Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;

  I know not: but we sitting, as I said,

  The cock crew loud; as at that time of year

  The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:

  Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,

  “There now that’s nothing!” drew a little back,

  And drove his heel into the smoulder’d log,

  That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue;

  And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem’d

  To sail with Arthur under looming shores.

  Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams

  Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,

  To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

  There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore,

  King Arthur, like a modern gentleman

  Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,

  “Arthur is come again: he cannot die”.

  Then those that stood upon the hills behind

  Repeated “Come again, and thrice as fair”;

  And, further inland, voices echoed

  “Come With all good things, and war shall be no more”.

  At this a hundred bells began to peal,

  That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed

  The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.

  The Gardener’s Daughter

  OR

  The Pictures.

  In the Gardener’s Daughter we have the first of that delightful series of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary English life, and named appropriately English Idylls. The originator of this species of poetry in England was Southey, in his English Eclogues, written before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse, Southey says: “The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the German idylls given me in conversation.” Southey’s eclogues are eight in number: The Old Mansion House, The Grandmother’s Tale, Hannah, The Sailor’s Mother, The Witch, The Ruined Cottage, The Last of the Family and The Alderman’s Funeral. Southey was followed by Wordsworth in The Brothers and Michael. Southey has nothing of the charm, grace and classical finish of his disciple, but how nearly Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who compares Tennyson’s studies with The Ruined Cottage. But Tennyson’s real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.

  The Gardener’s Daughter was written as early as 1835, as it was read to Fitzgerald in that year (Life of Tennyson, i., 182). Tennyson originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled The Antechamber, which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the Life, i., 233-4. This poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form “tho’” is substituted for “though”.

  This morning is the morning of the day,

  When I and Eustace from the city went

  To see the Gardener’s Daughter; I and he,

  Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete

  Portion’d in halves between us, that we grew

  The fable of the city where we dwelt.

  My Eustace might have sat for Hercules;

  So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.

  He, by some law that holds in love, and draws

  The greater to the lesser, long desired

  A certain miracle of symmetry,

  A miniature of loveliness, all grace

  Summ’d up and closed in little; Juliet, she

  So light of foot, so light of spirit oh, she

  To me myself, for some three careless moons,

  The summer pilot of an empty heart

  Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not

  Such touches are but embassies of love,

  To tamper with the feelings, ere he found

  Empire for life? but Eustace painted her,

  And said to me, she sitting with us then,

  “When will you paint like this?” and I replied,

  (My words were half in earnest, half in jest),

  “‘Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived,

  A more ideal Artist he than all,

  Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes

  Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair

  More black than ashbuds in the front of March.”

  And Juliet answer’d laughing, “Go and see

  The Gardener’s daughter: trust me, after that,

  You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece “.

  And up we rose, and on the spur we went.

  Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite

  Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.

  News from the humming city comes to it

  In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;

  And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear

  The windy clanging of the minster clock;

  Although between it and the garden lies

  A league of grass, wash’d by a slow broad stream,

  That, stirr’d with languid pulses of the oar,

  Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,

  Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge

  Crown’d with the minster-towers.

  The fields between

  Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder’d kine,

  And all about the large lime feathers low,

  The lime a summer home of murmurous wings.

  In that still place she, hoarded in herself,

  Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived

  Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard

  Of Rose, the Gardener’s daughter? Where was he,

  So blunt in memory, so old at heart,

  At such a distance from his youth in grief,

  That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth,

  So gross to express delight, in praise of her

  Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love,

  And Beauty such a mistress of the world.

  And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,

  Would play with flying forms and images,

  Yet this is also true, that, long before

  I look’d upon her, when I heard her name

  My heart was like a prophet to my heart,

  And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes,

  That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds,

  Born out of everything I heard and saw,

  Flutter’d about my senses and my soul;

  And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm

  To one that travels quickly, made the air

  Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought,

  That verged upon them sweeter than the dream

  Dream’d by a happy man, when the dark East,

  Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

  And sure this orbit of the memory folds

  For ever in itself the day we went

  To see her. All the land in flowery squares,

  Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind,

  Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud

  Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure

  Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge,

  And May with me from head to heel. And now,

  As tho’ ‘twere yesterday, as tho’ it were

  The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound

  (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these),

  Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze,

  And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood,

  Leaning his horns into the neighbour field,

  And lowing to his fellows. From the woods

  Came voices of the we
ll-contented doves.

  The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy,

  But shook his song together as he near’d

  His happy home, the ground. To left and right,

  The cuckoo told his name to all the hills;

  The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm;

  The redcap whistled; and the nightingale

  Sang loud, as tho’ he were the bird of day.

  And Eustace turn’d, and smiling said to me,

  “Hear how the bushes echo! by my life,

  These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing

  Like poets, from the vanity of song?

  Or have they any sense of why they sing?

  And would they praise the heavens for what they have?”

  And I made answer, “Were there nothing else

  For which to praise the heavens but only love,

  That only love were cause enough for praise”.

  Lightly he laugh’d, as one that read my thought,

  And on we went; but ere an hour had pass’d,

  We reach’d a meadow slanting to the North;

  Down which a well-worn pathway courted us

  To one green wicket in a privet hedge;

  This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk

  Thro’ crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned;

  And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew

  Beyond us, as we enter’d in the cool.

  The garden stretches southward. In the midst

  A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.

