Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,

  Or from the crevice peer’d about.

  Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,

  Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

  Old voices call’d her from without.

  She only said, “My life is dreary,

  He cometh not,” she said;

  She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

  I would that I were dead!”

  The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,

  The slow clock ticking, and the sound

  Which to the wooing wind aloof

  The poplar made, did all confound

  Her sense; but most she loath’d the hour

  When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

  Athwart the chambers, and the day

  Was sloping toward his western bower.

  Then, said she, “I am very dreary,

  He will not come,” she said;

  She wept, “I am aweary, aweary,

  O God, that I were dead!”

  O —— : Clear-headed friend...

  First printed in 1830.

  The friend to whom these verses were addressed was Joseph William Blakesley, third Classic and Senior Chancellor’s Medallist in 1831, and afterwards Dean of Lincoln. Tennyson said of him: “He ought to be Lord Chancellor, for he is a subtle and powerful reasoner, and an honest man”.—’Life’, i., 65. He was a contributor to the ‘Edinburgh’ and ‘Quarterly Reviews’, and died in April, 1885. See memoir of him in the ‘Dictionary of National Biography’.

  I

  Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn,

  Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain

  The knots that tangle human creeds, [1]

  The wounding cords that [2] bind and strain

  The heart until it bleeds,

  Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

  Roof not a glance so keen as thine:

  If aught of prophecy be mine,

  Thou wilt not live in vain.

  II

  Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;

  Falsehood shall bear her plaited brow:

  Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now

  With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.

  Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords

  Can do away that ancient lie;

  A gentler death shall Falsehood die,

  Shot thro’ and thro’[3] with cunning words.

  III

  Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,

  Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,

  Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

  Until she be an athlete bold,

  And weary with a finger’s touch

  Those writhed limbs of lightning speed;

  Like that strange angel [4] which of old,

  Until the breaking of the light,

  Wrestled with wandering Israel,

  Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,

  And heaven’s mazed signs stood still

  In the dim tract of Penuel.

  Madeline

  I

  Thou art not steep’d in golden languors,

  No tranced summer calm is thine,

  Ever varying Madeline.

  Thro’ [1] light and shadow thou dost range,

  Sudden glances, sweet and strange,

  Delicious spites and darling angers,

  And airy [2] forms of flitting change.

  II

  Smiling, frowning, evermore,

  Thou art perfect in love-lore.

  Revealings deep and clear are thine

  Of wealthy smiles: but who may know

  Whether smile or frown be fleeter?

  Whether smile or frown be sweeter,

  Who may know?

  Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow

  Light-glooming over eyes divine,

  Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,

  Ever varying Madeline.

  Thy smile and frown are not aloof

  From one another,

  Each to each is dearest brother;

  Hues of the silken sheeny woof

  Momently shot into each other.

  All the mystery is thine;

  Smiling, frowning, evermore,

  Thou art perfect in love-lore,

  Ever varying Madeline.

  III

  A subtle, sudden flame,

  By veering passion fann’d,

  About thee breaks and dances

  When I would kiss thy hand,

  The flush of anger’d shame

  O’erflows thy calmer glances,

  And o’er black brows drops down

  A sudden curved frown:

  But when I turn away,

  Thou, willing me to stay,

  Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest;

  But, looking fixedly the while,

  All my bounding heart entanglest

  In a golden-netted smile;

  Then in madness and in bliss,

  If my lips should dare to kiss

  Thy taper fingers amorously, [3]

  Again thou blushest angerly;

  And o’er black brows drops down

  A sudden-curved frown.

  The Merman

  First printed in 1830.

  I

  Who would be

  A merman bold,

  Sitting alone,

  Singing alone

  Under the sea,

  With a crown of gold,

  On a throne?

  II

  I would be a merman bold;

  I would sit and sing the whole of the day;

  I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power;

  But at night I would roam abroad and play

  With the mermaids in and out of the rocks,

  Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower;

  And holding them back by their flowing locks

  I would kiss them often under the sea,

  And kiss them again till they kiss’d me

  Laughingly, laughingly;

  And then we would wander away, away

  To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high,

  Chasing each other merrily.

  III

  There would be neither moon nor star;

  But the wave would make music above us afar —

  Low thunder and light in the magic night —

  Neither moon nor star.

