sullen answer slid betwixt: “Not that the grounds of hope were fix’d, The elements were kindlier mix’d.”[4]

I said, “I toil beneath the curse, But, knowing not the universe, I fear to slide from bad to worse.[5]>

“And that, in seeking to undo One riddle, and to find the true, I knit a hundred others new:

“Or that this anguish fleeting hence, Unmanacled from bonds of sense, Be fix’d and froz’n to permanence:

“For I go, weak from suffering here; Naked I go, and void of cheer: What is it that I may not fear?”

“Consider well,” the voice replied, “His face, that two hours since hath died; Wilt thou find passion, pain or pride?

“Will he obey when one commands? Or answer should one press his hands? He answers not, nor understands.

“His palms are folded on his breast: There is no other thing express’d But long disquiet merged in rest.

“His lips are very mild and meek: Tho’ one should smite him on the cheek, And on the mouth, he will not speak.

“His little daughter, whose sweet face He kiss’d, taking his last embrace, Becomes dishonour to her race—

“His sons grow up that bear his name, Some grow to honour, some to shame,— But he is chill to praise or blame.[6]

“He will not hear the north wind rave, Nor, moaning, household shelter crave From winter rains that beat his grave.

“High up the vapours fold and swim: About him broods the twilight dim: The place he knew forgetteth him.”

“If all be dark, vague voice,” I said, “These things are wrapt in doubt and dread, Nor canst thou show the dead are dead. “The sap dries up: the plant declines.[7] A deeper tale my heart divines. Know I not Death? the outward signs?

“I found him when my years were few; A shadow on the graves I knew, And darkness in the village yew.

“From grave to grave the shadow crept: In her still place the morning wept: Touch’d by his feet the daisy slept.

“The simple senses crown’d his head:[8] ‘Omega! thou art Lord,’ they said; ‘We find no motion in the dead.’

“Why, if man rot in dreamless ease, Should that plain fact, as taught by these, Not make him sure that he shall cease?

“Who forged that other influence, That heat of inward evidence, By which he doubts against the sense?

“He owns the fatal gift of eyes,[9] That read his spirit blindly wise, Not simple as a thing that dies.

“Here sits he shaping wings to fly: His heart forebodes a mystery: He names the name Eternity.

“That type of Perfect in his mind In Nature can he nowhere find. He sows himself in every wind.

“He seems to hear a Heavenly Friend, And thro’ thick veils to apprehend A labour working to an end.

“The end and the beginning vex His reason: many things perplex, With motions, checks, and counterchecks.

“He knows a baseness in his blood At such strange war with something good, He may not do the thing he would.

“Heaven opens inward, chasms yawn. Vast images in glimmering dawn, Half shown, are broken and withdrawn.

“Ah! sure within him and without, Could his dark wisdom find it out, There must be answer to his doubt.

“But thou canst answer not again. With thine own weapon art thou slain, Or thou wilt answer but in vain.

“The doubt would rest, I dare not solve. In the same circle we revolve. Assurance only breeds resolve.”

As when a billow, blown against, Falls back, the voice with which I fenced A little ceased, but recommenced.

“Where wert thou when thy father play’d In his free field, and pastime made, A merry boy in sun and shade?

“A merry boy they called him then. He sat upon the knees of men In days that never come again,

“Before the little ducts began To feed thy bones with lime, and ran Their course, till thou wert also man:

“Who took a wife, who rear’d his race, Whose wrinkles gather’d on his face, Whose troubles number with his days:

“A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth!”

“These words,” I said, “are like the rest, No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast:

“But if I grant, thou might’st defend The thesis which thy words intend— That to begin implies to end;

“Yet how should I for certain hold,[10] Because my memory is so cold, That I first was in human mould?

“I cannot make this matter plain, But I would shoot, howe’er in vain, A random arrow from the brain.

“It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

“As old mythologies relate, Some draught of Lethe might await The slipping thro’ from state to state.

“As here we find in trances, men Forget the dream that happens then, Until they fall in trance again.

“So might we, if our state were such As one before, remember much, For those two likes might meet and touch.[11]

“But, if I lapsed from nobler place, Some legend of a fallen race Alone might hint of my disgrace;

“Some vague emotion of delight In gazing up an Alpine height, Some yearning toward the lamps of night.

