[Footnote 1: 1830. Cam'st.]

[Footnote 2: 1830. Kist.]

[Footnote 3: Transferred from 'Timbuctoo'.

And these with lavish'd sense Listenist the lordly music flowing from The illimitable years.]

[Footnote 4: The poplars have now disappeared but the seven elms are still to be seen in the garden behind the house. See Napier, 'The Laureate's County', pp. 22, 40-41.]

[Footnote 5: This is the Somersby brook which so often reappears in Tennyson's poetry, cf. 'Millers Daughter, A Farewell', and 'In Memoriam', 1 xxix. and c.]

[Footnote 6: 1830. Waked. For the epithet "dew-impearled" 'cf'. Drayton, Ideas, sonnet liii., "amongst the dainty 'dew-impearled flowers'," where the epithet is more appropriate and intelligible.]

[Footnote 7: 1830. The few.]

[Footnote 8: 1830 and 1842. Thee.]

[Footnote 9: 1830. Methinks were, so till 1850, when it was altered to the present reading.]

[Footnote 10: The cottage at Maplethorpe where the Tennysons used to spend the summer holidays. (See 'Life', i., 46.)]

[Footnote 11: 1830. Emblems or Glimpses of Eternity.]

[Footnote 12: 1830. Pleached. The whole of this passage is an exact description of the Parsonage garden at Somersby. See 'Life', i., 27.]



SONG

First printed in 1830.

The poem was written in the garden at the Old Rectory, Somersby; an autumn scene there which it faithfully describes. This poem seems to have haunted Poe, a fervent admirer of Tennyson's early poems.

1

A Spirit haunts the year's last hours Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

2

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, As a sick man's room when he taketh repose An hour before death; My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.



ADELINE

First printed in 1830.

1

Mystery of mysteries, Faintly smiling Adeline, Scarce of earth nor all divine, Nor unhappy, nor at rest, But beyond expression fair With thy floating flaxen hair; Thy rose-lips and full blue eyes Take the heart from out my breast. Wherefore those dim looks of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?

2

Whence that aery bloom of thine, Like a lily which the sun Looks thro' in his sad decline, And a rose-bush leans upon, Thou that faintly smilest still, As a Naiad in a well, Looking at the set of day, Or a phantom two hours old Of a maiden passed away, Ere the placid lips be cold? Wherefore those faint smiles of thine, Spiritual Adeline?

3

What hope or fear or joy is thine? Who talketh with thee, Adeline? For sure thou art not all alone: Do beating hearts of salient springs Keep measure with thine own? Hast thou heard the butterflies What they say betwixt their wings? Or in stillest evenings With what voice the violet woos To his heart the silver dews? Or when little airs arise, How the merry bluebell rings [1] To the mosses underneath? Hast thou look'd upon the breath Of the lilies at sunrise? Wherefore that faint smile of thine, Shadowy, dreaming Adeline?

4

Some honey-converse feeds thy mind, Some spirit of a crimson rose In love with thee forgets to close His curtains, wasting odorous sighs All night long on darkness blind. What aileth thee? whom waitest thou With thy soften'd, shadow'd brow, And those dew-lit eyes of thine, [2] Thou faint smiler, Adeline?

5

Lovest thou the doleful wind When thou gazest at the skies? Doth the low-tongued Orient [3] Wander from the side of [4] the morn, Dripping with Sabsean spice On thy pillow, lowly bent With melodious airs lovelorn, Breathing Light against thy face, While his locks a-dropping [5] twined Round thy neck in subtle ring Make a 'carcanet of rays',[6] And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill? Hence that look and smile of thine, Spiritual Adeline.

[Footnote 1: This conceit seems to have been borrowed from Shelley, 'Sensitive Plant', i.:—

And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music.]

[Footnote 2: 'Cf'. Collins, 'Ode to Pity', "and 'eyes of dewy light'".]

[Footnote 3: What "the low-tongued Orient" may mean I cannot explain.]

[Footnote 4: 1830 and all editions till 1853. O'.]

[Footnote 5: 1863. A-drooping.]

[Footnote 6: A carcanet is a necklace, diminutive from old French "Carcan". Cf. 'Comedy of Errors', in., i, "To see the making of her 'Carcanet".]



A CHARACTER

First printed in 1830.

The only authoritative light thrown on the person here described is what the present Lord Tennyson gives, who tells us that "the then well-known Cambridge orator S—was partly described". He was "a very plausible, parliament-like, self-satisfied speaker at the Union Debating Society ". The character reminds us of Wordsworth's Moralist. See 'Poet's Epitaph';—

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling, Nor form nor feeling, great nor small; A reasoning, self-sufficient thing, An intellectual all in all.

Shakespeare's fop, too (Hotspur's speech, 'Henry IV.', i., i., 2), seems to have suggested a touch or two.

With a half-glance upon the sky At night he said, "The wanderings Of this most intricate Universe Teach me the nothingness of things". Yet could not all creation pierce Beyond the bottom of his eye.

He spake of beauty: that the dull Saw no divinity in grass, Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; Then looking as 'twere in a glass, He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, And said the earth was beautiful.

He spake of virtue: not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm Pallas and Juno sitting by: And with a sweeping of the arm, And a lack-lustre dead-blue eye, Devolved his rounded periods.

Most delicately hour by hour He canvass'd human mysteries, And trod on silk, as if the winds Blew his own praises in his eyes, And stood aloof from other minds In impotence of fancied power.

With lips depress'd as he were meek, Himself unto himself he sold: Upon himself himself did feed: Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek.



THE POET

First printed in 1830.

In this poem we have the first grand note struck by Tennyson, the first poem exhibiting the [Greek: spoudaiotaes] of the true poet.

The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,[1] The love of love.

He saw thro' [2] life and death, thro' [2] good and ill, He saw thro' [2] his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll,

Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame,—

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, And of so fierce a flight, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, Filling with light

And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Them earthward till they lit; Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, The fruitful wit

Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Where'er they fell, behold, Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew A flower all gold,

And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling The winged shafts of truth, To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring Of Hope and Youth.

