Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  And on the leads we kept her till she pigg’d.

  Large range of prospect had the mother sow,

  And but for daily loss of one she loved,

  As one by one we took them but for this

  As never sow was higher in this world

  Might have been happy: but what lot is pure!

  We took them all, till she was left alone

  Upon her tower, the Niobe of swine,

  And so return’d unfarrowed to her sty.

  John. They found you out?

  James. Not they.

  John. Well after all What know we of the secret of a man?

  His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound,

  That we should mimic this raw fool the world,

  Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites,

  As ruthless as a baby with a worm,

  As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows

  To Pity more from ignorance than will,

  But put your best foot forward, or I fear

  That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes

  With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand

  As you shall see three pyebalds and a roan.

  St Simon Stylites

  It is not easy to identify the St. Simeon Stylites of Hone’s narrative and Tennyson’s poem, whether he is to be identified with St. Simeon the Elder, of whom there are three memoirs given in the Acta Sanctorum, tom. i., 5th January, 261-286, or with St. Simeon Stylites, Junior, of whom there is an elaborate biography in Greek by Nicephorus printed with a Latin translation and notes in the Acta Sanctorum, tom. v., 24th May, 298-401. It seems clear that whoever compiled the account popularised by Hone had read both and amalgamated them. The main lines in the story of both saints are exactly the same. Both stood on columns, both tortured themselves in the same ways, both wrought miracles, and both died at their posts of penance. St. Simeon the Elder was born at Sisan in Syria about A.D. 390, and was buried at Antioch in A.D. 459 or 460. The Simeon the Younger was born at Antioch A. D. 521 and died in A.D. 592. His life, which is of singular interest, is much more elaborately related.

  This poem is not simply a dramatic study. It bears very directly on Tennyson’s philosophy of life. In these early poems he has given us four studies in the morbid anatomy of character: The Palace of Art, which illustrates the abuse of aesthetic and intellectual enjoyment of self; The Vision of Sin, which illustrates the effects of similar indulgence in the grosser pleasures of the senses; The Two Voices, which illustrates the mischief of despondent self-absorption, while the present poem illustrates the equally pernicious indulgence in an opposite extreme, asceticism affected for the mere gratification of personal vanity.

  Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,

  From scalp to sole one slough and crust of sin,

  Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet

  For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy,

  I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold

  Of saintdom, and to clamour, morn and sob,

  Battering the gates of heaven with storms of prayer,

  Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin.

  Let this avail, just, dreadful, mighty God,

  This not be all in vain that thrice ten years,

  Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,

  In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,

  In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,

  A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,

  Patient on this tall pillar I have borne

  Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;

  And I had hoped that ere this period closed

  Thou wouldst have caught me up into Thy rest,

  Denying not these weather-beaten limbs

  The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

  O take the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe,

  Not whisper, any murmur of complaint.

  Pain heap’d ten-hundred-fold to this, were still

  Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear,

  Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that crush’d

  My spirit flat before thee. O Lord, Lord,

  Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,

  For I was strong and hale of body then;

  And tho’ my teeth, which now are dropt away,

  Would chatter with the cold, and all my beard

  Was tagg’d with icy fringes in the moon,

  I drown’d the whoopings of the owl with sound

  Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes saw

  An angel stand and watch me, as I sang.

  Now am I feeble grown; my end draws nigh;

  I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am,

  So that I scarce can hear the people hum

  About the column’s base, and almost blind,

  And scarce can recognise the fields I know;

  And both my thighs are rotted with the dew;

  Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry,

  While my stiff spine can hold my weary head,

  Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the stone,

  Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.

  O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul,

  Who may be saved? who is it may be saved?

  Who may be made a saint, if I fail here?

  Show me the man hath suffered more than I.

  For did not all thy martyrs die one death?

  For either they were stoned, or crucified,

  Or burn’d in fire, or boil’d in oil, or sawn

  In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here

  To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.

  Bear witness, if I could have found a way

  (And heedfully I sifted all my thought)

  More slowly-painful to subdue this home

  Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate,

  I had not stinted practice, O my God.

