Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Delphi Poets Series
Page 132
Nasty, casselty1 weather! an’ mea Haäfe down wi’ my haäy!2
II.
How be the farm gittin on? noäways. Gittin on i’deeäd!
Why, tonups was Haäfe on ‘em fingers an’ toas,3 an’ the mare brokken-kneeäd,
An’ pigs didn’t sell at fall,4 an’ wa lost wer Haldeny cow,
An’ it beäts ma to knaw wot she died on, but wool’s looking oop ony how.
III.
An’ soä they’ve maäde tha a parson, an’ thou’ll git along, niver fear,
Fur I beän chuch-warden mysen i’ the parish fur fifteen year.
Well — sin ther beä chuch-wardens, ther mun be parsons an’ all,
An’ if t’öne stick alongside t’uther5 the chuch weänt happen a fall.
IV.
Fur I wur a Baptis wonst, an’ ageän the toithe an’ the raäte,
Till I fun6 that it warn’t not the gaäinist7 waäy to the narra Gaäte.
An’ I can’t abeär ‘em, I can’t, fur a lot on ‘em coom’d ta-year8 —
I wur down wi’ the rheumatis then — to my pond to wesh thessens theere —
Sa I sticks like the ivin9 as long as I lives to the owd chuch now,
Fur they wesh’d their sins i’ my pond, an’ I doubts they poison’d the cow.
V.
Ay, an’ ya seed the Bishop. They say’s ‘at he coom’d fra nowt —
Burn i’ traäde. Sa I warrants ‘e niver said haäfe wot ‘e thowt,
But ‘e creeäpt an’ ‘e crawl’d along, till ‘e feeäld ‘e could howd ‘is oän,
Then ‘e married a greät Yerl’s darter, an’ sits o’ the Bishop’s throan.
VI.
Now I’ll gie the a bit o’ my mind an’ tha weant be taakin’ offence,
Fur thou be a big scholard now wi’ a hoonderd haäcre o’ sense —
But sich an obstropulous10 lad — naay, naay — fur I minds tha sa well,
Tha’d niver not hopple11 thy tongue, an’ the tongue’s sit afire o’ Hell,
As I says to my missis to-daäy, when she hurl’d a plaäte at the cat
An’ anoother ageän my noäse. Ya was niver sa bad as that.
VII.
But I minds when i’ Howlaby beck won daäy ya was ticklin’ o’ trout,
An’ keeäper ‘e seed ya an roon’d, an’ ‘e beal’d12 to ya ‘Lad coom hout’
An’ ya stood oop naäkt i’ the beck, an’ ya tell’d ‘im to knaw his awn plaäce
An’ ye call’d ‘im a clown, ya did, an’ ya thraw’d the fish i’ ‘is faäce,
An’ ‘e torn’d13 as red as a stag-tuckey’s14 wattles, but theer an’ then
I coämb’d ‘im down, fur I promised ya’d niver not do it ageän.
VIII.
An’ I cotch’d tha wonst i’ my garden, when thou was a height-year-howd,15
An’ I fun thy pockets as full o’ my pippins as iver they’d ‘owd,16
An’ thou was as peärky17 as owt, an’ tha maäde me as mad as mad,
But I says to the ‘keeäp ‘em, an’ welcome’ fur thou was the Parson’s lad.
IX.
An Parson ‘e ‘ears on it all, an’ then taäkes kindly to me,
An’ then I wur chose Chuch-warden an’ coom’d to the top o’ the tree,
Fur Quoloty’s hall my friends, an’ they maäkes ma a help to the poor,
When I gits the plaäte fuller o’ Soondays nor ony chuch-warden afoor,
Fur if iver thy feyther’ed riled me I kep’ mysen meeäk as a lamb,
An’ saw by the Graäce o’ the Lord, Mr. Harry, I ham wot I ham.
X.
But Parson ‘e will speäk out, saw, now ‘e be sixty-seven,
He’ll niver swap Owlby an’ Scratby fur owt but the Kingdom o’ Heaven:
An’ thou’II be ‘is Curate ‘ere, but, if iver tha meäns to git ‘igher,
The mun tackle the sins o’ the Wo’ld,18 an’ not the faults o’ the Squire.
An’ I reckons tha’ll light of a livin’ some-wheers i’ the Wowd19 or the Fen,
If tha cottons down to thy betters, an’ keeäps thysen to thysen.
But niver not speäk plaäin out, if tha wants to git forrards a bit,
But creeäp along the hedge-bottoms, an’ thou’ll be a Bishop yit.
XI.
Naäy, but tha mun speäk hout to the Baptises here i’ the town,
Fur moäst on ‘em talks ageän tithe, an’ I’d like the to preäch ‘em down,
Fur they’ve bin a-preächin’ mea down, they heve, an’ I haätes ‘em now,
Fur they leäved their nasty sins i’ my pond, an’ it poison’d the cow.
Charity
I.
WHAT am I doing, you say to me, ‘wasting the sweet summer hours’?
Haven’t you eyes? I am dressing the grave of a woman with flowers.
II.