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' [3] one did fling the fire. Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one [4] great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, Rare sunrise flow'd.

And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before his burning eyes Melted like snow.

There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen eyes

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power—a sacred name. [5] And when she spake,

Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder,

So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, [6] But one poor poet's scroll, and with 'his' word She shook the world.

[Footnote 1: The expression, as is not uncommon with Tennyson, is extremely ambiguous; it may mean that he hated hatred, scorned scorn, and loved love, or that he had hatred, scorn and love as it were in quintessence, like Dante, and that is no doubt the meaning.]

[Footnotes 2: 1830. Through.]

[Footnote 3: 1830 till 1851. Though.]

[Footnote 4: 2 1830. A.]

[Footnote 5: 1830.

And in the bordure of her robe was writ Wisdom, a name to shake Hoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit.]

[Footnote 6: 1830. Hurled.]



THE POET'S MIND

First published in 1830.

A companion poem to the preceding. After line 7 in 1830 appears this stanza, afterwards omitted:—

Clear as summer mountain streams, Bright as the inwoven beams, Which beneath their crisping sapphire In the midday, floating o'er The golden sands, make evermore To a blossom-starred shore. Hence away, unhallowed laughter!



1

Vex not thou the poet's mind With thy shallow wit: Vex not thou the poet's mind; For thou canst not fathom it. Clear and bright it should be ever, Flowing like a crystal river; Bright as light, and clear as wind.

2

Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; All the place [1] is holy ground; Hollow smile and frozen sneer Come not here. Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. The flowers would faint at your cruel cheer. In your eye there is death, There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Like sheet lightning, Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; All day and all night it is ever drawn From the brain of the purple mountain Which stands in the distance yonder: It springs on a level of bowery lawn, And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And it sings a song of undying love; And yet, tho' [2] its voice be so clear and full, You never would hear it; your ears are so dull; So keep where you are: you are foul with sin; It would shrink to the earth if you came in.

[Footnote 1: 1830. The poet's mind. With this may be compared the opening stanza of Gray's 'Installation Ode': "Hence! avaunt! 'tis holy ground," and for the sentiments 'cf'. Wordsworth's 'Poet's Epitaph.'

[Footnote 2: 1830 to 1851. Though.]



THE SEA-FAIRIES

First published in 1830 but excluded from all editions till its restoration, when it was greatly altered, in 1853. I here give the text as it appeared in 1830; where the present text is the same as that of 1830 asterisks indicate it.

This poem is a sort of prelude to the Lotus-Eaters, the burthen being the same, a siren song: "Why work, why toil, when all must be over so soon, and when at best there is so little to reward?"

Slow sailed the weary mariners, and saw Between the green brink and the running foam White limbs unrobed in a chrystal air, Sweet faces, etc. ... middle sea.

SONG.

Whither away, whither away, whither away? Fly no more! Whither away wi' the singing sail? whither away wi' the oar? Whither away from the high green field and the happy blossoming shore? Weary mariners, hither away, One and all, one and all, Weary mariners, come and play; We will sing to you all the day; Furl the sail and the foam will fall From the prow! one and all Furl the sail! drop the oar! Leap ashore! Know danger and trouble and toil no more. Whither away wi' the sail and the oar? Drop the oar, Leap ashore, Fly no more! Whither away wi' the sail? whither away wi' the oar? Day and night to the billow, etc. ... over the lea; They freshen the silvery-crimson shells, And thick with white bells the cloverhill swells High over the full-toned sea. Merrily carol the revelling gales Over the islands free: From the green seabanks the rose downtrails To the happy brimmed sea. Come hither, come hither, and be our lords, For merry brides are we: We will kiss sweet kisses, etc. ... With pleasure and love and revelry; ... ridged sea. Ye will not find so happy a shore Weary mariners! all the world o'er; Oh! fly no more! Harken ye, harken ye, sorrow shall darken ye, Danger and trouble and toil no more; Whither away? Drop the oar; Hither away, Leap ashore; Oh! fly no more—no more. Whither away, whither away, whither away with the sail and the oar?

Slow sail'd the weary mariners and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear, Shrill music reach'd them on the middle sea.

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? Day and night to the billow the fountain calls; Down shower the gambolling waterfalls From wandering over the lea: Out of the live-green heart of the dells They freshen the silvery-crimsoned shells, And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells High over the full-toned sea: O hither, come hither and furl your sails, Come hither to me and to me: Hither, come hither and frolic and play; Here it is only the mew that wails; We will sing to you all the day: Mariner, mariner, furl your sails, For here are the blissful downs and dales, And merrily merrily carol the gales, And the spangle dances in bight [1] and bay, And the rainbow forms and flies on the land Over the islands free; And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; Hither, come hither and see; And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, And sweet is the colour of cove and cave,

And sweet shall your welcome be: O hither, come hither, and be our lords For merry brides are we: We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten With pleasure and love and jubilee: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten When the sharp clear twang of the golden cords Runs up the ridged sea. Who can light on as happy a shore All the world o'er, all the world o'er? Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more.

[Footnote 1: Bight is properly the coil of a rope; it then came to mean a bend, and so a corner or bay. The same phrase occurs in the 'Voyage of Maledune', v.: "and flung them in bight and bay".]



THE DESERTED HOUSE

First printed in 1830, omitted in all the editions till 1848 when it was restored. The poem is of course allegorical, and is very much in the vein of many poems in Anglo-Saxon poetry.

1

Life and Thought have gone away Side by side, Leaving door and windows wide: Careless tenants they!

2

All within is dark as night: In the windows is no light; And no murmur at the door, So frequent on its hinge before.

3

Close the door, the shutters close, Or thro' [1] the windows we shall see The nakedness and vacancy Of the dark deserted house.

4

Come away: no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound. The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground.

5

Come away: for Life and Thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious— A great and distant city—have bought A mansion incorruptible. Would they could have stayed with us!

[Footnote 1: 1848 and 1851. Through.]



THE DYING SWAN

First printed in 1830.

The superstition here assumed is so familiar from the Classics as well as from modern tradition that it scarcely needs illustration or commentary. But see Plato, 'Phaedrus', xxxi., and Shakespeare, 'King John', v., 7.