  For not alone this pillar-punishment,

  Not this alone I bore: but while I lived

  In the white convent down the valley there,

  For many weeks about my loins I wore

  The rope that haled the buckets from the well,

  Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;

  And spake not of it to a single soul,

  Until the ulcer, eating thro’ my skin,

  Betray’d my secret penance, so that all

  My brethren marvell’d greatly. More than this

  I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all.

  Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee,

  I lived up there on yonder mountain side.

  My right leg chain’d into the crag, I lay

  Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones;

  Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice

  Black’d with thy branding thunder, and sometimes

  Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not,

  Except the spare chance-gift of those that came

  To touch my body and be heal’d, and live:

  And they say then that I work’d miracles,

  Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,

  Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O God,

  Knowest alone whether this was or no.

  Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

  Then, that I might be more alone with thee,

  Three years I lived upon a pillar, high

  Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve;

  And twice three years I crouch’d on one that rose

  Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew

  Twice ten long weary weary years to this,

  That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

  I think that I have borne as much as this

  Or else I dream and for so long a time,

  If I may measure time by yon slow light,

  And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns

  So much even so. And yet I know not well,


  For that the evil ones comes here, and say,

  “Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer’d long

  For ages and for ages!” then they prate

  Of penances I cannot have gone thro’,

  Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall,

  Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies,

  That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet

  Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints

  Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men on earth

  House in the shade of comfortable roofs,

  Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food,

  And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls,

  I, ‘tween the spring and downfall of the light,

  Bow down one thousand and two hundred times,

  To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints;

  Or in the night, after a little sleep,

  I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet

  With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.

  I wear an undress’d goatskin on my back;

  A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;

  And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,

  And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:

  O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

  O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;

  A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:

  ‘Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;

  Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,

  That here come those that worship me? Ha! ha!

  They think that I am somewhat. What am I?

  The silly people take me for a saint,

  And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers:

  And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here)

  Have all in all endured as much, and more

  Than many just and holy men, whose names

  Are register’d and calendar’d for saints.

  Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.

  What is it I can have done to merit this?

  I am a sinner viler than you all.

  It may be I have wrought some miracles,

  And cured some halt and maim’d; but what of that?

  It may be, no one, even among the saints,

  May match his pains with mine; but what of that?

  Yet do not rise: for you may look on me,

  And in your looking you may kneel to God.

  Speak! is there any of you halt or maim’d?

  I think you know I have some power with Heaven

  From my long penance: let him speak his wish.

  Yes, I can heal. Power goes forth from me.

  They say that they are heal’d. Ah, hark! they shout

  “St. Simeon Stylites”. Why, if so,

  God reaps a harvest in me. O my soul,

  God reaps a harvest in thee. If this be,

  Can I work miracles and not be saved?

  This is not told of any. They were saints.

  It cannot be but that I shall be saved;

  Yea, crown’d a saint. They shout, “Behold a saint!”

  And lower voices saint me from above.

  Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis

  Cracks into shining wings, and hope ere death

  Spreads more and more and more, that God hath now

  Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all

  My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons,

  I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men;

  I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end;

  I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;

  I, whose bald brows in silent hours become

  Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now

  From my high nest of penance here proclaim

  That Pontius and Iscariot by my side

  Show’d like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,

  A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath

  Made me boil over. Devils pluck’d my sleeve;

  Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.

  I smote them with the cross; they swarm’d again.

  In bed like monstrous apes they crush’d my chest:

  They flapp’d my light out as I read: I saw

  Their faces grow between me and my book:

  With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine

  They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left,

  And by this way I’scaped them. Mortify

  Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns;

  Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast

  Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps,

  With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain,

  Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still

  Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise:

  God only thro’ his bounty hath thought fit,

  Among the powers and princes of this world,

  To make me an example to mankind,

  Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say

  But that a time may come yea, even now,

  Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs

  Of life I say, that time is at the doors

  When you may worship me without reproach;

  For I will leave my relics in your land,

  And you may carve a shrine about my dust,

  And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,

  When I am gather’d to the glorious saints.

