Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  He had been always with her in the house,

  Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day

  When Allan call’d his son, and said,

  “My son: I married late, but I would wish to see

  My grandchild on my knees before I die:

  And I have set my heart upon a match.

  Now therefore look to Dora; she is well

  To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.

  She is my brother’s daughter: he and I

  Had once hard words, and parted, and he died

  In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred

  His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;

  For I have wish’d this marriage, night and day,

  For many years.” But William answer’d short;

  “I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

  I will not marry Dora”. Then the old man

  Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:

  “You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

  But in my time a father’s word was law,

  And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;

  Consider, William: take a month to think,

  And let me have an answer to my wish;

  Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,

  And never more darken my doors again.”

  But William answer’d madly; bit his lips,

  And broke away. The more he look’d at her

  The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

  But Dora bore them meekly. Then before

  The month was out he left his father’s house,

  And hired himself to work within the fields;

  And half in love, half spite, he woo’d and wed

  A labourer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.

  Then, when the bells were ringing,

  Allan call’d His niece and said: “My girl, I love you well;

  But if you speak with him that was my son,

  Or change a word with her he calls his wife,

  My home is none of yours. My will is law.”

  And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

  “It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!”

  And days went on, and there was born a boy

  To William; then distresses came on him;

  And day by day he pass’d his father’s gate,

  Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.

  But Dora stored what little she could save,

  And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

  Who sent it; till at last a fever seized

  On William, and in harvest time he died.

  Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat

  And look’d with tears upon her boy, and thought

  Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

  “I have obey’d my uncle until now,

  And I have sinn’d, for it was all thro’ me

  This evil came on William at the first.

  But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone,

  And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

  And for this orphan, I am come to you:

  You know there has not been for these five years

  So full a harvest, let me take the boy,

  And I will set him in my uncle’s eye

  Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad

  Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,

  And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.”

  And Dora took the child, and went her way

  Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound

  That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

  Far off the farmer came into the field

  And spied her not; for none of all his men

  Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;

  And Dora would have risen and gone to him,

  But her heart fail’d her; and the reapers reap’d

  And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

  But when the morrow came, she rose and took

  The child once more, and sat upon the mound;

  And made a little wreath of all the flowers

  That grew about, and tied it round his hat

  To make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye.

  Then when the farmer passed into the field

  He spied her, and he left his men at work,

  And came and said: “Where were you yesterday?

  Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”

  So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,

  And answer’d softly, “This is William’s child?”

  “And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not

  Forbid you, Dora?” Dora said again:

  “Do with me as you will, but take the child

  And bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”

  And Allan said: “I see it is a trick

  Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

  I must be taught my duty, and by you!

  You knew my word was law, and yet you dared

  To slight it. Well for I will take the boy;

  But go you hence, and never see me more.”

  So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud

  And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell

  At Dora’s feet. She bow’d upon her hands,

  And the boy’s cry came to her from the field,

  More and more distant. She bow’d down her head,

  Remembering the day when first she came,

  And all the things that had been. She bow’d down

  And wept in secret; and the reapers reap’d,

  And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

  Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood

  Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy

  Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise

  To God, that help’d her in her widowhood.

  And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy;

  But, Mary, let me live and work with you:

  He says that he will never see me more”.

  Then answer’d Mary, “This shall never be,

  That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:

  And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy,

  For he will teach him hardness, and to slight

  His mother; therefore thou and I will go,

  And I will have my boy, and bring him home;

  And I will beg of him to take thee back;

  But if he will not take thee back again,

  Then thou and I will live within one house,

  And work for William’s child until he grows

  Of age to help us.” So the women kiss’d

  Each other, and set out, and reach’d the farm.

  The door was off the latch: they peep’d, and saw

  The boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees,

  Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,

  And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,

  Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch’d out

  And babbled for the golden seal, that hung

  From Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire.

  Then they came in: but when the boy beheld

  His mother, he cried out to come to her:

  And Allan set him down, and Mary said:

  “O Father! if you let me call you so

  I never came a-begging for myself,

  Or William, or this child; but now I come

  For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

  O Sir, when William died, he died at peace

  With all men; for I ask’d him, and he said,

  He could not ever rue his marrying me

  I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said

  That he was wrong to cross his father thus:

  ‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never know

  The troubles I have gone thro’!’ Then he turn’d

  His face and pass’d unhappy that I am!

  But now, Sir, let me have my
boy, for you

  Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight

  His father’s memory; and take Dora back,

  And let all this be as it was before.”

  So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

  By Mary. There was silence in the room;

  And all at once the old man burst in sobs:

  “I have been to blame to blame. I have kill’d my son.

  I have kill’d him but I loved him my dear son.

  May God forgive me! I have been to blame.

  Kiss me, my children.” Then they clung about

  The old man’s neck, and kiss’d him many times.

  And all the man was broken with remorse;

  And all his love came back a hundredfold;

  And for three hours he sobb’d o’er William’s child,

  Thinking of William. So those four abode

  Within one house together; and as years

  Went forward, Mary took another mate;

  But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

  Audley Court

  “The Bull, the Fleece are cramm’d, and not a room

  For love or money. Let us picnic there

  At Audley Court.” I spoke, while Audley feast

  Humm’d like a hive all round the narrow quay,

  To Francis, with a basket on his arm,

  To Francis just alighted from the boat,

  And breathing of the sea. “With all my heart,”

  Said Francis. Then we shoulder’d thro’ the swarm,

  And rounded by the stillness of the beach

  To where the bay runs up its latest horn.

  We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp’d

  The flat red granite; so by many a sweep

  Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach’d

  The griffin-guarded gates and pass’d thro’ all

  The pillar’d dusk of sounding sycamores

  And cross’d the garden to the gardener’s lodge,

  With all its casements bedded, and its walls

  And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.

