Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  The banner: anon to meet us lightly pranced

  Three captains out; nor ever had I seen

  Such thews of men: the midmost and the highest

  Was Arac: all about his motion clung

  The shadow of his sister, as the beam

  Of the East, that played upon them, made them glance

  Like those three stars of the airy Giant’s zone,

  That glitter burnished by the frosty dark;

  And as the fiery Sirius alters hue,

  And bickers into red and emerald, shone

  Their morions, washed with morning, as they came.

  And I that prated peace, when first I heard

  War-music, felt the blind wildbeast of force,

  Whose home is in the sinews of a man,

  Stir in me as to strike: then took the king

  His three broad sons; with now a wandering hand

  And now a pointed finger, told them all:

  A common light of smiles at our disguise

  Broke from their lips, and, ere the windy jest

  Had laboured down within his ample lungs,

  The genial giant, Arac, rolled himself

  Thrice in the saddle, then burst out in words.

  ‘Our land invaded, ‘sdeath! and he himself

  Your captive, yet my father wills not war:

  And, ‘sdeath! myself, what care I, war or no?

  but then this question of your troth remains:

  And there’s a downright honest meaning in her;

  She flies too high, she flies too high! and yet

  She asked but space and fairplay for her scheme;

  She prest and prest it on me — I myself,

  What know I of these things? but, life and soul!

  I thought her half-right talking of her wrongs;

  I say she flies too high, ‘sdeath! what of that?

  I take her for the flower of womankind,

  And so I often told her, right or wrong,

  And, Prince, she can be sweet to those she loves,

  And, right or wrong, I care not: this is all,

  I stand upon her side: she made me swear it —

  ‘Sdeath — and with solemn rites by candle-light —

  Swear by St something — I forget her name —

  Her that talked down the fifty wisest men;

  She was a princess too; and so I swore.

  Come, this is all; she will not: waive your claim:

  If not, the foughten field, what else, at once

  Decides it, ‘sdeath! against my father’s will.’

  I lagged in answer loth to render up

  My precontract, and loth by brainless war

  To cleave the rift of difference deeper yet;

  Till one of those two brothers, half aside

  And fingering at the hair about his lip,

  To prick us on to combat ‘Like to like!

  The woman’s garment hid the woman’s heart.’

  A taunt that clenched his purpose like a blow!

  For fiery-short was Cyril’s counter-scoff,

  And sharp I answered, touched upon the point

  Where idle boys are cowards to their shame,

  ‘Decide it here: why not? we are three to three.’

  Then spake the third ‘But three to three? no more?

  No more, and in our noble sister’s cause?

  More, more, for honour: every captain waits

  Hungry for honour, angry for his king.

  More, more some fifty on a side, that each

  May breathe himself, and quick! by overthrow

  Of these or those, the question settled die.’

  ‘Yea,’ answered I, ‘for this wreath of air,

  This flake of rainbow flying on the highest

  Foam of men’s deeds — this honour, if ye will.

  It needs must be for honour if at all:

  Since, what decision? if we fail, we fail,

  And if we win, we fail: she would not keep

  Her compact.’ ‘‘Sdeath! but we will send to her,’

  Said Arac, ‘worthy reasons why she should

  Bide by this issue: let our missive through,

  And you shall have her answer by the word.’

  ‘Boys!’ shrieked the old king, but vainlier than a hen

  To her false daughters in the pool; for none

  Regarded; neither seemed there more to say:

  Back rode we to my father’s camp, and found

  He thrice had sent a herald to the gates,

  To learn if Ida yet would cede our claim,

  Or by denial flush her babbling wells

  With her own people’s life: three times he went:

  The first, he blew and blew, but none appeared:

  He battered at the doors; none came: the next,

  An awful voice within had warned him thence:

  The third, and those eight daughters of the plough

  Came sallying through the gates, and caught his hair,

  And so belaboured him on rib and cheek

  They made him wild: not less one glance he caught

  Through open doors of Ida stationed there

  Unshaken, clinging to her purpose, firm

  Though compassed by two armies and the noise

  Of arms; and standing like a stately Pine

  Set in a cataract on an island-crag,

  When storm is on the heights, and right and left

  Sucked from the dark heart of the long hills roll

  The torrents, dashed to the vale: and yet her will

  Bred will in me to overcome it or fall.

  But when I told the king that I was pledged

  To fight in tourney for my bride, he clashed

  His iron palms together with a cry;

  Himself would tilt it out among the lads:

  But overborne by all his bearded lords

  With reasons drawn from age and state, perforce

  He yielded, wroth and red, with fierce demur:

  And many a bold knight started up in heat,

  And sware to combat for my claim till death.