“Or if thro’ lower lives I came— Tho’ all experience past became Consolidate in mind and frame—

“I might forget my weaker lot; For is not our first year forgot? The haunts of memory echo not.

“And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined,[12] Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

“Much more, if first I floated free, As naked essence, must I be Incompetent of memory:

“For memory dealing but with time, And he with matter, could she climb Beyond her own material prime?

“Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams—

“Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare.”

The still voice laugh’d. “I talk,” said he, “Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality.”

“But thou,” said I, “hast miss’d thy mark, Who sought’st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark.

“Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new?

“Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long’d for death.

“’Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.”

I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, “Behold it is the Sabbath morn”.

And I arose, and I released The casement, and the light increased With freshness in the dawning east.

Like soften’d airs that blowing steal, When meres begin to uncongeal, The sweet church bells began to peal.

On to God’s house the people prest: Passing the place where each must rest, Each enter’d like a welcome guest.

One walk’d between his wife and child, With measur’d footfall firm and mild, And now and then he gravely smiled.

The prudent partner of his blood Lean’d on him, faithful, gentle, good,[13] Wearing the rose of womanhood.

And in their double love secure, The little maiden walk’d demure, Pacing with downward eyelids pure.

These three made unity so sweet, My frozen heart began to beat, Remembering its ancient heat.

I blest them, and they wander’d on: I spoke, but answer came there none: The dull and bitter voice was gone.

A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur, “Be of better cheer”.

As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, “I see the end, and know the good”.

A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, “I may not speak of what I know”.

Like an Aeolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes:

Such seem’d the whisper at my side: “What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?” I cried. “A hidden hope,” the voice replied:

So heavenly-toned, that in that hour From out my sullen heart a power Broke, like the rainbow from the shower,

To feel, altho’ no tongue can prove That every cloud, that spreads above And veileth love, itself is love.

And forth into the fields I went, And Nature’s living motion lent The pulse of hope to discontent.

I wonder’d at the bounteous hours, The slow result of winter showers: You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

I wonder’d, while I paced along: The woods were fill’d so full with song, There seem’d no room for sense of wrong.

So variously seem’d all things wrought,[14] I marvell’d how the mind was brought To anchor by one gloomy thought;

And wherefore rather I made choice To commune with that barren voice, Than him that said, “Rejoice! rejoice!”

[1] The insensibility of Nature to man’s death has been the eloquent theme of many poets. _Cf_. Byron, _Lara_, canto ii. _ad init_., and Matthew Arnold, _The Youth of Nature_.

[2] _Cf. Palace of Art_, “the riddle of the painful earth”.

[3] _Seq_. The reference is to Acts of the Apostles vii. 54-60.

[4] Suggested by Shakespeare, _Julius Cæsar_, Act v., Sc. 5:—

and _the elements So mix’d in_ him that Nature, etc.

[5] An excellent commentary on this is Clough’s

_Perché pensa, pensando vecchia_.

[6] _Cf_. Job xiv. 21:

“His sons come to honour, and he knoweth it not; and they are brought low, but he perceiveth it not of them.”

[7] So Bishop Butler, _Analogy_, ch. i.:

“We cannot argue _from the reason of the thing_ that death is the destruction of living agents because we know not at all what death is in itself, but only some of its effects”.

[8] So Milton, enfolding this idea of death, _Paradise Lost_, ii., 672-3:—

What seemed his head The _likeness_ of a kingly crown had on.

[9] _Cf_. Plato, _Phaedo_, x.:—ἆρα ἔχει ἀληθειάν τινα ὄψις τε καὶ ἀκοὴ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις. ἤ τά γε τοιᾶυτα καὶ οἱ ποἱηταὶ ἡμὶν ἄει θρυλοῦσιν ὅτι οὐτ ακούομεν ἀκριβὲς οὐδὲν οὔτε ὁρῶμεν.

“Have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as poets are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses?”

“Have sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as poets are always telling us, inaccurate witnesses?”

The proper commentary on the whole of this passage is Plato _passim_, but the _Phaedo_ particularly, _cf. Republic_, vii., viii. and xiv.-xv.

