Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Tennyson Alfred

  Our Boanerges with his threats of doom,

  And loud-lung’d Antibabylonianisms

  (Altho’ I grant but little music there)

  Went both to make your dream: but if there were

  A music harmonizing our wild cries,

  Sphere-music such as that you dream’d about,

  Why, that would make our passions far too like

  The discords dear to the musician. No —

  One shriek of hate would jar all the hymns of heaven:

  True Devils with no ear, they howl in tune

  With nothing but the Devil!’

  ‘“True” indeed!

  One of our town, but later by an hour

  Here than ourselves, spoke with me on the shore;

  While you were running down the sands, and made

  The dimpled flounce of the sea-furbelow flap,

  Good man, to please the child. She brought strange news.

  Why were you silent when I spoke to-night?

  I had set my heart on your forgiving him

  Before you knew. We must forgive the dead.’

  ‘Dead! who is dead?’

  ‘The man your eye pursued.

  A little after you had parted with him,

  He suddenly dropt dead of heart-disease.’

  ‘Dead? he? of heart-disease? what heart had he

  To die of? dead!’

  ‘Ah, dearest, if there be

  A devil in man, there is an angel too,

  And if he did that wrong you charge him with,

  His angel broke his heart. But your rough voice

  (You spoke so loud) has roused the child again.

  Sleep, little birdie, sleep! will she not sleep

  Without her “little birdie?” well then, sleep,

  And I will sing you “birdie.”’

  Saying this,

  The woman half turn’d round from him she loved,

  Left him one hand, and reaching thro’ the night

  Her other, found (for it was close beside)

  And half embraced the basket cradle-head

  With one soft arm, which, like the pliant bough

  That moving moves the nest and nestling, sway’d

  The cradle, while she sang this baby song.

  What does the little birdie say

  In her nest at peep of day?

  Let me fly, says little birdie,

  Mother, let me fly away.

  Birdie, rest a little longer,

  Till the little wings are stronger.

  So she rests a little longer,

  Then she flies away.

  What does little baby say,

  In her bed at peep of day?

  Baby says, like little birdie,

  Let me rise and fly away.

  Baby, sleep a little longer,

  Till the little limbs are stronger.

  If she sleeps a little longer,

  Baby too shall fly away.

  ‘She sleeps: let us too, let all evil, sleep.

  He also sleeps — another sleep than ours.

  He can do no more wrong: forgive him, dear,

  And I shall sleep the sounder!’

  Then the man,

  ‘His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come.

  Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound:

  I do forgive him!’

  ‘Thanks, my love,’ she said,

  ‘Your own will be the sweeter,’ and they slept.

  The Grandmother

  I.

  AND Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne?

  Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.

  And Willy’s wife has written: she never was over-wise,

  Never the wife for Willy: he wouldn’t take my advice.

  II.

  For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save,

  Hadn’t a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave.

  Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one.

  Eh! — but he wouldn’t hear me — and Willy, you say, is gone.

  III.

  Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock;

  Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock.

  ‘Here’s a leg for a babe of a week!’ says doctor; and he would be bound,

  There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

  IV.

  Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!

  I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young.

  I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay;

  Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

  V.

  Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;

  But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:

  I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;

  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

  VI.

  For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear,

  All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear.

  I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe,

  Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

  VII.

  For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well

  That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell.

  And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar!

  But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.

  VIII.

  And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise,

  That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,

  That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,

  But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

  IX.

  And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day;

  And all things look’d half-dead, tho’ it was the middle of May.

  Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been!

  But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean.

  X.

  And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late

  I climb’d to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate.

  The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale,

  And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

  XI.

  All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm,

  Willy, — he didn’t see me, — and Jenny hung on his arm.

  Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how;

  Ah, there’s no fool like the old one — it makes me angry now.

  XII.

  Willy stood up like a man, and look’d the thing that he meant;

  Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went.

  And I said, ‘Let us part: in a hundred years it’ll all be the same,

  You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.’

  XIII.

  And he turn’d, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine:

  Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine.