  All on this side the palace ran the field

  Flat to the garden-wall: and likewise here,

  Above the garden’s glowing blossom-belts,

  A columned entry shone and marble stairs,

  And great bronze valves, embossed with Tomyris

  And what she did to Cyrus after fight,

  But now fast barred: so here upon the flat

  All that long morn the lists were hammered up,

  And all that morn the heralds to and fro,

  With message and defiance, went and came;

  Last, Ida’s answer, in a royal hand,

  But shaken here and there, and rolling words

  Oration-like. I kissed it and I read.

  ‘O brother, you have known the pangs we felt,

  What heats of indignation when we heard

  Of those that iron-cramped their women’s feet;

  Of lands in which at the altar the poor bride

  Gives her harsh groom for bridal-gift a scourge;

  Of living hearts that crack within the fire

  Where smoulder their dead despots; and of those, —

  Mothers, — that, with all prophetic pity, fling

  Their pretty maids in the running flood, and swoops

  The vulture, beak and talon, at the heart

  Made for all noble motion: and I saw

  That equal baseness lived in sleeker times

  With smoother men: the old leaven leavened all:

  Millions of throats would bawl for civil rights,

  No woman named: therefore I set my face

  Against all men, and lived but for mine own.

  Far off from men I built a fold for them:

  I stored it full of rich memorial:

  I fenced it round with gallant institutes,

  And biting laws to scare the beasts of prey

  And prospered; till a rout
of saucy boys

  Brake on us at our books, and marred our peace,

  Masked like our maids, blustering I know not what

  Of insolence and love, some pretext held

  Of baby troth, invalid, since my will

  Sealed not the bond — the striplings! for their sport! —

  I tamed my leopards: shall I not tame these?

  Or you? or I? for since you think me touched

  In honour — what, I would not aught of false —

  Is not our case pure? and whereas I know

  Your prowess, Arac, and what mother’s blood

  You draw from, fight; you failing, I abide

  What end soever: fail you will not. Still

  Take not his life: he risked it for my own;

  His mother lives: yet whatsoe’er you do,

  Fight and fight well; strike and strike him. O dear

  Brothers, the woman’s Angel guards you, you

  The sole men to be mingled with our cause,

  The sole men we shall prize in the after-time,

  Your very armour hallowed, and your statues

  Reared, sung to, when, this gad-fly brushed aside,

  We plant a solid foot into the Time,

  And mould a generation strong to move

  With claim on claim from right to right, till she

  Whose name is yoked with children’s, know herself;

  And Knowledge in our own land make her free,

  And, ever following those two crownèd twins,

  Commerce and conquest, shower the fiery grain

  Of freedom broadcast over all the orbs

  Between the Northern and the Southern morn.’

  Then came a postscript dashed across the rest.

  See that there be no traitors in your camp:

  We seem a nest of traitors — none to trust

  Since our arms failed — this Egypt-plague of men!

  Almost our maids were better at their homes,

  Than thus man-girdled here: indeed I think

  Our chiefest comfort is the little child

  Of one unworthy mother; which she left:

  She shall not have it back: the child shall grow

  To prize the authentic mother of her mind.

  I took it for an hour in mine own bed

  This morning: there the tender orphan hands

  Felt at my heart, and seemed to charm from thence

  The wrath I nursed against the world: farewell.’

  I ceased; he said, ‘Stubborn, but she may sit

  Upon a king’s right hand in thunder-storms,

  And breed up warriors! See now, though yourself

  Be dazzled by the wildfire Love to sloughs

  That swallow common sense, the spindling king,

  This Gama swamped in lazy tolerance.

  When the man wants weight, the woman takes it up,

  And topples down the scales; but this is fixt

  As are the roots of earth and base of all;

  Man for the field and woman for the hearth:

  Man for the sword and for the needle she:

  Man with the head and woman with the heart:

  Man to command and woman to obey;

  All else confusion. Look you! the gray mare

  Is ill to live with, when her whinny shrills

  From tile to scullery, and her small goodman

  Shrinks in his arm-chair while the fires of Hell

  Mix with his hearth: but you — she’s yet a colt —

  Take, break her: strongly groomed and straitly curbed

  She might not rank with those detestable

  That let the bantling scald at home, and brawl

  Their rights and wrongs like potherbs in the street.

  They say she’s comely; there’s the fairer chance:

  I like her none the less for rating at her!

  Besides, the woman wed is not as we,

  But suffers change of frame. A lusty brace

  Of twins may weed her of her folly. Boy,

  The bearing and the training of a child

  Is woman’s wisdom.’