  The garden-glasses shone, and momently

  The twinkling laurel scatter’d silver lights.

  “Eustace,” I said, “This wonder keeps the house.”

  He nodded, but a moment afterwards

  He cried, “Look! look!” Before he ceased I turn’d,

  And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.

  For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,

  That, flowering high, the last night’s gale had caught,

  And blown across the walk. One arm aloft

  Gown’d in pure white, that fitted to the shape

  Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.

  A single stream of all her soft brown hair

  Pour’d on one side: the shadow of the flowers

  Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering

  Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist

  Ah, happy shade and still went wavering down,

  But, ere it touch’d a foot, that might have danced

  The greensward into greener circles, dipt,

  And mix’d with shadows of the common ground!

  But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn’d

  Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom,

  And doubled his own warmth against her lips,

  And on the bounteous wave of such a breast

  As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

  She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

  So rapt, we near’d the house; but she, a Rose

  In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil,

  Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn’d

  Into the world without; till close at hand,

  And almost ere I knew mine own intent,

  This murmur broke the stillness of that air

  Which brooded round about her: “Ah, one rose,

  One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull’d,

  Were worth a hundred kisses press’d on lips

  Less exquisite than thine.” She look’d: but all

  Suffused with blushes neither self-possess’d

  Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,

  Divided in a graceful quiet paused,

  And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound

  Her looser hair in braid, and stirr’d her lips

  For some sweet answer, tho’ no answer came,

  Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it,

  And moved away, and left me, statue-like,

  In act to render thanks. I, that whole day,

  Saw her no more, altho’ I linger’d there

  Till every daisy slept, and Love’s white star

  Beam’d thro’ the thicken’d cedar in the dusk.

  So home we went, and all the livelong way

  With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.

  “Now,” said he, “will you climb the top of Art;

  You cannot fail but work in hues to dim

  The Titianic Flora. Will you match

  My Juliet? you, not you, the Master,

  Love, A more ideal Artist he than all.”

  So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,

  Reading her perfect features in the gloom,

  Kissing the rose she gave me o’er and o’er,

  And shaping faithful record of the glance

  That graced the giving such a noise of life

  Swarm’d in the golden present, such a voice

  Call’d to me from the years to come, and such

  A length of bright horizon rimm’d the dark.

  And all that night I heard the watchmen peal

  The sliding season: all that night I heard

  The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

  The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,

  O’er the mute city stole with folded wings,

  Distilling odours on me as they went

  To greet their fairer sisters of the East.

  Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all,

  Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm

  Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.

  Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a

  Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk,

  To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream

  Served in the weeping elm; and more and more

  A word could bring the colour to my cheek;

  A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew;

  Love trebled life within me, and with each

  The year increased. The daughters of the year,

  One after one, thro’ that still garden pass’d:

  Each garlanded with her peculiar flower

  Danced into light, and died into the shade;

  And each in passing touch’d with some new grace

  Or seem’d to touch her, so that day by day,

  Like one that never can be wholly known,

  Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour

  For Eustace, when I heard his deep “I will,”

  Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold

  From thence thro’ all the worlds: but I rose up

  Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes

  Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reach’d

  The wicket-gate, and found her standing there.

  There sat we down upon a garden mound,

  Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,

  Between us, in the circle of his arms

  Enwound us both; and over many a range

  Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers,

  Across a hazy glimmer of the west,

  Reveal’d their shining windows: from them clash’d

  The bells; we listen’d; with the time we play’d;

  We spoke of other things; we coursed about

  The subject most at heart, more near and near,

  Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round

  The central wish, until we settled there.

  Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her,

  Requiring, tho’ I knew it was mine own,

  Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,

  Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,

  A woman’s heart, the heart of her I loved;

  And in that time and place she answer’d me,

  And in the compass of three little words,

  More musical than ever came in one,

  The silver fragmen
ts of a broken voice,

  Made me most happy, faltering

  “I am thine”.

  Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say

  That my desire, like all strongest hopes,

  By its own energy fulfilled itself,

  Merged in completion? Would you learn at full

  How passion rose thro’ circumstantial grades

  Beyond all grades develop’d? and indeed

  I had not staid so long to tell you all,

  But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes,

  Holding the folded annals of my youth;

  And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,

  And with a flying finger swept my lips,

  And spake, “Be wise: not easily forgiven

  Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar

  The secret bridal chambers of the heart.

  Let in the day”. Here, then, my words have end.

  Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells

  Of that which came between, more sweet than each,

  In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves

  That tremble round a nightingale in sighs

  Which perfect Joy, perplex’d for utterance,

  Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell

  Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,

  And vows, where there was never need of vows,

  And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

  Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above

  The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

  Sow’d all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;

  Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit,

  Spread the light haze along the river-shores,

  And in the hollows; or as once we met

  Unheedful, tho’ beneath a whispering rain

  Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind,

  And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.

  But this whole hour your eyes have been intent

  On that veil’d picture veil’d, for what it holds

  May not be dwelt on by the common day.

  This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul;

  Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time

  Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there,

  As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,

  My first, last love; the idol of my youth,

  The darling of my manhood, and, alas!

  Now the most blessed memory of mine age.

  Dora

  With farmer Allan at the farm abode

  William and Dora. William was his son,

  And she his niece. He often look’d at them,

  And often thought “I’ll make them man and wife”.

  Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all,

  And yearn’d towards William; but the youth, because