  There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid

  A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound,

  Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home,

  And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made,

  Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay,

  Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks

  Imbedded and injellied; last with these,

  A flask of cider from his father’s vats,

  Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat

  And talk’d old matters over; who was dead,

  Who married, who was like to be, and how

  The races went, and who would rent the hall:

  Then touch’d upon the game, how scarce it was

  This season; glancing thence, discuss’d the farm,

  The fourfield system, and the price of grain;

  And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split,

  And came again together on the king

  With heated faces; till he laugh’d aloud;

  And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung

  To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang

  “Oh! who would fight and march and counter-march,

  Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field,

  And shovell’d up into a bloody trench

  Where no one knows? but let me live my life.

  “Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk,

  Perch’d like a crow upon a three-legg’d stool,

  Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints

  Are full of chalk? but let me live my life.

  “Who’d serve the state? for if I carved my name

  Upon the cliffs that guard my native land,

  I might as well have traced it in the sands;

  The sea wastes all: but let me live my life.

  “Oh! who would love? I wooed a woman once,

  But she was sharper than an eastern wind,

  And all my heart turn’d from her, as a thorn

  Turns from the sea: but let me live my life.”

  He sang his song, and I replied with mine:

  I found it in a volume, all of songs,

  Knock’d down to me, when old Sir Robert’s pride,

  His books the more the pity, so I said

  Came to the hammer here in March and this

  I set the words, and added names I knew.

  “Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream of me:

  Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister’s arm,

  And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.

  “Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia’s arm;

  Emilia, fairer than all else but thou,

  For thou art fairer than all else that is.

  “Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast:

  Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip:

  I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.

  “I go, but I return: I would I were

  The pilot of the darkness and the dream.

  Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me.”

  So sang we each to either, Francis Hale,

  The farmer’s son who lived across the bay,

  My friend; and I, that having wherewithal,

  And in the fallow leisure of my life

  A rolling stone of here and everywhere,

  Did what I would; but ere the night we rose

  And saunter’d home beneath a moon that, just

  In crescent, dimly rain’d about the leaf

  Twilights of airy silver, till we reach’d

  The limit of the hills; and as we sank

  From rock to rock upon the gloomy quay,

  The town was hush’d beneath us: lower down

  The bay was oily-calm: the harbour buoy

  With one green sparkle ever and anon

  Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.

  Walking to the Mail

  John. I’m glad I walk’d.

  How fresh the meadows look

  Above the river, and, but a month ago,

  The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.

  Is yon plantation where this byway joins

  The turnpike?

  James. Yes.

  John. And when does this come by?

  James. The mail? At one o’clock.

  John. What is it now?

  James. A quarter to.

  John. Whose house is that I see?

  No, not the County Member’s with the vane:

  Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half

  A score of gables.

  James. That? Sir Edward Head’s:

  But he’s abroad: the place is to be sold.

  John. Oh, his. He was not broken?

  James. No, sir, he,

  Vex’d with a morbid devil in his blood

  That veil’d the world with jaundice, hid his face

  From all men, and commercing with himself,

  He lost the sense that handles daily life

  That keeps us all in order more or less

  And sick of home went overseas for change.

  John. And whither?

  James. Nay, who knows? he’s here and there.

  But let him go; his devil goes with him,

  As well as with his tenant, Jockey Dawes.

  John. What’s that?

  James. You saw the man on Monday, was it?

  There by the hump-back’d willow; half stands up

  And bristles; half has fall’n and made a bridge;

  And there he caught the younker tickling trout

  Caught in flagrante what’s the Latin word?

  Delicto; but his house, for so they say,

  Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook

  The curtains, whined in lobbies, tapt at doors,

  And rummaged like a rat: no servant stay’d:

  The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs,

  And all his household
stuff; and with his boy

  Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt,

  Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him,

  “What! You’re flitting!” “Yes, we’re flitting,” says the ghost

  (For they had pack’d the thing among the beds).

  “Oh, well,” says he, “you flitting with us too

  Jack, turn the horses’ heads and home again”.

  John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard.

  James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once:

  A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.

  John. Oh, yet, but I remember, ten years back

  ‘Tis now at least ten years and then she was

  You could not light upon a sweeter thing:

  A body slight and round and like a pear

  In growing, modest eyes, a hand a foot

  Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin

  As clean and white as privet when it flowers.

  James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades and they that loved

  At first like dove and dove were cat and dog.

  She was the daughter of a cottager,

  Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride,

  New things and old, himself and her, she sour’d

  To what she is: a nature never kind!

  Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say.

  Kind nature is the best: those manners next

  That fit us like a nature second-hand;

  Which are indeed the manners of the great.

  John. But I had heard it was this bill that past,

  And fear of change at home, that drove him hence.

  James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall.

  I once was near him, when his bailiff brought

  A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince

  As from a venomous thing: he thought himself

  A mark for all, and shudder’d, lest a cry

  Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes

  Should see the raw mechanic’s bloody thumbs

  Sweat on his blazon’d chairs; but, sir, you know

  That these two parties still divide the world

  Of those that want, and those that have: and still

  The same old sore breaks out from age to age

  With much the same result. Now I myself,

  A Tory to the quick, was as a boy

  Destructive, when I had not what I would.

  I was at school a college in the South:

  There lived a flayflint near; we stole his fruit,

  His hens, his eggs; but there was law for us;

  We paid in person. He had a sow, sir. She,

  With meditative grunts of much content,

  Lay great with pig, wallowing in sun and mud.

  By night we dragg’d her to the college tower

  From her warm bed, and up the corkscrew stair

  With hand and rope we haled the groaning sow,