  And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well or ill;

  But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.’

  XIV.

  ‘Marry you, Willy!’ said I, ‘but I needs must speak my mind,

  And I fear you’ll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.’

  But he turn’d and claspt me in his arms, and answer’d, ‘No, love, no;’

  Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago.

  XV.

  So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown;

  And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown.

  But the first that ever I b
are was dead before he was born,

  Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.

  XVI.

  That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death.

  There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath.

  I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife;

  But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life.

  XVII.

  His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain:

  I look’d at the still little body — his trouble had all been in vain.

  For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn:

  But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.

  XVIII.

  But he cheer’d me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:

  Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way:

  Never jealous — not he: we had many a happy year;

  And he died, and I could not weep — my own time seem’d so near.

  XIX.

  But I wish’d it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died:

  I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side.

  And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget:

  But as to the children, Annie, they’re all about me yet.

  XX.

  Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two,

  Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you:

  Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,

  While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.

  XXI.

  And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too — they sing to their team:

  Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream.

  They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed —

  I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

  XXII.

  And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive;

  For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five:

  And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;

  I knew them all as babies, and now they’re elderly men.

  XXIII.

  For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve;

  I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve:

  And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;

  I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.

  XXIV.

  To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad:

  But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had;

  And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;

  And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace.

  XXV.

  And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain,

  And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again.

  I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest;

  Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

  XXVI.

  So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower;

  But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour, —

  Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;

  I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?

  XXVII.

  And Willy’s wife has written, she never was over-wise.

  Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes.

  There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away.

  But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.

  Northern Farmer

  OLD STYLE

  I.

  WHEER ‘asta beän saw long and meä liggin’ ‘ere aloän?

  Noorse? thoort nowt o’ a noorse: whoy, doctor’s abeän an’ agoän:

  Says that I moänt ‘a naw moor aäle: but I beänt a fool:

  Git ma my aäle, fur I beänt a-gooin’ to breäk my rule.

  II.

  Doctors, they knaws nowt, for a says what’s nawways true:

  Naw soort o’ koind o’ use to saäy the things that a do.

  I’ve ‘ed my point o’ aäle ivry noight sin’ I beän ‘ere,

  An’ I’ve ‘ed my quart ivry market-noight for foorty year.

  III.

  Parson’s a beän loikewoise, an’ a sittin’ ere o’ my bed.

  ‘The amoighty’s a taäkin o’ you1 to ‘issén, my friend,’ a said,

  An’ a towd ma my sins, an’s toithe were due, an’ I gied it in hond;

  I done my duty by un, as I ‘a done by the lond.

  IV.

  Larn’d a ma’ beä. I reckons I ‘annot sa mooch to larn.

  But a cast oop, thot a did, ‘boot Bessy Marris’s barn.

  Thaw a knaws I hallus voäted wi’ Squoire an’ choorch an staäte,

  An’ i’ the woost o’ toimes I wur niver agin the raäte.

  V.

  An’ I hallus comed to ‘s choorch afoor moy Sally wur deäd,

  An’ ‘eärd ‘um a bummin’ awaäy loike a buzzard-clock2 ower my ‘eäd,

  An’ I niver knaw’d whot a mean’d but I thowt a ‘ad summut to saäy,

  An I thowt a said whot a owt to ‘a said an’ I comed awaäy.

  VI.

  Bessy Marris’s barn! tha knaws she laäid it to meä.

  Mowt ‘a beän, mayhap, for she wur a bad un, sheä.

  ‘Siver, I kep un, I kep un, my lass, tha mun understond;

  I done my duty by un as I ‘a done boy the lond.

  VII.

  But Parson a comes an’ a goäs, an’ a says it easy an’ freeä

  ‘The amoighty’s a taäkin o’ you to ‘issen, my friend,’ says ‘eä.

  I weänt saäy men be loiars, thof summun said it in ‘aäste:

  But a reäds wonn sarmin a weeäk, an’ I ‘a stubb’d Thornaby waäste.

  VIII.