1

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, Wide, wild, and open to the air, Which had built up everywhere An under-roof of doleful gray. [1] With an inner voice the river ran, Adown it floated a dying swan, And [2] loudly did lament. It was the middle of the day. Ever the weary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went.

2

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, And white against the cold-white sky, Shone out their crowning snows. One willow over the water [3] wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; Above in the wind was [4] the swallow, Chasing itself at its own wild will, And far thro' [5] the marish green and still The tangled water-courses slept, Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

3

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear; And floating about the under-sky, Prevailing in weakness, the coronach [6] stole Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; But anon her awful jubilant voice, With a music strange and manifold, Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold; As when a mighty people rejoice With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd Thro' [7] the open gates of the city afar, To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds, And the willow-branches hoar and dank, And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds, And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, And the silvery marish-flowers that throng The desolate creeks and pools among, Were flooded over with eddying song.

[Footnote 1: 1830. Grey.]

[Footnote 2: 1830 till 1848. Which.]

[Footnote 3: 1863. River.]

[Footnote 4: 1830. Sung.]

[Footnote 5: 1830. Through.]

[Footnote 6: A coronach is a funeral song or lamentation, from the Gaelic 'Corranach'. 'Cf'. Scott's 'Waverley', ch. xv.,

"Their wives and daughters came clapping their hands and 'crying the coronach' and shrieking".]

[Footnote 7: 1830 till 1851. Through.]



A DIRGE

First printed in 1830.

1

Now is done thy long day's work; Fold thy palms across thy breast, Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest. Let them rave. Shadows of the silver birk [1] Sweep the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

2

Thee nor carketh [2] care nor slander; Nothing but the small cold worm Fretteth thine enshrouded form. Let them rave. Light and shadow ever wander O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

3

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed; Chaunteth not the brooding bee Sweeter tones than calumny? Let them rave. Thou wilt never raise thine head From the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

4

Crocodiles wept tears for thee; The woodbine and eglatere Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear. Let them rave. Rain makes music in the tree O'er the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

5

Round thee blow, self-pleached [1] deep, Bramble-roses, faint and pale, And long purples [2] of the dale. Let them rave. These in every shower creep. Thro' [3] the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

6

The gold-eyed kingcups fine: The frail bluebell peereth over Rare broidry of the purple clover. Let them rave. Kings have no such couch as thine, As the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

7

Wild words wander here and there; God's great gift of speech abused Makes thy memory confused: But let them rave. The balm-cricket [4] carols clear In the green that folds thy grave. Let them rave.

[Footnote 1: Still used in the north of England for "birch".]

[Footnote 2: Carketh. Here used transitively, "troubles," though in Old English it is generally intransitive, meaning to be careful or thoughtful; it is from the Anglo-Saxon 'Carian'; it became obsolete in the seventeenth century. The substantive cark, trouble or anxiety, is generally in Old English coupled with "care".]

[Footnote 3: Self-pleached, self-entangled or intertwined. 'Cf'. Shakespeare, "pleached bower," 'Much Ado', iii., i., 7.]

[Footnote 4: 1830. "'Long purples'," thus marking that the phrase is borrowed from Shakespeare, 'Hamlet', iv., vii., 169:—

and 'long purples' That liberal shepherds give a grosser name. It is the purple-flowered orchis, 'orchis mascula'.]

[Footnote 5: 1830. Through.]

[Footnote 6: Balm cricket, the tree cricket; 'balm' is a corruption of 'baum'.]



LOVE AND DEATH

First printed in 1830.

What time the mighty moon was gathering light [1] Love paced the thymy plots of Paradise, And all about him roll'd his lustrous eyes; When, turning round a cassia, full in view Death, walking all alone beneath a yew, And talking to himself, first met his sight: "You must begone," said Death, "these walks are mine". Love wept and spread his sheeny vans [2] for flight; Yet ere he parted said, "This hour is thine; Thou art the shadow of life, and as the tree Stands in the sun and shadows all beneath, So in the light of great eternity Life eminent creates the shade of death; The shadow passeth when the tree shall fall, But I shall reign for ever over all". [3]

[Footnote 1: The expression is Virgil's, 'Georg'., i., 427: "Luna revertentes cum primum 'colligit ignes'".]

[Footnote 2: Vans used also for "wings" by Milton, 'Paradise Lost', ii., 927-8:—

His sail-broad 'vans' He spreads for flight.

So also Tasso, 'Ger. Lib'., ix., 60:

"Indi spiega al gran volo 'i vanni' aurati".]

[Footnote 3: 'Cf. Lockley Hall Sixty Years After': "Love will conquer at the last".]



THE BALLAD OF ORIANA

First published in 1830, not in 1833.

This fine ballad was evidently suggested by the old ballad of Helen of Kirkconnel, both poems being based on a similar incident, and both being the passionate soliloquy of the bereaved lover, though Tennyson's treatment of the subject is his own. Helen of Kirkconnel was one of the poems which he was fond of reciting, and Fitzgerald says that he used also to recite this poem, in a way not to be forgotten, at Cambridge tables. 'Life', i., p. 77.

My heart is wasted with my woe, Oriana. There is no rest for me below, Oriana. When the long dun wolds are ribb'd with snow, And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, Oriana, Alone I wander to and fro, Oriana.

Ere the light on dark was growing, Oriana, At midnight the cock was crowing, Oriana: Winds were blowing, waters flowing, We heard the steeds to battle going, Oriana; Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, Oriana.

In the yew-wood black as night, Oriana, Ere I rode into the fight, Oriana, While blissful tears blinded my sight By star-shine and by moonlight, Oriana, I to thee my troth did plight, Oriana.

She stood upon the castle wall, Oriana: She watch'd my crest among them all, Oriana: She saw me fight, she heard me call, When forth there stept a foeman tall, Oriana, Atween me and the castle wall, Oriana.

The bitter arrow went aside, Oriana: The false, false arrow went aside, Oriana: The damned arrow glanced aside, And pierced thy heart, my love, my bride, Oriana! Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, Oriana!

