Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,

  Came on the shining levels of the lake.

  There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,

  And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,

  Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

  And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:

  For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,

  Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work

  Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long

  That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,

  This way and that dividing the swift mind,

  In act to throw: but at the last it seemed

  Better to leave Excalibur concealed

  There in the many-knotted waterflags,

  That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

  So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

  ‘Hast thou performed my mission which I gave?

  What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  ‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,

  And the wild water lapping on the crag.’

  To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:

  ‘Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name,

  Not rendering true answer, as beseemed

  Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:

  For surer sign had followed, either hand,

  Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

  This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

  Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,

  As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing

  I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’

  Then went Sir Bedivere the second time

  Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,

  Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;

  But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,

  How curiously and strangely chased, he smote

  His palms together, and he cried aloud:

  ‘And if indeed I cast the brand away,

  Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,

  Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,

  Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

  What good should follow this, if this were done?

  What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,

  Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.

  Were it well to obey then, if a king demand

  An act unprofitable, against himself?

  The King is sick, and knows not what he does.

  What record, or what relic of my lord

  Should be to aftertime, but empty breath

  And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,

  Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,

  Some one might show it at a joust of arms,

  Saying, “King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,

  Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

  Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps

  Upon the hidden bases of the hills.”

  So might some old man speak in the aftertime

  To all the people, winning reverence.

  But now much honour and much fame were lost.’

  So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,

  And hid Excalibur the second time,

  And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

  ‘What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  ‘I heard the water lapping on the crag,

  And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’

  To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

  ‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,

  Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

  Authority forgets a dying king,

  Laid widowed of the power in his eye

  That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art,

  For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,

  In whom should meet the offices of all,

  Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

  Either from lust of gold, or like a girl

  Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

  Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

  And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:

  But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

  I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’

  Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,

  And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

  Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword,

  And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand

  Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,

  And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch,

  Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,

  Seen where the moving isles of winter shock

  By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.

  So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur:

  But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

  And lightly went the other to the King.

  Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:

  ‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.

  Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’

  And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

  ‘Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems

  Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,

  Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,

  Not though I live three lives of mortal men,

  So great a miracle as yonder hilt.

  Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;

  But when I looked again, behold an arm,

  Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

  That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him

  Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’

  And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:

  ‘My end draws nigh; ‘tis time that I were gone.

  Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,

  And bear me to the margin; yet I fear

  My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’

  So saying, from the pavement he half rose,

  Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,

  And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes

  As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere

  Remorsefully regarded through his tears,

  And would have spoken, but he found not words;

  Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,

  O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,

  And rising bore him through the place of tombs.

  But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard,

  Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

  When all the house is mute. So sighed the King,

  Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick!

  I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’

  But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

  Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked,

  Larger than human on the frozen hills.

  He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

  Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

  Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves

  And barren chasms, and all to left and right

  The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based

  His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang

  Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels —

  And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

  And the long glories of the winter moon.

  Then saw they how there h
ove a dusky barge,

  Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

  Beneath them; and descending they were ware

  That all the decks were dense with stately forms,

  Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream — by these

  Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose

  A cry that shivered to the tingling stars,

  And, as it were one voice, an agony

  Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills

  All night in a waste land, where no one comes,

  Or hath come, since the making of the world.

  Then murmured Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge.’

  So to the barge they came. There those three Queens

  Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.

  But she, that rose the tallest of them all

  And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,

  And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands,

  And called him by his name, complaining loud,

  And dropping bitter tears against a brow

  Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white

  And colourless, and like the withered moon

  Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;

  And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops

  Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls —

  That made his forehead like a rising sun

  High from the dais-throne — were parched with dust;

  Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,

  Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

  So like a shattered column lay the King;

  Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

  From spur to plume a star of tournament,

  Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged

  Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

  Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:

  ‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?

  Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?

  For now I see the true old times are dead,

  When every morning brought a noble chance,

  And every chance brought out a noble knight.

  Such times have been not since the light that led

  The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.

  But now the whole Round Table is dissolved

  Which was an image of the mighty world,

  And I, the last, go forth companionless,

  And the days darken round me, and the years,

  Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’

  And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

  ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

  And God fulfils himself in many ways,

  Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

  Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

  I have lived my life, and that which I have done

  May He within himself make pure! but thou,

  If thou shouldst never see my face again,

  Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

  Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

  Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

  For what are men better than sheep or goats

  That nourish a blind life within the brain,

  If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

  Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

  For so the whole round earth is every way

  Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

  But now farewell. I am going a long way

  With these thou seest — if indeed I go

  (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) —

  To the island-valley of Avilion;

  Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

  Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

  Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns

  And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,

  Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’

  So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

  Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

  That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

  Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

  With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

  Revolving many memories, till the hull

  Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,

  And on the mere the wailing died away.