[10] An allusion to the myth that when souls are sent to occupy a body again they drink of Lethe that they may forget their previous existence. See the famous passage towards the end of the tenth book of Plato’s _Republic_:

“All persons are compelled to drink a certain quantity of the water, but those who are not preserved by prudence drink more than the quantity, and each as he drinks forgets everything”.

So Milton, _Paradise Lost_, ii., 582-4.

[11] The best commentary on this will be found in Herbert Spencer’s _Psychology_.

[12] Compare with this Tennyson’s first sonnet (_Works_, Globe Edition, 25), and the lines in the _Ancient Sage_ in the _Passion of the Past_ (_Id_., 551). _Cf_. too the lines in Wordsworth’s ode on _Intimations of Immortality_:—

But there’s a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone; The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat.

For other remarkable illustrations of this see the present writer’s _Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 38.

[13] _Cf_. Coleridge, _Ancient Mariner,_ iv.:—

“O happy living things ... I blessed them The self-same moment I could pray.”

There is a close parallel between the former and the latter state described here and in Coleridge’s mystic allegory; in both cases the sufferers “wake to love,” the curse falling off them when they can “bless”.

[14] 1884. And all so variously wrought (with semi-colon instead of full stop at the end of the preceding line).

The Day-Dream

First published in 1842, but written in 1835. In it is incorporated, though with several alterations, _The Sleeping Beauty_, published among the poems of 1830, but excised in subsequent editions. Half extravaganza and half apologue, like the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, this delightful poem may be safely left to deliver its own message and convey its own meaning. It is an excellent illustration of the truth of Tennyson’s own remark: “Poetry is like shot silk with many glancing colours. Every reader must find his own interpretation according to his ability, and according to his sympathy with the poet.”

Prologue

(No alteration has been made in the Prologue since 1842).

O, Lady Flora, let me speak: A pleasant hour has past away While, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay. As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro’ many wayward moods To see you dreaming—and, behind, A summer crisp with shining woods. And I too dream’d, until at last Across my fancy, brooding warm, The reflex of a legend past, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye— The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order’d words asunder fly.

The Sleeping Palace

(No alteration since 1851.)

1

The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl’d, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb.

2

Soft lustre bathes the range of urns On every slanting terrace-lawn. The fountain to his place returns Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. Here droops the banner on the tower, On the hall-hearths the festal fires, The peacock in his laurel bower, The parrot in his gilded wires.

3

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: In these, in those the life is stay’d. The mantles from the golden pegs Droop sleepily: no sound is made, Not even of a gnat that sings. More like a picture seemeth all Than those old portraits of old kings, That watch the sleepers from the wall.

4

Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain’d; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his: Her lips are sever’d as to speak: His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fix’d upon her cheek.

5

Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro’ the Oriel shine, Make prisms in every carven glass, And beaker brimm’d with noble wine. Each baron at the banquet sleeps, Grave faces gather’d in a ring. His state the king reposing keeps. He must have been a jovial king.[1]

6

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows At distance like a little wood; Thorns, ivies, woodbine, misletoes, And grapes with bunches red as blood; All creeping plants, a wall of green Close-matted, bur and brake and briar, And glimpsing over these, just seen, High up, the topmost palace-spire.

7

When will the hundred summers die, And thought and time be born again, And newer knowledge, drawing nigh, Bring truth that sways the soul of men? Here all things in there place remain, As all were order’d, ages since. Come, Care and Pleasure, Hope and Pain, And bring the fated fairy Prince.

[1] All editions up to and including 1851:—He must have been a jolly king.

The Sleeping Beauty

(First printed in 1830, but does not reappear again till 1842. No alteration since 1842.)

1

Year after year unto her feet, She lying on her couch alone, Across the purpled coverlet, The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,[1] On either side her tranced form Forth streaming from a braid of pearl: The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider’d[2]coverlid Unto her limbs itself doth mould Languidly ever; and, amid Her full black ringlets downward roll’d, Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm, With bracelets of the diamond bright: Her constant beauty doth inform Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart.[3] The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand[4] upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

[1] 1830.

The while she slumbereth alone, _Over_ the purple coverlet, The maiden’s jet-black hair hath grown.

[2] 1830. Star-braided.