  Thus the hard old king:

  I took my leave, for it was nearly noon:

  I pored upon her letter which I held,

  And on the little clause ‘take not his life:’

  I mused on that wild morning in the woods,

  And on the ‘Follow, follow, thou shalt win:’

  I thought on all the wrathful king had said,

  And how the strange betrothment was to end:

  Then I remembered that burnt sorcerer’s curse

  That one should fight with shadows and should fall;

  And like a flash the weird affection came:

  King, camp and college turned to hollow shows;

  I seemed to move in old memorial tilts,

  And doing battle with forgotten ghosts,

  To dream myself the shadow of a dream:

  And ere I woke it was the point of noon,

  The lists were ready. Empanoplied and plumed

  We entered in, and waited, fifty there

  Opposed to fifty, till the trumpet blared

  At the barrier like a wild horn in a land

  Of echoes, and a moment, and once more

  The trumpet, and again: at which the storm

  Of galloping hoofs bare on the ridge of spears

  And riders front to front, until they closed

  In conflict with the crash of shivering points,

  And thunder. Yet it seemed a dream, I dreamed

  Of fighting. On his haunches rose the steed,

  And into fiery splinters leapt the lance,

  And out of stricken helmets sprang the fire.

  Part sat like rocks: part reeled but kept their seats:

  Part rolled on the earth and rose again and drew:

  Part stumbled mixt with floundering horses. Down

  From those two bulks at Arac’s side, and down

  From Arac’s arm, as from a giant’s flail,

  The large blows rained, as here and everywhere

  He rode the mellay, lord of the ringing lists,

  And all the plain, — brand, mace, and shaft, and shield —

  Shocked, like an iron-clanging anvil banged

  With hammers; till I thought, can this be he

  From Gama’s dwarfish loins? if this be so,

  The mother makes us most — and in my dream

  I glanced aside, and saw the palace-front

  Alive with fluttering scarfs and ladies’ eyes,

  And highest, among the statues, statuelike,

  Between a cymballed Miriam and a Jael,

  With Psyche’s babe, was Ida watching us,

  A single band of gold about her hair,

  Like a Saint’s glory up in heaven: but she

  No saint — inexorable — no tenderness —

  Too hard, too cruel: yet she sees me fight,

  Yea, let her see me fall! and with that I drave

  Among the thickest and bore down a Prince,

  And Cyril, one. Yea, let me make my dream

  All that I would. But that large-moulded man,

  His visage all agrin as at a wake,

  Made at me through the press, and, staggering back

  With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came

  As comes a pillar of electric cloud,

  Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,

  And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes

  On a wood, and takes, and breaks, and cracks, and splits,

  And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth

  Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for everything

  Game way before him: only Florian, he

  That loved me closer than his own right eye,

  Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:

  And Cyril seeing it, pushed against the Prince,

  With Psyche’s colour round his helmet, tough,

  Strong, supple, sin
ew-corded, apt at arms;

  But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote

  And threw him: last I spurred; I felt my veins

  Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,

  And sword to sword, and horse to horse we hung,

  Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanced,

  I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth

  Flowed from me; darkness closed me; and I fell.

  Home they brought her warrior dead:

  She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:

  All her maidens, watching, said,

  ‘She must weep or she will die.’

  Then they praised him, soft and low,

  Called him worthy to be loved,

  Truest friend and noblest foe;

  Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

  Stole a maiden from her place,

  Lightly to the warrior stept,

  Took the face-cloth from the face;

  Yet she neither moved nor wept.

  Rose a nurse of ninety years,

  Set his child upon her knee —

  Like summer tempest came her tears —

  ‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’

  Princess: VI

  My dream had never died or lived again.

  As in some mystic middle state I lay;

  Seeing I saw not, hearing not I heard:

  Though, if I saw not, yet they told me all

  So often that I speak as having seen.

  For so it seemed, or so they said to me,

  That all things grew more tragic and more strange;

  That when our side was vanquished and my cause

  For ever lost, there went up a great cry,

  The Prince is slain. My father heard and ran

  In on the lists, and there unlaced my casque

  And grovelled on my body, and after him

  Came Psyche, sorrowing for Aglaïa.

  But high upon the palace Ida stood

  With Psyche’s babe in arm: there on the roofs

  Like that great dame of Lapidoth she sang.

  ‘Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: the seed,

  The little seed they laughed at in the dark,

  Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk

  Of spanless girth, that lays on every side

  A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.

  ‘Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they came;

  The leaves were wet with women’s tears: they heard

  A noise of songs they would not understand:

  They marked it with the red cross to the fall,

  And would have strown it, and are fallen themselves.

  ‘Our enemies have fallen, have fallen: they came,

  The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!

  But we will make it faggots for the hearth,

  And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,

  And boats and bridges for the use of men.