  But when that moan had past for evermore,

  The stillness of the dead world’s winter dawn

  Amazed him, and he groaned, ‘The King is gone.’

  And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,

  ‘From the great deep to the great deep he goes.’

  Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb

  The last hard footstep of that iron crag;

  Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried,

  ‘He passes to be King among the dead,

  And after healing of his grievous wound

  He comes again; but — if he come no more —

  O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,

  Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed

  On that high day, when, clothed with living light,

  They stood before his throne in silence, friends

  Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?’

  Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint

  As from beyond the limit of the world,

  Like the last echo born of a great cry,

  Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice

  Around a king returning from his wars.

  Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb

  Even to the highest he could climb, and saw,

  Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,

  Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,

  Down that long water opening on the deep

  Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go

  From less to less and vanish into light.

  And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

  To the Queen

  1873

  O loyal to the royal in thyself,

  And loyal to thy land, as this to thee —

  Bear witness, that rememberable day,

  When, pale as yet, and fever-worn, the Prince

  Who scarce had plucked his flickering life again

  From halfway down the shadow of the grave,

  Past with thee through thy people and their love,

  And London rolled one tide of joy through all

  Her trebled millions, and loud leagues of man

  And welcome! witness, too, the silent cry,

  The prayer of many a race and creed, and clime —

  Thunderless lightnings striking under sea

  From sunset and sunrise of all thy realm,

  And that true North, whereof we lately heard

  A strain to shame us ‘keep you to yourselves;

  So loyal is too costly! friends — your love

  Is but a burthen: loose the bond, and go.’

  Is this the tone of empire? here the faith

  That made us rulers? this, indeed, her voice

  And meaning, whom the roar of Hougoumont

  Left mightiest of all peoples under heaven?

  What shock has fooled her since, that she should speak

  So feebly? wealthier — wealthier — hour by hour!

  The voice of Britain, or a sinking land,

  Some third-rate isle half-lost among her seas?

  There rang her voice, when the full city pealed

  Thee and thy Prince! The loyal to their crown

  Are loyal to their own far sons, who love

  Our ocean-empire with her boundless homes

  For ever-broadening England, and her throne

  In our vast Orient, and one isle, one isle,

  That knows
not her own greatness: if she knows

  And dreads it we are fallen. — But thou, my Queen,

  Not for itself, but through thy living love

  For one to whom I made it o’er his grave

  Sacred, accept this old imperfect tale,

  New-old, and shadowing Sense at war with Soul,

  Ideal manhood closed in real man,

  Rather than that gray king, whose name, a ghost,

  Streams like a cloud, man-shaped, from mountain peak,

  And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him

  Of Geoffrey’s book, or him of Malleor’s, one

  Touched by the adulterous finger of a time

  That hovered between war and wantonness,

  And crownings and dethronements: take withal

  Thy poet’s blessing, and his trust that Heaven

  Will blow the tempest in the distance back

  From thine and ours: for some are sacred, who mark,

  Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,

  Waverings of every vane with every wind,

  And wordy trucklings to the transient hour,

  And fierce or careless looseners of the faith,

  And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,

  Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold,

  Or Labour, with a groan and not a voice,

  Or Art with poisonous honey stolen from France,

  And that which knows, but careful for itself,

  And that which knows not, ruling that which knows

  To its own harm: the goal of this great world

  Lies beyond sight: yet — if our slowly-grown

  And crowned Republic’s crowning common-sense,

  That saved her many times, not fail — their fears

  Are morning shadows huger than the shapes

  That cast them, not those gloomier which forego

  The darkness of that battle in the West,

  Where all of high and holy dies away.

  ENOCH ARDEN AND OTHER POEMS

  This collection was released in 1862, offering a range of poems printed in various periodicals over the last decade. The title poem is based on a tale by Thomas Woolner. The narrative concerns the eponymous hero, a fisherman turned merchant sailor that leaves his wife Annie and three children to go to sea with his old captain. Having lost his position due to an accident, Enoch Arden accepts the offer from the Captain, believing he can better serve his family by doing so. However during his voyage, Enoch is shipwrecked on a desert island with two companions; both eventually die, leaving Arden alone there – a situation reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe. The story could also be considered as a variation of the classical myth of Odysseus, who after an absence of twenty years, returns home to find a faithful wife waiting for him.