[3] A writer in _Notes and Queries_, February, 1880, asks whether these lines mean that the lovely princess did _not_ snore so loud that she could be heard from one end of the palace to the other and whether it would not have detracted from her charms had that state of things been habitual. This brings into the field Dr. Gatty and other admirers of Tennyson, who, it must be owned, are not very successful in giving a satisfactory reply.

[4] 1830. Side.

The Arrival

(No alteration after 1853.)

1

All precious things, discover’d late, To those that seek them issue forth; For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth. He travels far from other skies His mantle glitters on the rocks— A fairy Prince, with joyful eyes, And lighter footed than the fox.

2

The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither’d in the thorny close, Or scatter’d blanching on[1]the grass. He gazes on the silent dead: “They perish’d in their daring deeds.” This proverb flashes thro’ his head, “The many fail: the one succeeds”.

3

He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks: He breaks the hedge: he enters there: The colour flies into his cheeks: He trusts to light on something fair; For all his life the charm did talk About his path, and hover near With words of promise in his walk, And whisper’d voices at his ear.[2]

4

More close and close his footsteps wind; The Magic Music[3] in his heart Beats quick and quicker, till he find The quiet chamber far apart. His spirit flutters like a lark, He stoops—to kiss her—on his knee. “Love, if thy tresses be so dark, How dark those hidden eyes must be!

[1] 1842 to 1851. In.

[2] All editions up to and including 1850. In his ear.

[3] All editions up to and including 1851. Not capitals in magic music.

The Revival

(No alteration after 1853.)

1

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt. There rose a noise of striking clocks, And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, And barking dogs, and crowing cocks; A fuller light illumined all, A breeze thro’ all the garden swept, A sudden hubbub shook the hall, And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew, The butler drank, the steward scrawl’d, The fire shot up, the martin flew, The parrot scream’d, the peacock squall’d, The maid and page renew’d their strife, The palace bang’d, and buzz’d and clackt, And all the long-pent stream of life Dash’d downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these[1] the king awoke, And in his chair himself uprear’d, And yawn’d, and rubb’d his face, and spoke, “By holy rood, a royal beard! How say you? we have slept, my lords, My beard has grown into my lap.” The barons swore, with many words, ’Twas but an after-dinner’s nap.

4

“Pardy,” return’d the king, “but still My joints are something[2] stiff or so. My lord, and shall we pass the bill I mention’d half an hour ago?” The chancellor, sedate and vain, In courteous words return’d reply: But dallied with his golden chain, And, smiling, put the question by.

[1] 1842 to 1851. And last of all.

[2] 1863. Somewhat.

The Departure

(No alteration since 1842.)

1

And on her lover’s arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old: Across the hills and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow’d him.

2

“I’d sleep another hundred years, O love, for such another kiss;” “O wake for ever, love,” she hears, “O love, ’twas such as this and this.” And o’er them many a sliding star, And many a merry wind was borne, And, stream’d thro’ many a golden bar, The twilight melted into morn.

3

“O eyes long laid in happy sleep!” “O happy sleep, that lightly fled!” “O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep!” “O love, thy kiss would wake the dead!” And o’er them many a flowing range Of vapour buoy’d the crescent-bark, And, rapt thro’ many a rosy change, The twilight died into the dark.

4

“A hundred summers! can it be? And whither goest thou, tell me where?” “O seek my father’s court with me! For there are greater wonders there.” And o’er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night across the day, Thro’ all the world she follow’d him.

Moral

(No alteration since 1842.)

1

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?

2

But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humours lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend;[1] So ’twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end.

[1] So Wordsworth:—

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

—_Simon Lee_.

L’Envoi

(No alteration since 1843 except in numbering the stanzas.)

1

You shake your head. A random string Your finer female sense offends. Well—were it not a pleasant thing To fall asleep with all one’s friends; To pass with all our social ties To silence from the paths of men; And every hundred years to rise And learn the world, and sleep again; To sleep thro’ terms of mighty wars, And wake on science grown to more, On secrets of the brain, the stars, As wild as aught of fairy lore; And all that else the years will show, The Poet-forms of stronger hours, The vast Republics that may grow, The Federations and the Powers; Titanic forces taking birth In divers seasons, divers climes; For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

2

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep Thro’ sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads would we reap The flower and quintessence of change.