  While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain

  Ran shrivelling thro’ me, and a cloudlike change,

  In passing, with a grosser film made thick

  These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!

  Surely the end! What’s here? a shape, a shade,

  A flash of light. Is that the angel there

  That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come,

  I know thy glittering face. I waited long;

  My brows are ready. What! deny it now?

  Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!

  ‘Tis gone: ‘tis here again; the crown! the crown!

  So now ‘tis fitted on and grows to me,

  And from it melt the dews of Paradise,

  Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.

  Ah! let me not be fool’d, sweet saints: I trust

  That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

  Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,

  Among you there, and let him presently

  Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft,

  And climbing up into my airy home,

  Deliver me the blessed sacrament;

  For by the warning of the Holy Ghost,

  I prophesy that I shall die to-night,

  A quarter before twelve. But thou, O Lord,

  Aid all this foolish people; let them take

  Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.

  The Talking Oak

  Tennyson told Mr. Aubrey de Vere that the poem was an experiment meant to test the degree in which it is in the power of poetry to humanise external nature. Tennyson might have remembered that Ovid had made the same experiment nearly two thousand years ago, while Goethe had immediately anticipated him in his charming Der Junggesett und der Mühlbach. There was certainly no novelty in such an attempt. The poem is in parts charmingly written, but the oak is certainly “garrulously given,” and comes perilously near to tediousness.

  Once more the gate behind me falls;

  Once more before my face

  I see the moulder’d Abbey-walls,

  That stand within the chace.

  Beyond the lodge the city lies,

  Beneath its drift of smoke;

  And ah! with what delighted eyes

  I turn to yonder oak.

  For when my passion first began,

  Ere that, which in me burn’d,

  The love, that makes me thrice a man,

  Could hope itself return’
d;

  To yonder oak within the field

  I spoke without restraint,

  And with a larger faith appeal’d

  Than Papist unto Saint.

  For oft I talk’d with him apart,

  And told him of my choice,

  Until he plagiarised a heart,

  And answer’d with a voice.

  Tho’ what he whisper’d, under Heaven

  None else could understand;

  I found him garrulously given,

  A babbler in the land.

  But since I heard him make reply

  Is many a weary hour;

  ‘Twere well to question him, and try

  If yet he keeps the power.

  Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,

  Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,

  Whose topmost branches can discern

  The roofs of Sumner-place!

  Say thou, whereon I carved her name,

  If ever maid or spouse,

  As fair as my Olivia, came

  To rest beneath thy boughs.

  “O Walter, I have shelter’d here

  Whatever maiden grace

  The good old Summers, year by year,

  Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

  “Old Summers, when the monk was fat,

  And, issuing shorn and sleek,

  Would twist his girdle tight, and pat

  The girls upon the cheek.

  “Ere yet, in scorn of Peter’s-pence,

  And number’d bead, and shrift,

  Bluff Harry broke into the spence,

  And turn’d the cowls adrift:

  “And I have seen some score of those

  Fresh faces, that would thrive

  When his man-minded offset rose

  To chase the deer at five;

  “And all that from the town would stroll,

  Till that wild wind made work

  In which the gloomy brewer’s soul

  Went by me, like a stork:

  “The slight she-slips of loyal blood,

  And others, passing praise,

  Strait-laced, but all too full in bud

  For puritanic stays:

  “And I have shadow’d many a group

  Of beauties, that were born

  In teacup-times of hood and hoop,

  Or while the patch was worn;

  “And, leg and arm with love-knots gay,

  About me leap’d and laugh’d

  The Modish Cupid of the day,

  And shrill’d his tinsel shaft.

  “I swear (and else may insects prick

  Each leaf into a gall)

  This girl, for whom your heart is sick,

  Is three times worth them all;

  “For those and theirs, by Nature’s law,

  Have faded long ago;

  But in these latter springs I saw

  Your own Olivia blow,