Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  In hollow’d moons of gems,

  To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,

  “I marvel if my still delight

  In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,

  Be flatter’d to the height.

  “O all things fair to sate my various eyes!

  O shapes and hues that please me well!

  O silent faces of the Great and Wise,

  My Gods, with whom I dwell!

  “O God-like isolation which art mine,

  I can but count thee perfect gain,

  What time I watch the darkening droves of swine

  That range on yonder plain.

  “In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,

  They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;

  And oft some brainless devil enters in,

  And drives them to the deep.”

  Then of the moral instinct would she prate,

  And of the rising from the dead,

  As hers by right of full-accomplish’d Fate;

  And at the last she said:

  “I take possession of man’s mind and deed.

  I care not what the sects may brawl,

  I sit as God holding no form of creed,

  But contemplating all.”

  * * *

  Full oft the riddle of the painful earth

  Flash’d thro’ her as she sat alone,

  Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,

  And intellectual throne.

  And so she throve and prosper’d: so three years

  She prosper’d: on the fourth she fell,

  Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,

  Struck thro’ with pangs of hell.

  Lest she should fail and perish utterly,

  God, before whom ever lie bare

  The abysmal deeps of Personality,

  Plagued her with sore despair.

  When she would think, where’er she turn’d her sight,

  The airy hand confusion wrought,

  Wrote “Mene, mene,” and divided quite

  The kingdom of her thought.

  Deep dread and loathing of her solitude

  Fell on her, from which mood was born

  Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood

  Laughter at her self-scorn.

  “What! is not this my place of strength,” she said,

  “My spacious mansion built for me,

  Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid

  Since my first memory? “

  But in dark corners of her palace stood

  Uncertain shapes; and unawares

  On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,

  And horrible nightmares,

  And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

  And, with dim fretted foreheads all,

  On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,

  That stood against the wall.

  A spot of dull stagnation, without light

  Or power of movement, seem’d my soul,

  ‘Mid onward-sloping motions infinite

  Making for one sure goal.

  A still salt pool, lock’d in with bars of sand;

  Left on the shore; that hears all night

  The plunging seas draw backward from the land

  Their moon-led waters white.

  A star that with the choral starry dance

  Join’d not, but stood, and standing saw

  The hollow orb of moving Circumstance

  Roll’d round by one fix’d law.

  Back on herself her serpent pride had curl’d.

  “No voice,” she shriek’d in that lone hall,

  “No voice breaks thro’ the stillness of this world:

  One deep, deep silence all!”

  She, mouldering with the dull earth’s mouldering sod,

  Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,

  Lay there exiled from eternal God,

  Lost to her place and name;

  And death and life she hated equally,

  And nothing saw, for her despair,

  But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,

  No comfort anywhere;

  Remaining utterly confused with fears,

  And ever worse with growing time,

  And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,

  And all alone in crime:

  Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round

  With blackness as a solid wall,

  Far off she seem’d to hear the dully sound

  Of human footsteps fall.

  As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

  In doubt and great perplexity,

  A little before moon-rise hears the low

  Moan of an unknown sea;

  And knows not if it be thunder or a sound

  Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry

  Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, “I have found

  A new land, but I die”.

  She howl’d aloud, “I am on fire within.

  There comes no murmur of reply.

  What is it that will take away my sin,

  And save me lest I die?”

  So when four years were wholly finished,

  She threw her royal robes away.

  “Make me a cottage in the vale,” she said,

  “Where I may mourn and pray.

  “Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are

  So lightly, beautifully built:

  Perchance I may return with others there

  When I have purged my guilt.”

  The May Queen

  The first two parts were first published in 1833. The scenery is typical of Lincolnshire; in Fitzgerald’s phrase, it is all Lincolnshire inland, as Locksley Hall is seaboard.

  You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

  To-morrow ‘ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;

  Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day;

  For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  There’s many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine;

  There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s Kate and Caroline:

  But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say,

  So I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,

  If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break:

  But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay,

  For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see,

  But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?

  He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,

  But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white,

  And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.

  They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,

  For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  They say he’s dying all for love, but that can never be:

  They say his heart is breaking, mother what is that to me?

  There’s many a bolder lad ‘ill woo me any summer day,

  And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,

  And you’ll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;

  For the shepherd lads on every side ‘ill come from far away,

  And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,

  And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;

  And the wild marsh-marigold shines
like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

  And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,

  And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;

  There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live-long day,

  And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  All the valley, mother, ‘ill be fresh and green and still,

  And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,

  And the rivulet in the flowery dale ‘ill merrily glance and play,

  For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear,

  To-morrow ‘ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year:

  To-morrow ‘ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day,

  For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

  New Year’s Eve

  If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,

  For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.

  It is the last New-year that I shall ever see,

  Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.

  To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind

  The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;

  And the New-year’s coming up, mother, but I shall never see

  The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

  Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day;

  Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;

  And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse,

  Till Charles’s Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

  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, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,

  And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.

  I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,

  With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

  I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;

  You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;

  Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild,

  You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

  If I can I’ll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;

  Tho’ you’ll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;

  Tho’ I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you say,

  And be often, often with you when you think I’m far away.

  Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore,

  And you 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.

  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.

  The Hesperides

  Hesperus and his daughters three

  That sing about the golden tree.

  (Comus).

  The Northwind fall’n, in the newstarred night

  Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond

  The hoary promontory of Soloë

  Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,

  Between the Southern and the Western Horn,

  Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,

  Nor melody o’ the Lybian lotusflute

  Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope

  That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,

  Beneath a highland leaning down a weight

  Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,

  Came voices, like the voices in a dream,

  Continuous, till he reached the other sea.

  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;

  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

  From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,

  Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,

  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, an
d 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,