Oh! narrow, narrow was the space, Oriana. Loud, loud rung out the bugle's brays, Oriana. Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, The battle deepen'd in its place, Oriana; But I was down upon my face, Oriana.

They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana! How could I rise and come away, Oriana? How could I look upon the day? They should have stabb'd me where I lay, Oriana They should have trod me into clay, Oriana.

O breaking heart that will not break, Oriana! O pale, pale face so sweet and meek, Oriana! Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak, And then the tears run down my cheek, Oriana: What wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, Oriana?

I cry aloud: none hear my cries, Oriana. Thou comest atween me and the skies, Oriana. I feel the tears of blood arise Up from my heart unto my eyes, Oriana. Within my heart my arrow lies, Oriana.

O cursed hand! O cursed blow! Oriana! O happy thou that liest low, Oriana! All night the silence seems to flow Beside me in my utter woe, Oriana. A weary, weary way I go, Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea, Oriana, I walk, I dare not think of thee, Oriana. Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, I dare not die and come to thee, Oriana. I hear the roaring of the sea, Oriana.



CIRCUMSTANCE

First published in 1830.

Two children in two neighbour villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower, Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs [1] the round of life from hour to hour.

[Footnote 1: 1830. Fill up.]



THE MERMAN

First printed in 1830.

1

Who would be A merman bold, Sitting alone, Singing alone Under the sea, With a crown of gold, On a throne?

2

I would be a merman bold; I would sit and sing the whole of the day; I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; But at night I would roam abroad and play With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; And holding them back by their flowing locks I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly; And then we would wander away, away To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, Chasing each other merrily.

3

There would be neither moon nor star; But the wave would make music above us afar— Low thunder and light in the magic night— Neither moon nor star. We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, Call to each other and whoop and cry All night, merrily, merrily; They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, Laughing and clapping their hands between, All night, merrily, merrily: But I would throw to them back in mine Turkis and agate and almondine: [1] Then leaping out upon them unseen I would kiss them often under the sea, And kiss them again till they kiss'd me Laughingly, laughingly. Oh! what a happy life were mine Under the hollow-hung ocean green! Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; We would live merrily, merrily.

[Foootnote 1: Almondine. This should be "almandine," the word probably being a corruption of alabandina, a gem so called because found at Alabanda in Caria; it is a garnet of a violet or amethystine tint. 'Cf.' Browning, 'Fefine at the Fair', xv., "that string of mock-turquoise, these 'almandines' of glass".]



THE MERMAID

First printed in 1830.

1

Who would be A mermaid fair, Singing alone, Combing her hair Under the sea, In a golden curl With a comb of pearl, On a throne?

2

I would be a mermaid fair; I would sing to myself the whole of the day; With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall, Low adown, low adown, From under my starry sea-bud crown Low adown and around, And I should look like a fountain of gold Springing alone With a shrill inner sound, Over the throne In the midst of the hall; Till that [1] great sea-snake under the sea From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps Would slowly trail himself sevenfold Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate With his large calm eyes for the love of me. And all the mermen under the sea Would feel their [2] immortality Die in their hearts for the love of me.

3

But at night I would wander away, away, I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, And lightly vault from the throne and play With the mermen in and out of the rocks; We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, On the broad sea-wolds in the [1] crimson shells, Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea. But if any came near I would call, and shriek, And adown the steep like a wave I would leap From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; For I would not be kiss'd [2] by all who would list, Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, In the purple twilights under the sea; But the king of them all would carry me, Woo me, and win me, and marry me, In the branching jaspers under the sea; Then all the dry pied things that be In the hueless mosses under the sea Would curl round my silver feet silently, All looking up for the love of me. And if I should carol aloud, from aloft All things that are forked, and horned, and soft Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, All looking down for the love of me.

[Footnote 1: Till 1857. The.]

[Footnote 2: Till 1857. The.]

[Footnote 3: 1830. 'I the. So till 1853.]

[Footnote 4: 1830 Kist.]



SONNET TO J. M. K.

First printed in 1830, not in 1833.

This sonnet was addressed to John Mitchell Kemble, the well-known Editor of the 'Beowulf' and other Anglo-Saxon poems. He intended to go into the Church, but was never ordained, and devoted his life to early English studies. See memoir of him in 'Dict, of Nat. Biography'.

My hope and heart is with thee—thou wilt be A latter Luther, and a soldier-priest To scare church-harpies from the master's feast; Our dusted velvets have much need of thee: Thou art no Sabbath-drawler of old saws, Distill'd from some worm-canker'd homily; But spurr'd at heart with fieriest energy To embattail and to wall about thy cause With iron-worded proof, hating to hark The humming of the drowsy pulpit-drone Half God's good sabbath, while the worn-out clerk Brow-beats his desk below. Thou from a throne Mounted in heaven wilt shoot into the dark Arrows of lightnings. I will stand and mark.



THE LADY OF SHALOTT

First published in 1833.

This poem was composed in its first form as early as May, 1832 or 1833, as we learn from Fitzgerald's note—of the exact year he was not certain ('Life of Tennyson', i., 147). The evolution of the poem is an interesting study. How greatly it was altered in the second edition of 1842 will be evident from the collation which follows. The text of 1842 became the permanent text, and in this no subsequent material alterations were made. The poem is more purely fanciful than Tennyson perhaps was willing to own; certainly his explanation of the allegory, as he gave it to Canon Ainger, is not very intelligible: "The new-born love for something, for some one in the wide world from which she has been so long excluded, takes her out of the region of shadows into that of realities". Poe's commentary is most to the point: "Why do some persons fatigue themselves in endeavours to unravel such phantasy pieces as the 'Lady of Shallot'? As well unweave the ventum textilem".—'Democratic Review', Dec., 1844, quoted by Mr. Herne Shepherd. Mr. Palgrave says (selection from the 'Lyric Poems of Tennyson', p. 257) the poem was suggested by an Italian romance upon the Donna di Scalotta. On what authority this is said I do not know, nor can I identify the novel. In Novella, lxxxi., a collection of novels printed at Milan in 1804, there is one which tells but very briefly the story of Elaine's love and death, "Qui conta come la Damigella di scalot mori per amore di Lancealotto di Lac," and as in this novel Camelot is placed near the sea, this may be the novel referred to. In any case the poem is a fanciful and possibly an allegorical variant of the story of Elaine, Shalott being a form, through the French, of Astolat.