3

Ah, yet would I—and would I might! So much your eyes my fancy take— Be still the first to leap to light That I might kiss those eyes awake! For, am I right or am I wrong, To choose your own you did not care; You’d have _my_ moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there: And, am I right or am I wrong, My fancy, ranging thro’ and thro’, To search a meaning for the song, Perforce will still revert to you; Nor finds a closer truth than this All-graceful head, so richly curl’d, And evermore a costly kiss The prelude to some brighter world.

4

For since the time when Adam first Embraced his Eve in happy hour, And every bird of Eden burst In carol, every bud to flower, What eyes, like thine, have waken’d hopes? What lips, like thine, so sweetly join’d? Where on the double rosebud droops The fullness of the pensive mind; Which all too dearly self-involved,[1] Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me; A sleep by kisses undissolved, That lets thee[2] neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give, Are clasp’d the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live.

[1] 1842. The pensive mind that, self-involved.

[2] 1842. Which lets thee.

Epilogue

(No alteration since 1842.)

So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And, if you find a meaning there, O whisper to your glass, and say, “What wonder, if he thinks me fair?” What wonder I was all unwise, To shape the song for your delight Like long-tail’d birds of Paradise, That float thro’ Heaven, and cannot light? Or old-world trains, upheld at court By Cupid-boys of blooming hue— But take it—earnest wed with sport, And either sacred unto you.

Amphion

First published in 1842. No alteration since 1850.

In this humorous allegory the poet bewails his unhappy lot on having fallen on an age so unpropitious to poetry, contrasting it with the happy times so responsive to his predecessors who piped to a world prepared to dance to their music. However, he must toil and be satisfied if he can make a little garden blossom.

My father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree And waster than a warren: Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland.

O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion,[1] And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber, And ta’en my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled in the timber!

’Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes.

The mountain stirr’d its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing.

The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreathes that bind her, And down the middle, buzz! she went, With all her bees behind her.[2] The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded.

Came wet-shot alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie; Each pluck’d his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree: Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream’d out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump’d the pine From many a cloudy hollow.

And wasn’t it a sight to see When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-caves Look’d down, half-pleased, half-frighten’d, As dash’d about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten’d!

Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs! And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons.

’Tis vain! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping.

But what is that I hear? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading: O Lord!—’tis in my neighbour’s ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises. And works on Gardening thro’ there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there.

The wither’d Misses! how they prose O’er books of travell’d seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours clipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm’d in crystal cases.

But these, tho’ fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy,[3] Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain.

And I must work thro’ months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I’ll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom: Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom.

[1] Amphion was no doubt capable of performing all the feats here attributed to him, but there is no record of them; he appears to have confined himself to charming the stones into their places when Thebes was being built. Tennyson seems to have confounded him with Orpheus.

[2] Till 1857 these four lines ran thus:—

The birch-tree swang her fragrant hair, The bramble cast her berry. The gin within the juniper Began to make him merry.

[3] All editions up to and including 1850. The poor things look unhappy.

St. Agnes

This exquisite little poem was first published in 1837 in the _Keepsake_, an annual edited by Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley, and was included in the edition of 1842. No alteration has been made in it since 1842.

In 1857 the title was altered from “St. Agnes” to “St. Agnes’ Eve,” thus bringing it near to Keats’ poem, which certainly influenced Tennyson in writing it, as a comparison of the opening of the two poems will show. The saint from whom the poem takes its name was a young girl of thirteen who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian: she is a companion to Sir Galahad.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou[1] my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in[2] my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper’s earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro’ all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows[3] her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,[4] To make me pure of sin.[5] The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom[6] with his bride!

[1] In _Keepsake_: not capital in Thou.

[2] In _Keepsake_: On.

[3] In _Keepsake_: Strews.

[4] In _Keepsake_: not capitals in Heavenly and Bridegroom.

[5] In _Keepsake_: To wash me pure from sin.

[6] In _Keepsake_: capital in Bridegroom.

Sir Galahad

Published in 1842. No alteration has been made in it since. This poem may be regarded as a prelude to _The Holy Grail_. The character of Galahad is deduced principally from the seventeenth book of the _Morte d’Arthur_. In the twenty-second chapter of that book St. Joseph of Arimathea says to him: “Thou hast resembled me in two things in that thou hast seen the marvels of the sangreal, and in that thou has been a clean maiden”.