  We would call aloud in the dreamy dells,

  Call to each other and whoop and cry

  All night, merrily, merrily;

  They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells,

  Laughing and clapping their hands between,

  All night, merrily, merrily:

  But I would throw to them back in mine

  Turkis and agate and almondine: [1]

  Then leaping out upon them unseen

  I would kiss them often under the sea,

  And kiss them again till they kiss’d me

  Laughingly, laughingly.

  Oh! what a happy life were mine

  Under the hollow-hung ocean green!

  Soft are the moss-beds under the sea;

  We would live merrily, merrily.

  The Mermaid

  First printed in 1830.

  I

  Who would be

  A mermaid fair,

  Singing alone,

  Combing her hair

  Under the sea,

  In a golden curl

  With a comb of pearl,

  On a throne?

  II

  I would be a mermaid fair;

  I would sing to myself the whole of the day;

  With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;

  And still as I comb’d I would sing and say,

  “Who is it loves me? who loves not me?”

  I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall,

  Low adown, low adown,

  From under my starry sea-bud crown

  Low adown and around,

  And
I should look like a fountain of gold

  Springing alone

  With a shrill inner sound,

  Over the throne

  In the midst of the hall;

  Till that [1] great sea-snake under the sea

  From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps

  Would slowly trail himself sevenfold

  Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate

  With his large calm eyes for the love of me.

  And all the mermen under the sea

  Would feel their [2] immortality

  Die in their hearts for the love of me.

  III

  But at night I would wander away, away,

  I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,

  And lightly vault from the throne and play

  With the mermen in and out of the rocks;

  We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,

  On the broad sea-wolds in the [1] crimson shells,

  Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.

  But if any came near I would call, and shriek,

  And adown the steep like a wave I would leap

  From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;

  For I would not be kiss’d [2] by all who would list,

  Of the bold merry mermen under the sea;

  They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,

  In the purple twilights under the sea;

  But the king of them all would carry me,

  Woo me, and win me, and marry me,

  In the branching jaspers under the sea;

  Then all the dry pied things that be

  In the hueless mosses under the sea

  Would curl round my silver feet silently,

  All looking up for the love of me.

  And if I should carol aloud, from aloft

  All things that are forked, and horned, and soft

  Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,

  All looking down for the love of me.

  Supposed Confessions

  OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN UNITY WITH ITSELF

  There has been only one important alteration made in this poem, when it was reprinted among the ‘Juvenilia’ in 1871, and that was the suppression of the verses beginning “A grief not uninformed and dull” to “Indued with immortality” inclusive, and the substitution of “rosy” for “waxen”.

  Capitals are in all cases inserted in the reprint where the Deity is referred to, “through” is altered into “thro’” all through the poem, and hyphens are inserted in the double epithets. No further alterations were made in the edition of 1830.

  Oh God! my God! have mercy now.

  I faint, I fall. Men say that thou

  Didst die for me, for such as me,

  Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,

  And that my sin was as a thorn

  Among the thorns that girt thy brow,

  Wounding thy soul. — That even now,

  In this extremest misery

  Of ignorance, I should require

  A sign! and if a bolt of fire

  Would rive the slumbrous summernoon

  While I do pray to thee alone,

  Think my belief would stronger grow!

  Is not my human pride brought low?

  The boastings of my spirit still?

  The joy I had in my freewill

  All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown?

  And what is left to me, but thou,

  And faith in thee? Men pass me by;

  Christians with happy countenances —

  And children all seem full of thee!

  And women smile with saint-like glances

  Like thine own mother’s when she bow’d

  Above thee, on that happy morn

  When angels spake to men aloud,

  And thou and peace to earth were born.

  Goodwill to me as well as all —

  I one of them: my brothers they:

  Brothers in Christ — a world of peace

  And confidence, day after day;

  And trust and hope till things should cease,

  And then one Heaven receive us all.

  How sweet to have a common faith!

  To hold a common scorn of death!

  And at a burial to hear

  The creaking cords which wound and eat

  Into my human heart, whene’er

  Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,

  With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!

  A grief not uninformed, and dull

  Hearted with hope, of hope as full

  As is the blood with life, or night

  And a dark cloud with rich moonlight.