PART I

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. [1]

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, [2] Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot: But who hath seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott? [3]

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in uplands airy, Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott". [4]

PART II

There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay [5] To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the 'curse' may be, And so [6] she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, [7] And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: [8] Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half-sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. [9]



PART III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A redcross knight for ever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. [10] The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to [11] Camelot: And from his blazon'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. [12] As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. [13]

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. [14] From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river [15] Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom; She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water-lily [16] bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote 'The Lady of Shalott.' [17]

And down the river's dim expanse— Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot; And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. [18]

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, [19] Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale [20] between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, 'The Lady of Shalott' [21]

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot [22] mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott". [23]



[Footnote 1: 1833.

To many towered Camelot The yellow leaved water lily, The green sheathed daffodilly, Tremble in the water chilly, Round about Shalott.]

[Footnote 2: 1833.

shiver, The sunbeam-showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island, etc.]

[Footnote 3: 1833.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O'er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, "'tis the fairy Lady of Shalott".]

[Footnote 4: 1833.

The little isle is all inrailed With a rose-fence, and overtrailed With roses: by the marge unhailed The shallop flitteth silkensailed, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott.]

[Footnote 5: 1833.

No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day]

[Footnote 6: 1833.

Therefore ... Therefore ... The Lady of Shalott.]

[Footnote 7: 1833.

She lives with little joy or fear Over the water running near, The sheep bell tinkles in her ear, Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting towered Camelot. And, as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village-churls.]

[Footnote 8: 1833. Came from Camelot.]

[Footnote 9: In these lines are to be found, says the present Lord Tennyson, the key to the mystic symbolism of the poem. But it is not easy to see how death could be an advantageous exchange for fancy-haunted solitude. The allegory is clearer in lines 114-115, for love will so break up mere phantasy.]

[Footnote 10: 1833. Hung in the golden galaxy.]

[Footnote 11: 1833. From.]

[Footnote 12: 1833. From Camelot.]

[Footnote 13: 1833. Green Shalott.]

[Footnote 14: 1833. From Camelot.]

[Footnote 15: 1833. "Tirra lirra, tirra lirra."]

[Footnote 16: 1833. Water flower.]

[Footnote 17: 1833.

Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, THE LADY OF SHALOTT.]

[Footnote 18: 1833.

A cloud-white crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight, Clasped with one blinding diamond bright), Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, Though the squally eastwind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott.

With a steady, stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She looked down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day, She loosed the chain, and down she lay, The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her death song, The Lady of Shalott.]

[Footnote 19: 1833.

A long drawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darkened wholly, And her smooth face sharpened slowly.]

[Footnote 20: "A corse" (1853) is a variant for the "Dead-pale" of 1857.]

[Footnote 21: 1833.

A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Dead cold, between the houses high, Dead into towered Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the planked wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, "The Lady of Shalott".]

[Footnote 22: 1833. Spells it "Launcelot" all through.]

[Footnote 23: 1833.

They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire and guest, There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The well-fed wits at Camelot. "'The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not—this is I, The Lady of Shalott.'"]



MARIANA IN THE SOUTH

First printed in 1833.

This poem had been written as early as 1831 (see Arthur Hallam's letter, 'Life', i., 284-5, Appendix), and Lord Tennyson tells us that it "came to my father as he was travelling between Narbonne and Perpignan"; how vividly the characteristic features of Southern France are depicted must be obvious to every one who is familiar with them. It is interesting to compare it with the companion poem; the central position is the same in both, desolate loneliness, and the mood is the same, but the setting is far more picturesque and is therefore more dwelt upon. The poem was very greatly altered when re-published in 1842, that text being practically the final one, there being no important variants afterwards.

In the edition of 1833 the poem opened with the following stanza, which was afterwards excised and the stanza of the present text substituted.

Behind the barren hill upsprung With pointed rocks against the light, The crag sharpshadowed overhung Each glaring creek and inlet bright. Far, far, one light blue ridge was seen, Looming like baseless fairyland; Eastward a slip of burning sand, Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green, Down in the dry salt-marshes stood That house dark latticed. Not a breath Swayed the sick vineyard underneath, Or moved the dusty southernwood. "Madonna," with melodious moan Sang Mariana, night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn."

With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines: A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But "Ave Mary," made she moan, And "Ave Mary," night and morn, And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn".

She, as her carol sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down [1] Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, [2] and made appear, Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, [3] The home of woe without a tear. And "Ave Mary," was her moan, [4] "Madonna, sad is night and morn"; And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn".

Till all the crimson changed, [5] and past Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur'd she; Complaining, "Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load". And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. "Is this the form," she made her moan, "That won his praises night and morn?" And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn". [6]

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, "My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn". [7]

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: She felt he was and was not there, [8] She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare Shrank one sick willow [9] sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. [10] She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, "Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten, and die forlorn". [11]

[12] And rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth". An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore". "O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"

But sometimes in the falling day An image seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, "But thou shalt be alone no more". And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. "The day to night," she made her moan, "The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres, Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, "The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn". [13]



[Footnote 1: 1833 From her warm brow and bosom down.]

[Footnote 2: 1833. On either side.]

[Footnote 3: Compare Keats, 'Eve of St. Agnes', "her maiden eyes divine".]

[Footnote 4: 1833. "Madonna," with melodious moan Sang Mariana, etc.]

[Footnote 5: 1833. When the dawncrimson changed.]

[Footnote 6: 1833.

Unto our Lady prayed she. She moved her lips, she prayed alone, She praying disarrayed and warm From slumber, deep her wavy form In the dark-lustrous mirror shone. "Madonna," in a low clear tone Said Mariana, night and morn, Low she mourned, "I am all alone, Love-forgotten, and love-forlorn".]

[Footnote 7: 1833.