My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end, To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow’d in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden’s hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes, A light before me swims, Between dark stems the forest glows, I hear a noise of hymns: Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne Thro’ dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, spins from brand and mail; But o’er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; No branchy thicket shelter yields; But blessed forms in whistling storms Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight—to me is given Such hope, I know not fear; I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven That often meet me here. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel’s hand, This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro’ the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: “O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near”. So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

Edward Gray

First published in 1842 but written in or before 1840. See _Life_, i., 209. Not altered since.

Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, “And have you lost your heart?” she said; “And are you married yet, Edward Gray?”

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping I turn’d away: “Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

“Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father’s and mother’s will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen’s grave, on the windy hill.

“Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill’d I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

“Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: ‘You’re too slight and fickle,’ I said, ‘To trouble the heart of Edward Gray’.

“There I put my face in the grass— Whisper’d, ‘Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!’

“Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, ‘Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!’

“Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

“Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn’d away; There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!”

Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Monologue

made at The Cock.

First published 1842. The final text was that of 1853, which has not been altered since, except that in stanza 29 the two “we’s” in the first line and the “thy” in the third line are not in later editions italicised. The Cock Tavern, No. 201 Fleet Street, on the north side of Fleet Street, stood opposite the Temple and was of great antiquity, going back nearly 300 years. Strype, bk. iv., h. 117, describes it as “a noted public-house,” and Pepys’ _Diary_, 23rd April, 1668, speaks of himself as having been “mighty merry there”. The old carved chimney-piece was of the age of James I., and the gilt bird over the portal was the work of Grinling Gibbons. When Tennyson wrote this poem it was the favourite resort of templars, journalists and literary people generally, as it had long been. But the old place is now a thing of the past. On the evening of 10th April, 1886, it closed its doors for ever after an existence of nearly 300 years. There is an admirable description of it, signed A. J. M., in _Notes and Queries_, seventh series, vol. i., 442-6. I give a short extract:

“At the end of a long room beyond the skylight which, except a feeble side window, was its only light in the daytime, was a door that led past a small lavatory and up half a dozen narrow steps to the kitchen, one of the strangest and grimmest old kitchens you ever saw. Across a mighty hatch, thronged with dishes, you looked into it and beheld there the white-jacketed man-cook, served by his two robust and red-armed kitchen maids. For you they were preparing chops, pork chops in winter, lamb chops in spring, mutton chops always, and steaks and sausages, and kidneys and potatoes, and poached eggs and Welsh rabbits, and stewed cheese, the special glory of the house. That was the _menu_ and men were the only guests. But of late years, as innovations often precede a catastrophe, two new things were introduced, vegetables and women. Both were respectable and both were good, but it was felt, especially by the virtuous Smurthwaite, that they were _de trop_ in a place so masculine and so carnivorous.”

O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse, But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind, To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten; Nor add and alter, many times, Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine, And lays it thrice upon my lips, These favour’d lips of mine; Until the charm have power to make New life-blood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly[1] blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board; Her gradual fingers steal And touch upon the master-chord Of all I felt and feel. Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And phantom hopes assemble; And that child’s heart within the man’s Begins to move and tremble.

Thro’ many an hour of summer suns By many pleasant ways, Against its fountain upward runs The current of my days:[2] I kiss the lips I once have kiss’d; The gas-light wavers dimmer; And softly, thro’ a vinous mist, My college friendships glimmer.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them— Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. Ah yet, tho’[3] all the world forsake, Tho’[3] fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; There must be stormy weather; But for some true result of good All parties work together.

Let there be thistles, there are grapes; If old things, there are new; Ten thousand broken lights and shapes, Yet glimpses of the true. Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We lack not rhymes and reasons, As on this whirligig of Time[4] We circle with the seasons.