  To stand beside a grave, and see

  The red small atoms wherewith we

  Are built, and smile in calm, and say —

  “These little moles and graves shall be

  Clothed on with immortality

  More glorious than the noon of day —

  All that is pass’d into the flowers

  And into beasts and other men,

  And all the Norland whirlwind showers

  From open vaults, and all the sea

  O’er washes with sharp salts, again

  Shall fleet together all, and be

  Indued with immortality.”

  Thrice happy state again to be

  The trustful infant on the knee!

  Who lets his waxen fingers play

  About his mother’s neck, and knows

  Nothing beyond his mother’s eyes.

  They comfort him by night and day;

  They light his little life alway;

  He hath no thought of coming woes;

  He hath no care of life or death,

  Scarce outward signs of joy arise,

  Because the Spirit of happiness

  And perfect rest so inward is;

  And loveth so his innocent heart,

  Her temple and her place of birth,

  Where she would ever wish to dwell,

  Life of the fountain there, beneath

  Its salient springs, and far apart,

  Hating to wander out on earth,

  Or breathe into the hollow air,

  Whose dullness would make visible

  Her subtil, warm, and golden breath,

  Which mixing with the infant’s blood,

  Fullfills him with beatitude.

  Oh! sure it is a special care

  Of God, to fortify from doubt,

  To arm in proof, and guard about

  With triple-mailed trust, and clear

  Delight, the infant’s dawning year.

  Would that my gloomed fancy were

  As thine, my mother, when with brows

  Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld

  In thine, I listen’d to thy vows,

  For me outpour’d in holiest prayer —

  For me unworthy! — and beheld

  Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew

  The beauty and repose of faith,

  And the clear spirit shining through.

  Oh! wherefore do we grow awry

  From roots which strike so deep? why dare

  Paths in the desert? Could not I

  Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,

  To th’ earth — until the ice would melt

  Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?

  What Devil had the heart to scathe

  Flowers thou hadst rear’d — to brush the dew

  From thine own lily, when thy grave

  Was deep, my mother, in the clay?

  Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I

  So little love for thee? But why

  Prevail’d not thy pure prayers? Why pray

  To one who heeds not, who can save

  But will not? Great in faith, and strong

  Against the grief of circumstance

  Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if

  Thou pleadest still, and seest me driver />
  Thro’ utter dark a fullsailed skiff,

  Unpiloted i’ the echoing dance

  Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low

  Unto the death, not sunk! I know

  At matins and at evensong,

  That thou, if thou were yet alive,

  In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive

  To reconcile me with thy God.

  Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold

  At heart, thou wouldest murmur still —

  “Bring this lamb back into thy fold,

  My Lord, if so it be thy will”.

  Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod,

  And chastisement of human pride;

  That pride, the sin of devils, stood

  Betwixt me and the light of God!

  That hitherto I had defied

  And had rejected God — that grace

  Would drop from his o’erbrimming love,

  As manna on my wilderness,

  If I would pray — that God would move

  And strike the hard hard rock, and thence,

  Sweet in their utmost bitterness,

  Would issue tears of penitence

  Which would keep green hope’s life. Alas!

  I think that pride hath now no place

  Nor sojourn in me. I am void,

  Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

  Why not believe then? Why not yet

  Anchor thy frailty there, where man

  Hath moor’d and rested? Ask the sea

  At midnight, when the crisp slope waves

  After a tempest, rib and fret

  The broadimbasèd beach, why he

  Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?

  Wherefore his ridges are not curls

  And ripples of an inland mere?

  Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can

  Draw down into his vexed pools

  All that blue heaven which hues and paves

  The other? I am too forlorn,

  Too shaken: my own weakness fools

  My judgment, and my spirit whirls,

  Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

  “Yet” said I, in my morn of youth,

  The unsunned freshness of my strength,

  When I went forth in quest of truth,

  “It is man’s privilege to doubt,

  If so be that from doubt at length,

  Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,

  An image with profulgent brows,

  And perfect limbs, as from the storm

  Of running fires and fluid range

  Of lawless airs, at last stood out

  This excellence and solid form

  Of constant beauty. For the Ox

  Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills

  The horned valleys all about,

  And hollows of the fringed hills

  In summerheats, with placid lows

  Unfearing, till his own blood flows

  About his hoof. And in the flocks

  The lamb rejoiceth in the year,

  And raceth freely with his fere,