At noon she slumbered. All along The silvery field, the large leaves talked With one another, as among The spiked maize in dreams she walked. The lizard leapt: the sunlight played: She heard the callow nestling lisp, And brimful meadow-runnels crisp. In the full-leaved platan-shade. In sleep she breathed in a lower tone, Murmuring as at night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone. Love-forgotten and love-forlorn".]

[Footnote 8: 1835. Most false: he was and was not there.]

[Footnote 9: 1833. The sick olive. So the text remained till 1850, when "one" was substituted.]

[Footnote 10: 1833.

From the bald rock the blinding light Beat ever on the sunwhite wall.]

[Footnote 11: 1833.

"Madonna, leave me not all alone, To die forgotten and live forlorn."]

[Footnote 12: This stanza and the next not in 1833.]

[Footnote 13: 1833.

One dry cicala's summer song At night filled all the gallery. Ever the low wave seemed to roll Up to the coast: far on, alone In the East, large Hesper overshone The mourning gulf, and on her soul Poured divine solace, or the rise Of moonlight from the margin gleamed, Volcano-like, afar, and streamed On her white arm, and heavenward eyes. Not all alone she made her moan, Yet ever sang she, night and morn, "Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn".]



ELEAeNORE

First printed in 1833. When reprinted in 1842 the alterations noted were then made, and after that the text remained unchanged.

1

Thy dark eyes open'd not, Nor first reveal'd themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann'd With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, And shadow'd coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleaenore. [1]

2

Or the yellow-banded bees, [2] Thro' [3] half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull'd— A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull'd.

3

Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken'd from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland [4] mere, [5] Eleaenore!

4

How may full-sail'd verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleaenore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleaenore? Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleaenore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho' [6] They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleaenore?

5

I stand before thee, Eleanore; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile. [7] I muse, as in a trance, whene'er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. I would I were So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleanore!

6

Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken'd, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower'd quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light: As tho' [8] a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev'n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix'd—then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleanore.

7

As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof'd the world with doubt and fear, [9] Floating thro' an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness, Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation: As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will: [10] Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken'd, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand, [11] Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleaenore.

8

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps, [12] While I muse upon thy face; And a languid fire creeps Thro' my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly: soon From thy rose-red lips MY name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, [13] With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm'd with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I would [14] be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleaenore.

[Footnote 1: With the picture of Eleaenore may be compared the description which Ibycus gives of Euryalus. See Bergk's 'Anthologia Lyrica' (Ibycus), p. 396.]

[Footnote 2: With yellow banded bees 'cf'. Keats's "yellow girted bees," 'Endymion', i. With this may be compared Pindar's beautiful picture of lamus, who was also fed on honey, 'Olympian', vi., 50-80.]

[Footnote 3: 1833 and 1842. Through.]

[Footnote 4: Till 1857. Island.]

[Footnote 5: 1833. Meer.]

[Footnote 6: 1842 and 1843. Though.]

[Footnote 7: Ambrosial, the Greek sense of [Greek: ambrosios], divine.]

[Footnote 8: 1833 to 1851. Though.]

[Footnote 9: 1833. Did roof noonday with doubt and fear.]

[Footnote 10: 1833.

As waves that from the outer deep Roll into a quiet cove, There fall away, and lying still, Having glorious dreams in sleep, Shadow forth the banks at will.]

[Footnote 11: 'Cf.' Horace, 'Odes', iii., xxvii., 66-8:

Aderat querenti Perfidum ridens Venus, et remisso Filius arcu.]

[Footnote 12: 1833.

I gaze on thee the cloudless noon Of mortal beauty.]

[Footnote 13: 1833. Then I faint, I swoon. The latter part of the eighth stanza is little more than an adaptation of Sappho's famous Ode, filtered perhaps through the version of Catullus.]

[Footnote 14: It is curious that a poet so scrupulous as Tennyson should have retained to the last the italics.]



THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

First published in 1833. It was greatly altered when republished in 1842, and in some respects, so Fitzgerald thought, not for the better. No alterations of much importance were made in it after 1842. The characters as well as the scenery were, it seems, purely imaginary. Tennyson said that if he thought of any mill it was that of Trumpington, near Cambridge, which bears a general resemblance to the picture here given.

In the first edition the poem opened with the following stanza, which the 'Quarterly' ridiculed, and which was afterwards excised. Its omission is surely not to be regretted, whatever Fitzgerald may have thought.

I met in all the close green ways, While walking with my line and rod, The wealthy miller's mealy face, Like the moon in an ivy-tod. He looked so jolly and so good— While fishing in the milldam-water, I laughed to see him as he stood, And dreamt not of the miller's daughter.

* * * * * *

I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl'd, Seem'd half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup— I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest—gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me [1] sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet [2] Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, [3] That we may die the self-same day.

Have I not found a happy earth? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine— It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine—[4]

To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire: [5] For even here, [6] where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro' By some wild skylark's matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan; [7] But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play'd Before I dream'd that pleasant dream— Still hither thither idly sway'd Like those long mosses [8] in the stream.

Or from the bridge I lean'd to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when [9] they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones. [10]

But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods ('Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool. [11]

A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch'd the little circles die; They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck. [12]

For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement's edge [13] A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright— Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light. [14]

I loved, and love dispell'd the fear That I should die an early death: For love possess'd the atmosphere, And filled the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was alter'd, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro' quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten'd floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights begin to blow, And April's crescent glimmer'd cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower'd slope. [15]

The deep brook groan'd beneath the mill; And "by that lamp," I thought "she sits!" The white chalk-quarry [16] from the hill Gleam'd to the flying moon by fits. "O that I were beside her now! O will she answer if I call? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all?" [17]

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within; Sometimes your shadow cross'd the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken'd there.

But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush'd like the coming of the day; [18] And so it was—half-sly, half-shy, [19] You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire: She wish'd me happy, but she thought I might have look'd a little higher; And I was young—too young to wed: "Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here," she said: Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell. [20]

I watch'd the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart. [21]

Ah, well—but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day [22] When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay, With bridal flowers—that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by. [23]

It is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at [24] her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. [25]

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise [26] Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light, [27] I scarce should be [28] unclasp'd at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets—right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own. [29] So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth And makes me talk too much in age. [30]

And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart: So sing [31] that other song I made, Half anger'd with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not. [32]

Love that hath us in the net, [33] Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no! [34]

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro' my very soul with thine! Untouch'd with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear—who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind— With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north, [35] Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.