This earth is rich in man and maid; With fair horizons bound: This whole wide earth of light and shade Comes out, a perfect round. High over roaring Temple-bar, And, set in Heaven’s third story, I look at all things as they are, But thro’ a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honour’d by the guest Half-mused, or reeling-ripe, The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe. But tho’[5] the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place? Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or red Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head,

Which bears a season’d brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho’[5] soak’d and saturate, out and out, Thro’ every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house, With many kinsmen gay, Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay: Each month, a birthday coming on, We drink defying trouble, Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double;

Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish, fiery-new, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo; Or stow’d (when classic Canning died) In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers.

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She answer’d to my call, She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all: She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor.

And hence this halo lives about The waiter’s hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally; I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm’d a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crow’d lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy, That knuckled at the taw: He stoop’d and clutch’d him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow’d with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire, Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter,[6] One fix’d for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go? How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow Among the chops and steaks! ’Tis but a steward of the can, One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man As any born of woman.

I ranged too high: what draws me down Into the common day? Is it the weight of that half-crown, Which I shall have to pay? For, something duller than at first, Nor wholly comfortable, I sit (my empty glass reversed), And thrumming on the table:

Half-fearful that, with self at strife I take myself to task; Lest of the fullness of my life I leave an empty flask: For I had hope, by something rare, To prove myself a poet; But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began, Till they be gather’d up; The truth, that flies the flowing can, Will haunt the vacant cup: And others’ follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, ’tis gone, ’Tis gone, and let it go. ’Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall’n into the dusty crypt Of darken’d forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern-hours of mighty wits— Thine elders and thy betters.

Hours, when the Poet’s words and looks Had yet their native glow: Not yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show: But, all his vast heart sherris-warm’d, He flash’d his random speeches; Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm’d His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, couldst thou last, At half thy real worth? I hold it good, good things should pass: With time I will not quarrel: It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral.

Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this good pint of port. For this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter; And, wheresoe’er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence, The sphere thy fate allots: Thy latter days increased with pence Go down among the pots: Thou battenest by the greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners, Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners.

_We_ fret, _we_ fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot; _Thy_ care is, under polish’d tins, To serve the hot-and-hot; To come and go, and come again, Returning like the pewit, And watch’d by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies; Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes: Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful equinoxes, Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor, And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven: But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot neatly graven.

[1] 1842 and all previous to 1853. To full and kindly.

[2] All previous to 1853:—

Like Hezekiah’s, backward runs The shadow of my days.

[3] All previous to 1853. Though.

[4] The expression is Shakespeare’s, _Twelfth Night_, v., i.,

“and thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges”.

[5] All previous to 1853. Though.

[6] 1842 to 1843. With motion less or greater.

To——

after reading a Life and Letters

Originally published in the _Examiner_ for 24th March, 1849; then in the sixth edition of the poems, 1850, with the second part of the title and the alterations noted. When reprinted in 1851 one more slight alteration was made. It has not been altered since. The work referred to was Moncton Milne’s (afterwards Lord Houghton) _Letters and Literary Remains of Keats_ published in 1848, and the person to whom the poem may have been addressed was Tennyson’s brother Charles, afterwards Charles Tennyson Turner, to the facts of whose life and to whose character it would exactly apply. See Napier,_Homes and Haunts of Tennyson_, 48-50. But Sir Franklin Lushington tells me that it was most probably addressed to some imaginary person, as neither he nor such of Tennyson’s surviving friends as he kindly consulted for me are able to identify the person.

You might have won the Poet’s name If such be worth the winning now, And gain’d a laurel for your brow Of sounder leaf than I can claim;

But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro’ troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice:

And you have miss’d the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet’s crown: Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.

For now the Poet cannot die Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry:

“Proclaim the faults he would not show: Break lock and seal: betray the trust: Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but just The many-headed beast should know”.

Ah, shameless! for he did but sing. A song that pleased us from its worth; No public life was his on earth, No blazon’d statesman he, nor king.

He gave the people of his best: His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare’s curse on[1] clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest!

Who make it seem more sweet[2] to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree,

Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory’s temple-gates, For whom the carrion vulture waits To tear his heart before the crowd!

[1] In Examiner and in 1850. My curse upon the.

[2] In Examiner. Sweeter seem. For the sentiment _cf._ Goethe:—

Ich singe, wie der Vogel singt Der in den Zweigen wohnet; Das Lied das aus dem Seele dringt Ist Lohn, der reichlich lohnet.

(_Der Sänger._)