For a woman ruin’d the world, as God’s own scriptures tell,
And a man ruin’d mine, but a woman, God bless her, kept me from Hell.
III.
Love me? O yes, no doubt — how long — till you threw me aside!
Dresses and laces and jewels and never a ring for the bride.
IV.
All very well just now to be calling me darling and sweet,
And after a while would it matter so much if I came on the street?
V.
You when I met you first — when he brought you! — I turn’d away
And the hard blue eyes have it still, that stare of a beast of prey.
VI.
You were his friend — you — you — when he promised to make me his bride,
And you knew that he meant to betray me — you knew — you knew that he lied.
VII.
He married an heiress, an orphan with half a shire of estate, —
I sent him a desolate wail and a curse, when I learn’d my fate.
VIII.
For I used to play with the knife, creep down to the river-shore,
Moan to myself ‘one plunge-then quiet for evermore.’
IX.
Would the man have a touch of remorse when he heard what an end was mine?
Or brag to his fellow rakes of his conquest over their wine?
X.
Money — my hire — his money — I sent him back what he gave, —
Will you move a little that way? your shadow falls on the grave.
XI.
Two trains clash’d: then and there he was crush’d in a moment and died,
But the new-wedded wife was unharm’d, tho’ sitting close at his side.
XII.
She found my letter upon him, my wail of reproach and scorn;
I had cursed the woman he married, and him, and the day I was born.
XIII.
They put him aside for ever, and after a week — no more —
A stranger as welcome as Satan — a widow came to my door:
XIV.
So I turn’d my face to the wall, I was mad, I was raving-wild,
I was close on that hour of dishonour, the birth of a baseborn child.
XV.
O you that can flatter your victims, and juggle, and lie and cajole,
Man, can you even guess at the love of a soul for a soul?
XVI.
I had cursed her as woman and wife, and in wife and woman I found
The tenderest Christ-like creature that ever stept on the ground.
XVII.
She watch’d me, she nursed me, she fed me, she sat day and night by my bed,
Till the joyless birthday came of a boy born happily dead.
XVIII.
And her name? what was it? I ask’d her. She said with a sudden glow
On her patient face ‘ My dear, I will tell you before I go.’
XIX.
And I when I learnt it at last, I shriek’d, I sprang from my seat,
I wept, and I kiss’d her hands, I flung myself down at her feet,
/> XX.
And we pray’d together for him, for him who had given her the name.
She has left me enough to live on. I need no wages of shame.
XXI.
She died of a fever caught when a nurse in a hospital ward.
She is high in the Heaven of Heavens, she is face to face with her Lord,
XXII.
And He sees not her like anywhere in this pitiless world of ours!
I have told you my tale. Get you gone. I am dressing her grave with flowers.
Kapiolani
Kapiolani was a great chieftainess who lived in the Sandwich Islands at the beginning of this century. She won the cause of Christianity by openly defying the priests of the terrible goddess Peelè. In spite of their threats of vengeance she ascended the volcano Mauna-Loa, then clambered down over a bank of cinders 400 feet high to the great lake of fire (nine miles round) — Kilauēä — the home and haunt of the goddess, and flung into the boiling lava the consecrated berries which it was sacrilege for a woman to handle.
Kapi‘olani and Naihe, at the rear of the funeral procession of Queen Keōpūolani, 1823.
I.
WHEN from the terrors of Nature a people have fashion’d and worship a Spirit of Evil,
Blest he the Voice of the Teacher who calls to them
‘Set yourselves free!’
II.
Noble the Saxon who hurl’d at his Idol a valorous weapon in olden England!
Great and greater, and greatest of women, island heroine, Kapiolani
Clomb the mountain, and flung the berries, and dared the Goddess, and freed the people
Of Hawa-i-ee!
III.
A people believing that Peelè the Goddess would wallow in fiery riot and revel
On Kilauēä,
Dance in a fountain of flame with her devils, or shake with tier thunders and shatter her island,
Rolling her anger
Thro’ blasted valley and flaring forest in blood-red cataracts down to the sea!
IV.
Long as the lava-light
Glares from the lava-lake
Dazing the starlight,
Long as the silvery vapour in daylight
Over the mountain
Floats, will the glory of Kapiolani be mingled with either on Hawa-i-ee.
V.
What said her Priesthood?
‘Woe to this island if ever a woman should handle or gather the berries of Peelè!
Accurséd were she!
And woe to this island if ever a woman should climb to the dwelling of Peelè the Goddess!
Accurséd were she!’
VI.
One from the Sunrise
Dawn’d on His people, and slowly before him
Vanish’d shadow-like
Gods and Goddesses,
None but the terrible Peelè remaining as Kapiolani ascended her mountain,
Baffled her priesthood,
Broke the Taboo,
Dipt to the crater,
Call’d on the Power adored by the Christian, and crying ‘I dare her, let Peelè avenge herself ‘!
Into the flame-billow dash’d the berries, and drove the demon from Hawa-i-ee.
The Dawn
“You are but children.”
Egyptian Priest to Solon.
I.
RED of the Dawn!
Screams of a babe in the red-hot palms of a Moloch of Tyre,
Man with his brotherless dinner on man in the tropical wood,
Priests in the name of the Lord passing souls thro’ fire to the fire,
Head-hunters and boats of Dahomey that float upon human blood!
II.
Red of the Dawn!
Godless fury of peoples, and Christless frolic of kings,
And the bolt of war dashing down upon cities and blazing farms,
For Babylon was a child new-born, and Rome was a babe in arms,
And London and Paris and all the rest are as yet but in leading-strings.
III.
Dawn not Day,
While scandal is mouthing a bloodless name at her cannibal feast,
And rake-ruin’d bodies and souls go down in a common wreck,
And the press of a thousand cities is prized for it smells of the beast,
Or easily violates Virgin Truth for a coin or a cheque.
IV.
Dawn not Day!
Is it Shame, so few should have climb’d from the dens in the level below,
Men, with a heart and a soul, no slaves of a four-footed will?
But if twenty million of summers are stored in the sunlight still,
We are far from the noon of man, there is time for the race to grow.
V.
Red of the Dawn!
Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay
The Ghost of the Brute that is walking and haunting us yet, and be free?
In a hundred, a thousand winters? Ah, what will our children be,
The men of a hundred thousand, a million summers away?
The Making of Man
WHERE is one that, born of woman, altogether can escape
From the lower world within him, moods of tiger, or of ape?
Man as yet is being made, and ere the crowning Age of ages,
Shall not æon after æon pass and touch him into shape?
All about him shadow still, but, while the races flower and fade,
Prophet-eyes may catch a glory slowly gaining on the shade,
Till the peoples all are one, and all their voices blend in choric
Hallelujah to the Maker ‘It is finish’d. Man is made.’
The Dreamer
ON a midnight in midwinter when all but the winds were dead,
‘The meek shall inherit the earth’ was a Scripture that rang thro’ his head,
Till he dream’d that a Voice of the Earth went wailingly past him and said:
‘I am losing the light of my Youth
And the Vision that led me of old,
And I clash with an iron Truth,
When I make for an Age of gold,
And I would that my race were run,
For teeming with liars, and madmen, and knaves,
And wearied of Autocrats, Anarchs, and Slaves,
And darken’d with doubts of a Faith that saves,
And crimson with battles, and hollow with graves,
To the wail of my winds, and the moan of my waves
I whirl, and I follow the Sun.’
Was it only the wind of the Night shrilling out Desolation and wrong
Thro’ a dream of the dark? Yet he thought that he answer’d her wail with a song —
Moaning your losses, O Earth,
Heart-weary and overdone!
But all’s well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun!
He is racing from heaven to heaven
And less will be lost than won,
For all’s well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun!
The Reign of the Meek upon earth,
O weary one, has it begun?
But all’s well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun!
For moans will have grown sphere-music
Or ever your race be run
And all’s well that ends well,
Whirl, and follow the Sun!
Mechanophilus
(In the time of the first railways.)
NOW first we stand and understand,
And sunder false from true,
And handle boldly with the hand,
And see and shape and do.
Dash back that ocean with a pier,
Strow yonder mountain flat,
A railway there, a tunnel here,
Mix me this Zone with that!
Bring me my horse — my horse? my wings
That I may soar the sky,
For Thought into the outward springs,
; I find her with the eye.
O will she, moonlike, sway the main,
And bring or chase the storm,
Who was a shadow in the brain,
And is a living form?
Far as the Future vaults her skies,
From this my vantage ground
To those still-working energies
I spy nor term nor bound.
As we surpass our fathers’ skill,
Our sons will shame our own;
A thousand things are hidden still
And not a hundred known.
And had some prophet spoken true
Of all we shall achieve,
The wonders were so wildly new,
That no man would believe.
Meanwhile, my brothers, work, and wield
The forces of to-day,
And plow the present like a field,
And garner all you may!
You, what the cultured surface grows,
Dispense with careful hands:
Deep under deep for ever goes,
Heaven over heaven expands.
Riflemen Form!
THERE is a sound of thunder afar,
Storm in the South that darkens the day!
Storm of battle and thunder of war!
Well if it do not roll our way.
Storm, Storm, Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready against the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form!
Be not deaf to the sound that warns,
Be not gull’d by a despot’s plea!
Are figs of thistles? or grapes of thorns?
How can a despot feel with the Free?
Form, Form, Riflemen Form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form!
Let your reforms for a moment go!
Look to your butts, and take good aims!
Better a rotten borough or so
Than a rotten fleet and a city in flames!
Storm, Storm, Riflemen form!
Ready, be ready against the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form!
Form, be ready to do or die!
Form in Freedom’s name and the Queen’s
True we have got — such a faithful ally
That only the Devil can tell what he means.
Form, Form, Riflemen Form
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen form!1
The Tourney
RALPH would fight in Edith’s sight,
For Ralph was Edith’s lover,
Ralph went down like a fire to the fight,
Struck to the left and struck to the right,
Roll’d them over and over.
‘Gallant Sir Ralph,’ said the king.