[Footnote 1: 1833. Scarce makes me.]

[Footnote 2: 1833. Darling.]

[Footnote 3: 1833. Own sweet wife.]

[Footnote 4: This stanza was added in 1842.]

[Footnote 5: 1833.

My father's mansion, mounted high Looked down upon the village spire. I was a long and listless boy, And son and heir unto the squire.]

[Footnote 6: 1833. In these dear walls.]

[Footnote 7: 1833.

I often heard the cooing dove In firry woodlands mourn alone.]

[Footnote 8: 1833. The long mosses.]

[Footnote 9: 1842-1851. Where.]

[Footnote 10: This stanza was added in 1842, taking the place of the following which was excised:—

Sometimes I whistled in the wind, Sometimes I angled, thought and deed Torpid, as swallows left behind That winter 'neath the floating weed: At will to wander every way From brook to brook my sole delight, As lithe eels over meadows gray Oft shift their glimmering pool by night.

In 1833 this stanza ran thus:—

I loved from off the bridge to hear The rushing sound the water made, And see the fish that everywhere In the back-current glanced and played; Low down the tall flag-flower that sprung Beside the noisy stepping-stones, And the massed chestnut boughs that hung Thick-studded over with white cones,]

[Footnote 11: In 1833 the following took the place of the above stanza which was added in 1842:—

How dear to me in youth, my love, Was everything about the mill, The black and silent pool above, The pool beneath that ne'er stood still, The meal sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door— Made misty with the floating meal!

Thus in 1833:—

Remember you that pleasant day When, after roving in the woods, ('Twas April then) I came and lay Beneath those gummy chestnut bud That glistened in the April blue, Upon the slope so smooth and cool, I lay and never thought of you, But angled in the deep mill pool.]

[Footnote 12: Thus in 1833:—

A water-rat from off the bank Plunged in the stream. With idle care, Downlooking thro' the sedges rank, I saw your troubled image there. Upon the dark and dimpled beck It wandered like a floating light, A full fair form, a warm white neck, And two white arms—how rosy white!]

[Footnote 13: 1872. Casement-edge.]

[Footnote 14: Thus in 1833:—

If you remember, you had set Upon the narrow casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge. I raised my eyes at once: above They met two eyes so blue and bright, Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That they have never lost their light.

After this stanza the following was inserted in 1833 but excised in 1842:—

That slope beneath the chestnut tall Is wooed with choicest breaths of air: Methinks that I could tell you all The cowslips and the kingcups there. Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, Each quaintly-folded cuckoo pint, And silver-paly cuckoo flower.]

[Footnote 15: Thus in 1833:—

In rambling on the eastern wold, When thro' the showery April nights Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, From all the other village lights I knew your taper far away. My heart was full of trembling hope, Down from the wold I came and lay Upon the dewy-swarded slope.]

[Footnote 16; Mr. Cuming Walters in his interesting volume 'In Tennyson Land', p. 75, notices that the white chalk quarry at Thetford can be seen from Stockworth Mill, which seems to show that if Tennyson did take the mill from Trumpington he must also have had his mind on Thetford Mill. Tennyson seems to have taken delight in baffling those who wished to localise his scenes. He went out of his way to say that the topographical studies of Messrs. Church and Napier were the only ones which could he relied upon. But Mr. Cuming Walters' book is far more satisfactory than their thin studies.]

[Footnote 17: Thus in 1833:—

The white chalk quarry from the hill Upon the broken ripple gleamed, I murmured lowly, sitting still, While round my feet the eddy streamed: "Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes, The mirror where her sight she feeds, The song she sings, the air she breathes, The letters of the books she reads".]

[Footnote 18: 1833.

I loved, but when I dared to speak My love, the lanes were white with May Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day.]

[Footnote 19: 1833. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy.]

[Footnote 20: Cf. Milton, 'Paradise Lost';—

Two other precious drops that ready stood He, ere they fell, kiss'd.]

[Footnote 21: These three stanzas were added in 1842, the following being excised:—

Remember you the clear moonlight, That whitened all the eastern ridge, When o'er the water, dancing white, I stepped upon the old mill-bridge. I heard you whisper from above A lute-toned whisper, "I am here"; I murmured, "Speak again, my love, The stream is loud: I cannot hear ".

I heard, as I have seemed to hear, When all the under-air was still, The low voice of the glad new year Call to the freshly-flowered hill. I heard, as I have often heard The nightingale in leavy woods Call to its mate, when nothing stirred To left or right but falling floods.]

[Footnote 22: 1842. I gave you on the joyful day.]

[Footnote 23: In 1833 the following stanza took the place of the one here substituted in 1842:—

Come, Alice, sing to me the song I made you on our marriage day, When, arm in arm, we went along Half-tearfully, and you were gay With brooch and ring: for I shall seem, The while you sing that song, to hear The mill-wheel turning in the stream, And the green chestnut whisper near.

In 1833 the song began thus, the present stanza taking its place in 1842:—

I wish I were her earring, Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek, (So might my shadow tremble Over her downy cheek), Hid in her hair, all day and night, Touching her neck so warm and white.]

[Footnote 24: 1872. In.]

[Footnote 25: 1833.

I wish I were the girdle Buckled about her dainty waist, That her heart might beat against me, In sorrow and in rest. I should know well if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

This stanza bears so close a resemblance to a stanza in Joshua Sylvester's 'Woodman's Bear' (see Sylvester's 'Works', ed. 1641, p. 616) that a correspondent asked Tennyson whether Sylvester had suggested it. Tennyson replied that he had never seen Sylvester's lines ('Life of Tennyson', iii., 51). The lines are:—

But her slender virgin waste Made mee beare her girdle spight Which the same by day imbrac't Though it were cast off by night That I wisht, I dare not say, To be girdle night and day.

For other parallels see the present Editor's 'Illustrations of Tennyson', p. 39.]

[Footnote 26: 1833.

I wish I were her necklace, So might I ever fall and rise.]

[Footnote 27: 1833. So warm and light.]

[Footnote 28: 1833. I would not be.]

[Footnote 29: 1833.

For o'er each letter broods and dwells, (Like light from running waters thrown On flowery swaths) the blissful flame Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night, With pulses thrilling thro' his frame Do inly tremble, starry bright.]

[Footnote 30: Thus in 1833:—

How I waste language—yet in truth You must blame love, whose early rage Made me a rhymster in my youth, And over-garrulous in age.]

[Footnote 31: 1833. Sing me.]

[Footnote 32: 1833.

When in the breezy limewood-shade. I found the blue forget-me-not.]

[Footnote 33: In 1833 the following song took the place of the song in the text:—

All yesternight you met me not, My ladylove, forget me not. When I am gone, regret me not. But, here or there, forget me not. With your arched eyebrow threat me not, And tremulous eyes, like April skies, That seem to say, "forget me not," I pray you, love, forget me not.

In idle sorrow set me not; Regret me not; forget me not; Oh! leave me not: oh, let me not Wear quite away;—forget me not. With roguish laughter fret me not. From dewy eyes, like April skies, That ever look, "forget me not". Blue as the blue forget-me-not.]

[Footnote 34: These two stanzas were added in 1842.]

[Footnote 35: 1833.

I've half a mind to walk, my love, To the old mill across the wolds For look! the sunset from above,]



FATIMA

First printed in 1833.

The 1833 edition has no title but this quotation from Sappho prefixed:—

'Phainetai moi kaenos isos theoisin Emmen anaer'—SAPPHO.

The title was prefixed in 1842; it is a name taken from 'The Arabian Nights' or from the Moallakat. The poem was evidently inspired by Sappho's great ode. 'Cf.' also Fragment I. of Ibycus. In the intensity of the passion it stands alone among Tennyson's poems.

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from [1] thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city's eastern towers: I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I roll'd among the tender flowers: I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south. [2]

Last night, when some one spoke his name, [3] From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame. Were shiver'd in my narrow frame O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss, my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew. [4]

Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I 'will' possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.

[Footnote 1: 1833. At.]

[Footnote 2: This stanza was added in 1842.]

[Footnote 3: 'Cf.' Byron, 'Occasional Pieces':—

They name thee before me A knell to mine ear, A shudder comes o'er me, Why wert thou so dear?]

[Footnote 4: 'Cf,' Achilles Tatius, 'Clitophon and Leucippe', bk. i., I:

[Greek: 'AEde (psyche) tarachtheisa tps philaemati palletai, ei de mae tois splagchnois in dedemenae aekolouthaesen an elkaetheisa ano tois philaemasin.']

(Her soul, distracted by the kiss, throbs, and had it not been close bound by the flesh would have followed, drawn upward by the kisses.)]



'NONE

First published in 1833, On being republished in 1842 this poem was practically rewritten, the alterations and additions so transforming the poem as to make it almost a new work. I have therefore printed a complete transcript of the edition of 1833, which the reader can compare. The final text is, with the exception of one alteration which will be noticed, precisely that of 1842, so there is no trouble with variants. ''none' is the first of Tennyson's fine classical studies. The poem is modelled partly on the Alexandrian Idyll, such an Idyll for instance as the second Idyll of Theocritus or the 'Megara' or 'Europa' of Moschus, and partly perhaps on the narratives in the 'Metamorphoses' of Ovid, to which the opening bears a typical resemblance. It is possible that the poem may have been suggested by Beattie's 'Judgment of Paris' which tells the same story, and tells it on the same lines on which it is told here, though it is not placed in the mouth of 'none. Beattie's poem opens with an elaborate description of Ida and of Troy in the distance. Paris, the husband of 'none, is one afternoon confronted with the three goddesses who are, as in Tennyson's Idyll, elaborately delineated as symbolising what they here symbolise. Each makes her speech and each offers what she has to offer, worldly dominion, wisdom, sensual pleasure. There is, of course, no comparison in point of merit between the two poems, Beattie's being in truth perfectly commonplace. In its symbolic aspect the poem may be compared with the temptations to which Christ is submitted in 'Paradise Regained'. See books iii. and iv.

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier [1] Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus [2] Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, The crown of Troas.

Hither came at noon Mournful 'none, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd [3] Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: [4] The grasshopper is silent in the grass; The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, [5] Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps. [6] The purple flowers droop: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, [7] And I am all aweary of my life.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown'd snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, [8] Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, [9] A cloud that gather'd shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois [10] all alone.

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call'd me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop'd from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster'd about his temples like a God's; And his cheek brighten'd as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look'd And listen'd, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

"'My own 'none, Beautiful-brow'd 'none, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav'n "For the most fair," would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'[11]

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added 'This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.'

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,[12] Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowing dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign clothed with corn, Or labour'd mines undrainable of ore. Honour,' she said, 'and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.'

"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, 'Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven's Queen, Paris to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain'd Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.'

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power Flatter'd his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek [13] Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

"'Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right [14] Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: 'I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest. Yet indeed,

If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiass'd by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee,

So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood, [15] Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God's, To push thee forward thro' a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown will. Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.' "Here she ceased, And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, 'O Paris, Give it to Pallas!' but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

"O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida. Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian [16] wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom [17] her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper'd in his ear, 'I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece'. She spoke and laugh'd: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look'd, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die.

"Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster'd the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther's roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone 'none see the morning mist Sweep thro' them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

"O mother, here me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin'd folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, The Abominable, [18] that uninvited came Into the fair Peleian banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.

"O mother, here me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev'n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes!

"O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman. [19] I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra, [20] for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe'er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire."



[1833.]

There is a dale in Ida, lovelier Than any in old Ionia, beautiful With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn A path thro' steepdown granite walls below Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall And many a snowycolumned range divine, Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, The work of Gods—bright on the dark-blue sky The windy citadel of Ilion Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came Mournful 'none wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a vine-entwined stone, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.