  D’ya moind the waäste, my lass? naw, naw, tha was not born then;

  Theer wur a boggle in it, I often ‘eärd ‘um mysen;

  Moäst loike a butter-bump,3 for I ‘eärd ‘um about an’ about,

  But I stubb’d un oop wi’ the lot, an’ raäved an rembled ‘um out.

  IX.

  Keäper’s it wur; fo’ they fun ‘um theer a laäid on ‘is faäce

  Down i’ the woild ‘enemies4 afoor I coom’d to the plaäce.

  Noäks or Thimbleby — toäner5 ‘ed shot un as deäd as a naäil.

  Noäks wur ‘ang’d for it oop at ‘soize — but git ma my aäle.

  X.

  Dubbut looök at the waäste: theer warn’t not feeäd for a cow:

  Nowt at all but bracken an’ fuzz, an’ looäk at it now —

  Warn’t worth nowt a haäcre, an’ now theer’s lots o’ feeäd,

  Fourscoor6 yows upon it an’ some on it down i’ seeäd.7

  XI.

  Nobbut a bit on it’s left, an’ I meän’d to ‘a stubb’d it at fall,

  Done it ta-year I meän’d, an’ runn’d plow thruff it an’ all,

  If godamoighty an’ parson ‘ud nobbut let ma aloän,

  Meä, wi’ haäte hoonderd haäcre o’ Squoire’s, an’ lond o’ my oän.

  XII.

  Do godamoighty knaw what a’s doing a-taäkin’ o’ meä?

  I beänt wonn as saws ‘ere a beän an’ yonder a peä;

  An’ Squoire ‘ull be sa mad an’ all — a’ dear a’ dear!

  And I ‘a managed for Squoire coom Michaelmas thutty year.

  XIII.

  A mowt ‘a taäen owd Joänes, as ‘ant a ‘aäpoth o’ sense,

  Or a mowt a’ taäen young Robins — a niver mended a fence:

  But godamoighty a moost taäke meä an’ taäke ma now

  Wi aäf the cows to cauve an’ Thornaby hoälms to plow!

  XIV.


  Loook ‘ow quoloty smoiles when they sees ma a passin’ by,

  Says to thessén naw doot ‘what a mon a beä sewer-loy!’

  For they knaws what I beän to Squoire sin fust a coom’d to the ‘All;

  I done moy duty by Squoire an’ I done my duty boy all.

  XV.

  Squoire’s in Lunnon, an’ summun I reckons ‘ull ‘a to wroite,

  For whoä’s to howd the lond ater meä thot muddles ma quoit;

  Sartin-sewer I beä, thot a weänt niver give it to Joänes,

  Naw, nor a moänt to Robins — a niver rembles the stoäns.

  XVI.

  But summun ‘ull come ater meä mayhap wi’ ‘is kittle o’ steam

  Huzzin’ an’ maäzin’ the blessed feälds wi’ the Divil’s oaän teäm.

  Sin I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they says is sweet,

  But sin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn abeär to see it.

  XVII.

  What atta stannin’ theer for, an’ doesn bring ma the aäle?

  Doctor’s a ‘toättler, lass, an a’s hallus i’ the owd taäle;

  I weänt break rules fur Doctor, a knaws naw moor nor a floy;

  Git ma my aäle I tell tha, an’ if I mun doy I mun doy.

  Tithonus

  THE WOODS decay, the woods decay and fall,

  The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,

  Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,

  And after many a summer dies the swan.

  Me only cruel immortality

  Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,

  Here at the quiet limit of the world,

  A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream

  The ever-silent spaces of the East,

  Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

  Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man —

  So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,

  Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem’d

  To his great heart none other than a God!

  I ask’d thee, ‘Give me immortality.’

  Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,

  Like wealthy men who care not how they give.

  But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills,

  And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me,

  And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d

  To dwell in presence of immortal youth,

  Immortal age beside immortal youth,

  And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,

  Thy beauty, make amends, tho’ even now,

  Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,

  Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears

  To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:

  Why should a man desire in any way

  To vary from the kindly race of men,

  Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance