Alfred Lord Tennyson

Selected Poems

Poems and extracts

With notes and a brief introduction

by Emma Laybourn.

This is a free ebook from www.englishliteratureebooks.com (2013)

It may be shared or copied for any non-commercial purpose. It may not be sold.

*

Contents

Introduction

From Juvenilia

The Kraken

Mariana

Song – The Owl

Song (A spirit haunts the year’s last hours)

Rosalind

From The Lady of Shalott, and other poems

The Lady of Shalott

Oenone (extracts)

Lady Clara Vere de Vere (extracts)

The May Queen (extracts)

New Year’s Eve

Conclusion

The Lotos-Eaters

Choric Song

A Dream of Fair Women (extract)

From English Idyls and other poems

Morte d’Arthur (extracts)

Ulysses

Tithonus

Locksley Hall (extract)

Godiva (extract)

The Daydream: the Sleeping Palace (extracts)

Amphion

Sir Galahad (extract)

The Eagle

Break, Break, Break

From Enoch Arden, and other poems

Enoch Arden (extracts)

Aylmer’s Field (extracts)

The Princess; a Medley (extracts)

including:

Sweet and Low

The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls

Tears, Idle Tears

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, now the White

Miscellaneous poems:

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington (extract)

The Charge of the Light Brigade (extract)

The Higher Pantheism

Hendecasyllabics

In Memoriam A. H. H. (extracts)

Maud: a Monodrama (extracts)

Idylls of the King. In Twelve Books: (extracts)

The Coming of Arthur

Gareth and Lynette

The Marriage of Geraint

Geraint and Enid

Balin and Balan

Merlin and Vivien

Lancelot and Elaine

The Holy Grail

Pelleas and Ettare

The Last Tournament

Guinevere

The Passing of Arthur

From Ballads and other poems

Rizpah

The Revenge: A Ballad of the Fleet (extracts)

The Village Wife; or, the Entail (extract)

Columbus (extract)

From Tiresias, and other poems

To E. Fitzgerald

Tiresias (extract)

The Flight (extracts)

From Demeter, and other poems

The Progress of Spring (extract)

Merlin and the Gleam (extracts)

Crossing the Bar

NB. To return to the contents list at any time, please click on a poem title.

Introduction

Alfred Tennyson was born in Lincolnshire, England, in 1809. The son of a rector, he was educated at home and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He published his first volume of verse in 1827, aged 17.

Tennyson grew up in a time of political and social upheaval, and suffered early personal tragedy. His father, an alcoholic, died in 1831; his close friend, Arthur Hallam, died two years later at the age of 22, inspiring the great long poem In Memoriam.  Tennyson himself suffered from melancholia and did not marry until 1850, partly because of money worries, but possibly also because he feared passing on the unstable temperament of his forbears.

His second volume of poetry came out in 1832; in 1842 Tennyson published a revised selection of his previous work along with some new poems. The Princess followed in 1847 and In Memoriam in 1850. His work received increasing acclaim until by 1850 he was regarded as England’s pre-eminent poet, and was appointed Poet Laureate in succession to Wordsworth.

Now living on the Isle of Wight, Tennyson continued to write poetry and dramas: notably Maud (1855), Enoch Arden (1864) and his retelling of the Arthurian cycle, Idylls of the King, published at intervals between 1859 and 1885. He was much admired by Queen Victoria, and was created first Baron Tennyson in 1884. On his death he was buried in Westminster Abbey.

For his subject matter, Tennyson drew on classical myth, (particularly Homer,) Arthurian legends and history. The majority of his works are set in a context of either the legendary or the more recent past. Even when tackling a contemporary issue - the education of women in The Princess - he chose to do so using a medieval context.

Tennyson influenced the Pre-Raphaelite poets and painters not only in his choice of subject but also in the vivid, striking and close detail of his descriptions of nature. He frequently used landscape and nature to illustrate a state of mind. Some of his works show a preoccupation with mental instability and the fear of madness, while others are imbued with images of sleep and near-sleep states; apathy, drowsiness, and dream.

Tennyson combined a fine ear for the musicality of words with great technical mastery. His best works, In Memoriam, Maud, The Lotos-Eaters and Ulysses are widely thought to be amongst the greatest poems in the English language.

Concerning this selection

In this selection, poems are reproduced from the Poetical Works of Alfred Lord Tennyson (Macmillan and Co, London, 1899.) The poems are grouped and presented in as they are in that volume. This is an approximate, but not a strict, chronological order: Enoch Arden, for example, was a later poem than this order would indicate.

The longest poems, and some shorter works, are represented by extracts designed to give a flavour of the whole. In these cases, omissions of text are shown by a triple asterisk, thus: * * *

Brief explanatory notes are included with some works. The choice of poems, introduction and notes are by Emma Laybourn (MA PGCE).

From Juvenilia

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep;

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides: above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumber’d and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages and will lie

Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall hear the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

Notes

The Kraken was a mythical sea-monster said to appear off the coast of Norway, and described by Erik Pontoppidan in A Natural History of Norway (1755).

Mariana

‘Mariana in the moated grange.’

Measure for Measure.

With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all:

The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall.

The broken sheds look’d sad and strange:

Unlifted was the clinking latch;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch

Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;

She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by,

And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, ‘The night is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:

The cock sung out an hour ere light:

From the dark fen the oxen’s low

Came to her: without hope of change,

In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn

About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, ‘The day is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,

And o’er it many, round and small,

The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.

Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarled bark:

For leagues no other tree did mark

The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

And ever when the moon was low,

And the shrill winds were up and away,

In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.

But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,

The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, ‘The night is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak’d;

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,

Or from the crevice peered about.

Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors,

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices called her from without.

She only said, ‘My life is dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead!’

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound

Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound

Her sense; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay

Athwart the chambers, and the day

Was sloping toward his western bower.

Then, said she, ‘I am very dreary,

He cometh not,’ she said;

She wept, ‘I am aweary, aweary,

Oh God, that I were dead!’

Notes

In Shakespeare’s play Measure for Measure, Mariana was once betrothed to the Duke’s deputy Angelo, who then spurned her because she had no dowry. Angelo tries to blackmail the heroine Isabella into sleeping with him, but Mariana (at the Duke’s instigation) secretly takes Isabella’s place in his bed. At the play’s end, Angelo’s hypocrisy is unmasked and he is sentenced to death, until Mariana pleads for his life and marries him. It is arguable whether this constitutes a happy ending.

The poem shows Mariana in mourning after Angelo has broken his betrothal vows. Shakespeare has the Duke say: ‘The maid will I frame and make fit for the attempt... I will presently to Saint Luke’s; there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana.’

A companion poem by Tennyson, Mariana in the South, (not included in this selection) employs a similar tone to Mariana but in a different setting, and to less effect.

Song – The Owl

I

When cats run home and light is come,

And dew is cold upon the ground,

And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

II

When merry milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,

Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.

Song

I

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.

II

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.

Rosalind

I

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,

Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,

Stoops at all game that wing the skies,

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,

Careless both of wind and weather,

Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,

Up or down the streaming wind?

II

The quick lark’s closest-carolled strains,

The shadow rushing up the sea,

The lightning flash atween the rains,

The sunlight driving down the lea,

The leaping stream, the very wind,

That will not stay, upon his way,

To stoop the cowslip to the plains,

Is not so clear and bold and free

As you, my falcon Rosalind.

You care not for another’s pains,

Because you are the soul of joy,

Bright metal all without alloy.

Life shoots and glances thro’ your veins,

And flashes off a thousand ways,

Thro’ lips and eyes in subtle rays.

Your hawk-eyes are keen and bright,

Keen with triumph, watching still

To pierce me thro’ with pointed light;

But oftentimes they flash and glitter

Like sunshine on a dancing rill,

And your words are seeming-bitter,

Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter

From excess of swift delight.

III

Come down, come down, my Rosalind,

My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:

Too long you keep the upper skies;

Too long you roam and wheel at will;

But we must hood your random eyes,

That care not whom they kill,

And your cheek, whose brilliant hue

Is so sparkling-fresh to view,

Some red heath-flower in the dew,

Touch’d with sunrise. We must bind

And keep you fast, my Rosalind,

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,

And clip your wings, and make you love:

When we have lured you from above,

And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,

From North to South,

We’ll bind you fast in silken cords,

And kiss away the bitter words

From off your rosy mouth.

Notes

One of a series of early poems addressed to women by name, each subject being marked by only one or two characteristics: spiritual Adeline, sweet pale Margaret, serene, imperial Eleanore and bold, fierce Kate.

From The Lady of Shalott and other poems

The Lady of Shalott

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-towered Camelot;

And up and down the people go,

Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,

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?

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,

Filing sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers ‘Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott.’

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

To look down on Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so 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,

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 surly 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:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said

The Lady of Shalott.

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 red-cross 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 bunch of stars we see

Hung in the golden Galaxy.

The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to 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.

As often thro’ the purple night,

Below the starry clusters bright,

Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

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.

From the bank and from the river

He flash’d into the crystal mirror,

‘Tirra lirra,’ by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro’ the room,

She saw the water-lily 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.

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.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,

Till her blood was frozen slowly,

And her eyes were darken’d wholly,

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 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.

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 mused a little space;

He said, ‘She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott.’

Notes

The Lady of Shalott is widely supposed to be an adaptation of the story of The Fair Maid of Astolet in Arthurian legend, as described in Thomas Malory’s Morte d’Arthur (Book 18, chapter 10).

In Malory, Elaine persuades Lancelot to carry her token at the jousts, and nurses him back to health when he is wounded. She falls in love with him, but her love is not returned. When he leaves, she refuses to eat, sleep or drink. On her death, her corpse is placed in a boat which is rowed down the river Thames and discovered by King Arthur, who orders her burial. In Malory’s account there is no mention of a curse, a mirror or a loom.

Tennyson addressed the same subject at much greater length, and with a closer adherence to Malory’s story, in his later Idylls of the King: Lancelot and Elaine.

Oenone (extracts)

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier

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

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 Oenone, 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-fountained Ida,

Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.

For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:

The grasshopper is silent in the grass:

The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,

Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead.

The purple flower droops: 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,

And I am all aweary of my life.’

* * *

‘O mother, hear me yet before I die.

They came, they cut away my tallest pines,

My tall dark 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 Oenone see the morning mist

Sweep thro’ them; never see them over-laid

With narrow moonlit slips of silver cloud,

Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

* * *

O mother, hear me yet before I die.

Hear me, O earth. 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. I will rise and go

Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth

Talk with the wild Cassandra, 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.’

Notes

Oenone was, in Greek legend, a mountain nymph and the first wife of Paris of Troy. When Paris abandoned her for Helen, she predicted the Trojan War. Tennyson also used her as the subject of his late poem The Death of Oenone (not included in this selection).

Lady Clara Vere de Vere (extracts)

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown:

You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired:

The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

* * *

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find,

For were you queen of all that is

I could not stoop to such a mind.

You sought to prove how I could love,

And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head.

Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:

A great enchantress you may be;

But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

* * *

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall:

The guilt of blood is at your door:

You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth,

And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent

The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent.

Howe’er it be, it seems to me,

’Tis only noble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood.

The May Queen (extracts)

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;

Tomorrow will be the happiest time of all the glad New-year;

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

* * *

The honeysuckle round the porch has wov’n its wavy bowers,

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;

And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,

And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;

There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day,

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May.

* * *

New Year’s Eve

If you’re waking call me early, call me early, mother dear,

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.

It is the last New-Year that I shall ever see,

Then you may lay me low i’ the mould and think no more of me.

* * *

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light

You’ll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;

When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.

You’ll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,

And you’ll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,

With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.

* * *

Conclusion

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;

And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet’s here.

* * *

It seem’d so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,

And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!

But still I think it can’t be long before I find release,

And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace.

The Lotos-Eaters

‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed toward the land,

‘This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.’

In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon,

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;

And like a downward smoke, the slender stream

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;

And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke,

Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.

They saw the gleaming river seaward flow

From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,

Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops,

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger’d low adown

In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale

Was seen far inland, and the yellow down

Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale

And meadow, set with slender galingale;

A land where all things always seem’d the same!

And round about the keel with faces pale,

Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave

To each, but whoso did receive of them,

And taste, to him the gushing of the wave

Far far away did seem to mourn and rave

On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,

His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;

And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake,

And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,

Between the sun and moon upon the shore;

And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,

Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore

Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar,

Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.

Then some one said, ‘We will return no more;’

And all at once they sang, ‘Our island home

Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.’

Choric Song

I

There is sweet music here that softer falls

Than petals from blown roses on the grass,

Or night-dews on still waters between walls

Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro’ the moss the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,

And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

II

Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness,

And utterly consumed with sharp distress,

While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,

And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown:

Nor ever fold our wings,

And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm;

Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,

‘There is no joy but calm!’

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,

The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud

With winds upon the branch, and there

Grows green and broad, and takes no care,

Sun-steep’d at noon, and in the moon

Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow

Falls, and floats adown the air.

Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light,

The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,

Drops in a silent autumn night.

All its allotted length of days

The flower ripens in its place,

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,

Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,

Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why

Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let us alone. What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

To war with evil? Is there any peace

In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

In silence; ripen, fall and cease:

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

V

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem

Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;

To hear each other’s whisper’d speech;

Eating the Lotos day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,

And tender curving lines of creamy spray;

To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;

To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heap’d over with a mound of grass,

Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

VI

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,

And dear the last embraces of our wives

And their warm tears: but all hath suffer’d change:

For surely now our household hearths are cold,

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

Before them of the ten years’ war in Troy,

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.

Is there confusion in the little isle?

Let what is broken so remain.

The Gods are hard to reconcile:

’Tis hard to settle order once again.

There is confusion worse than death,

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,

Long labour unto aged breath,

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

VII

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelid still,

Beneath a heaven dark and holy,

To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

His waters from the purple hill–

To hear the dewy echoes calling

From cave to cave thro’ the thick-twined vine–

To watch the emerald-colour’d water falling

Thro’ many a wov’n acanthus-wreath divine!

Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,

Only to hear were sweet, stretch’d out beneath the pine.

VIII

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:

The Lotos blows by every winding creek:

All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:

Thro’ every hollow cave and alley lone

Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.

We have had enough of action, and of motion we,

Roll’d to starboard, roll’d to larboard, when the surge was seething free,

Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.

Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,

In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined

On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.

For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d

Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl’d

Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:

Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,

Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.

But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song

Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,

Like a tale of little meaning tho’ the words are strong;

Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,

Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,

Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;

Till they perish and they suffer – some, ’tis whisper’d – down in hell

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,

Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.

Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore

Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;

O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Notes

The poem is based on an episode in Homer’s Odyssey, (Book 9), where Odysseus relates:

‘On the tenth day we made the country of the Lotus-eaters, a race that live on vegetable foods... I sent some of my followers inland to find out what sort of human beings might be there... it was not long before they were in touch with the Lotus-eaters. Now it never entered the heads of these natives to kill my friends; what they did was to give them some lotus to taste, and as soon as each had eaten the honeyed fruit of the plant, all thoughts of reporting to us or escaping were banished from his mind. All they now wished for was to stay where they were with the Lotus-eaters, to browse on the lotus and to forget that they had a home to return to. I had to use force to bring them back to the ships, and they wept on the way...’

(translation by EV Rieu, Penguin Books, 1946).

A Dream of Fair Women (extract)

...At last methought that I had wander’d far

In an old wood: fresh-wash’d in coolest dew

The maiden splendours of the morning star

Shook in the stedfast blue.

Enormous elm-tree-boles did stoop and lean

Upon the dusky brushwood underneath

Their broad curved branches, fledged with clearest green,

New from its silken sheath.

The dim red morn had died, her journey done,

And with dead lips smiled at the twilight plain,

Half-fall’n across the threshold of the sun,

Never to rise again.

There was no motion in the dumb dead air,

Not any song of bird or sound of rill;

Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre

Is not so deadly still

As that wide forest. Growths of jasmine turn’d

Their humid arms festooning tree to tree,

And at the root thro’ lush green grasses burn’d

The red anemone.

I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I knew

The tearful glimmer of the languid dawn

On those long, rank, dark wood-walks drench’d in dew,

Leading from lawn to lawn.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green,

Pour’d back into my empty soul and frame

The times when I remember to have been

Joyful and free from blame.

And from within me a clear under-tone

Thrill’d thro’ mine ears in that unblissful clime,

‘Pass freely thro’: the wood is all thine own,

Until the end of time.’

At length I saw a lady within call,

Stiller than chisell’d marble, standing there;

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,

And most divinely fair.

Her loveliness with shame and with surprise

Froze my swift speech: she turning on my face

The star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,

Spoke slowly in her place.

‘I had great beauty: ask thou not my name:

No one can be more wise than destiny.

Many drew swords and died. Where’er I came

I brought calamity...’

Notes

In the complete poem, the narrator, after reading Chaucer’s Legend of Good Women, dreams of Helen of Troy (in this extract), Iphigenia, Cleopatra and other famous women of history.

From English Idyls and other poems

Morte d’Arthur (extracts)

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d

Among the mountains by the winter sea;

Until King Arthur's table, man by man,

Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,

King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,

The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,

Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,

And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,

A broken chancel with a broken cross,

That stood on a dark strait of barren land.

On one side lay the Ocean, and on one

Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

* * *

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

Beneath them; and descending they were ware

That all the decks were dense with stately forms

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

Three Queens with crowns of gold – and from them rose

A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice an agony

Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills

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

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge,

And to the barge they came. There those three Queens

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

Notes

Tennyson reworked this legend in his Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur. Malory’s original is in Book 21 of Le Morte d’Arthur.

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy’d

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world, whose margin fades

For ever and for ever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle–

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me–

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads – you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Notes

Ulysses is the Roman name for Odysseus: the poem is set after the end of Homer’s Odyssey, when Odysseus is settled back in his homeland of Ithaca after his twenty years’ absence. Although Homer does not mention further voyages, it is thought that Tennyson also drew on Dante’s Inferno, in which Ulisse, or Ulysses, exhorts his men to seek ‘experience of the unpeopled world beyond the sun.’

Hyades: in Greek mythology, the five daughters of the Titan Atlas who were turned into stars; their name means ‘The Rainers.’

Happy Isles: the Elysian Fields, or Fortunate Isles, were in Greek mythology where the righteous and heroic dwelt after death.

Tithonus

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,

The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,

And after many a summer dies the swan.

Me only cruel immortality

Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,

Here at the quiet limit of the world,

A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream

The ever-silent spaces of the East,

Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man–

So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,

Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem’d

To his great heart none other than a God!

I ask’d thee, ‘Give me immortality.’

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,

Like wealthy men who care not how they give.

But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills,

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

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

To dwell in presence of immortal youth,

Immortal age beside immortal youth,

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

Thy beauty, make amends, tho’ even now,

Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears

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

Why should a man desire in any way

To vary from the kindly race of men

Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance

Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes

A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.

Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals

From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,

And bosom beating with a heart renew’d.

Thy cheek begins to redden thro’ the gloom,

Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,

Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team

Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,

And shake the darkness from their loosen’d manes,

And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful

In silence, then before thine answer given

Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.

Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears,

And make me tremble lest a saying learnt,

In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true

‘The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.’

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart

In days far-off, and with what other eyes

I used to watch – if I be he that watch’d–

The lucid outline forming round thee; saw

The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;

Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood

Glow with the glow that slowly crimson’d all

Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,

Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm

With kisses balmier than half-opening buds

Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss’d

Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,

Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,

While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not for ever in thine East:

How can my nature longer mix with thine?

Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold

Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet

Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam

Floats up from those dim fields about the homes

Of happy men that have the power to die,

And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

Release me, and restore me to the ground;

Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:

Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;

I earth in earth forget these empty courts,

And thee returning on thy silver wheels.

Notes

In Greek legend, Tithonus was the son of Laomedon, King of Troy. The goddess of the dawn, Eos (or Aurora) fell in love with him and asked Zeus to grant him eternal life. However, she did not ask for him to be given eternal youth; so he was doomed to ever-lasting old age.

Locksley Hall (extract)

Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early morn:

Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro’ the mellow shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander’d, nourishing a youth sublime

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;

When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see;

Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.–

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove;

In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

* * *

Notes

In the full poem, the narrator is loved by his cousin Amy who then marries another. The poem ends with his resolve to bid ‘a long farewell to Locksley Hall.’

Tennyson later wrote a sequel, Locksley Hall Sixty Years after.

Godiva (extract)

...Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there

Unclasp’d the wedded eagles of her belt,

The grim Earl’s gift; but ever at a breath

She linger’d, looking like a summer moon

Half-dipt in cloud: anon she shook her head,

And shower’d the rippled ringlets to her knee;

Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair

Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid

From pillar unto pillar, until she reach’d

The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt

In purple blazon’d with armorial gold.

Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity:

The deep air listen’d round her as she rode,

And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear.

The little wide-mouth’d heads upon the spout

Had cunning eyes to see: the barking cur

Made her cheek flame; her palfrey’s foot-fall shot

Light horrors thro’ her pulses; the blind walls

Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead

Fantastic gables, crowding, stared: but she

Not less thro’ all bore up, till, last, she saw

The white-flower’d elder-thicket from the field,

Gleam thro’ the Gothic archway in the wall.

Notes

The story goes that in the 11th century an Anglo-Saxon noblewoman, Lady Godiva, asked her husband, the Earl of Mercia, to free the English town of Coventry from heavy tolls. He announced that he would do so if she would ride naked through the town. To his surprise, she did so, covered only by her long hair. Although Lady Godiva was undoubtedly an historical figure, the truth of this particular legend is unclear.

The Daydream: The Sleeping Palace (extracts)

...Soft lustre bathes the range of urns

On every slanting terrace-lawn.

The fountain to his place returns

Deep in the garden lake withdrawn.

Here droops the banner on the tower,

On the hall-hearths the festal fires,

The peacock in his laurel bower,

The parrot in his gilded wires.

Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs:

In these, in those the life is stay’d.

The mantles from the golden pegs

Droop sleepily; no sound is made,

Not even of a gnat that sings.

More like a picture seemeth all

Than those old portraits of old kings,

That watch the sleepers from the wall.

* * *

All round a hedge upshoots, and shows

At distance like a little wood;

Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes,

And grapes with bunches red as blood;

All creeping plants, a wall of green

Close-matted, bur and brake and briar,

And glimpsing over these, just seen,

High up, the topmost palace spire.

Amphion

My father left a park to me,

But it is wild and barren,

A garden too with scarce a tree,

And waster than a warren;

Yet say the neighbours when they call,

It is not bad but good land,

And in it is the germ of all

That grows within the woodland.

O had I lived when song was great

In days of old Amphion,

And ta’en my fiddle to the gate,

Nor cared for seed or scion!

And had I lived when song was great,

And legs of trees were limber,

And ta’en my fiddle to the gate,

And fiddled in the timber!

’Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,

Such happy intonation,

Wherever he sat down and sung

He left a small plantation;

Wherever in a lonely grove

He set up his forlorn pipes,

The gouty oak began to move,

And flounder into hornpipes.

The mountain stirr’d its bushy crown,

And, as tradition teaches,

Young ashes pirouetted down

Coquetting with young beeches;

And briony-vine and ivy-wreath

Ran forward to his rhyming,

And from the valleys underneath

Came little copses climbing.

The linden broke her ranks and rent

The woodbine wreaths that bind her,

And down the middle, buzz! she went

With all her bees behind her;

The poplars, in long order due,

With cypress promenaded,

The shock-head willows two and two

By rivers gallopaded.

Came wet-shod alder from the wave,

Came yews, a dismal coterie;

Each pluck’d his one foot from the grave,

Poussetting with a sloe-tree;

Old elms came breaking from the vine,

The vine stream’d out to follow,

And, sweating rosin, plump’d the pine

From many a cloudy hollow.

And wasn’t it a sight to see,

When, ere his song was ended,

Like some great landslip, tree by tree,

The country-side descended;

And shepherds from the mountain-eaves

Look’d down, half-pleased, half-frighten’d,

As dash’d about the drunken leaves

The random sunshine lighten’d!

O, Nature first was fresh to men,

And wanton without measure;

So youthful and so flexile then,

You moved her at your pleasure.

Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs!

And make her dance attendance;

Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs,

And scirrhous roots and tendons.

’Tis vain! in such a brassy age

I could not move a thistle;

The very sparrows in the hedge

Scarce answer to my whistle;

Or at the most, when three-parts-sick

With strumming and with scraping,

A jackass heehaws from the rick,

The passive oxen gaping.

But what is that I hear? a sound

Like sleepy counsel pleading;

O Lord! –’tis in my neighbour’s ground,

The modern Muses reading.

They read Botanic Treatises,

And Works on Gardening thro’ there,

And Methods of transplanting trees

To look as if they grew there.

The wither’d Misses! how they prose

O’er books of travell’d seamen,

And show you slips of all that grows

From England to Van Diemen.

They read in arbours clipt and cut,

And alleys, faded places,

By squares of tropic summer shut

And warm’d in crystal cases.

But these, tho’ fed with careful dirt,

Are neither green nor sappy;

Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,

The spindlings look unhappy.

Better to me the meanest weed

That blows upon its mountain,

The vilest herb that runs to seed

Beside its native fountain.

And I must work thro’ months of toil,

And years of cultivation,

Upon my proper patch of soil

To grow my own plantation.

I’ll take the showers as they fall,

I will not vex my bosom:

Enough if at the end of all

A little garden blossom.

Notes

In Greek myth Amphion, a son of Zeus, was taught by the god Hermes to play music. When he and his brother built the city of Thebes, the sound of his lyre caused the stones to move into place by themselves.

Sir Galahad (extract)

My good blade carves the casques of men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure,

My strength is as the strength of ten

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel,

The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and fly,

The horse and rider reel:

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,

Perfume and flowers fall in showers,

That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman’s boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play!

O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

From Enoch Arden, and other poems

Enoch Arden (extracts)

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;

And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;

Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf

In cluster; then a moulder’d church; and higher

A long street climbs to one tall-tower’d mill;

And high in heaven behind it a gray down

With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,

By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes

Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,

Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,

The prettiest little damsel in the port,

And Philip Ray the miller’s only son,

And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor’s lad

Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play’d

Among the waste and lumber of the shore,

Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,

Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,

And built their castles of dissolving sand

To watch them overflow’d, or following up

And flying the white breaker, daily left

The little footprint daily wash’d away.

* * *

Then, on a golden autumn eventide,

The younger people making holiday,

With bag and sack and basket, great and small,

Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d

(His father lying sick and needing him)

An hour behind; but as he climb’d the hill,

Just where the prone edge of the wood began

To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,

Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,

His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face

All-kindled by a still and sacred fire,

That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d,

And in their eyes and faces read his doom;

Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d,

And slipt aside, and like a wounded life

Crept down into the hollows of the wood;

There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,

Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past

Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

* * *

(Enoch marries Annie and they have three children. Then work becomes scarce and times are hard, so Enoch accepts the post of boatswain on a boat bound for China.)

But when the last of those last moments came,

‘Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted,

Look to the babes, and till I come again,

Keep everything shipshape, for I must go.

And fear no more for me; or if you fear

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Is He not yonder in those uttermost

Parts of the morning? if I flee to these

Can I go from Him? and the sea is His,

The sea is His: He made it.’

Enoch rose,

Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,

And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones;

But for the third, sickly one, who slept

After a night of feverous wakefulness,

When Annie would have raised him Enoch said

‘Wake him not; let him sleep; how should this child

Remember this?’ and kiss’d him in his cot.

But Annie from her baby’s forehead clipt

A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept

Thro’ all his future; but now hastily caught

His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.

She when the day, that Enoch mention’d, came,

Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain: perhaps

She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;

Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;

She saw him not: and while he stood on deck

Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

* * *

(After a while, Annie is poor and grieving, her third child having died. Philip is now rich, and offers to support her remaining two children.)

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,

And bought them needful books, and everyway,

Like one who does his duty by his own,

Made himself theirs; and tho’ for Annie's sake,

Fearing the lazy gossip of the port,

He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,

And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent

Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,

The late and early roses from his wall,

Or conies from the down, and now and then,

With some pretext of fineness in the meal

To save the offence of charitable, flour

From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind:

Scarce could the woman when he came upon her,

Out of full heart and boundless gratitude

Light on a broken word to thank him with.

But Philip was her children’s all-in-all;

From distant corners of the street they ran

To greet his hearty welcome heartily;

Lords of his house and of his mill were they;

Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs

Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with him

And call’d him Father Philip. Philip gain’d

As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem’d to them

Uncertain as a vision or a dream,

Faint as a figure seen in early dawn

Down at the far end of an avenue,

Going we know not where: and so ten years,

Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,

Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

* * *

(Assuming Enoch must be dead after ten years’ absence,, Philip asks Annie to marry him. She asks him to wait for one more year.)

At last one night it chanced

That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly

Pray’d for a sign ‘my Enoch is he gone?’

Then compass’d round by the blind wall of night

Brook’d not the expectant terror of her heart,

Started from bed, and struck herself a light,

Then desperately seized the holy Book,

Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,

Suddenly put her finger on the text,

‘Under the palm-tree.’ That was nothing to her:

No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:

When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height,

Under a palm-tree, over him the Sun:

‘He is gone,’ she thought, ‘he is happy, he is singing

Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines

The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms

Whereof the happy people strowing cried

“Hosanna in the highest!”’ Here she woke,

Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him

‘There is no reason why we should not wed.’

‘Then for God’s sake,’ he answer’d, ‘both our sakes,

So you will wed me, let it be at once.’

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,

Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.

But never merrily beat Annie's heart.

A footstep seem’d to fall beside her path,

She knew not whence; a whisper in her ear,

She knew not what; nor loved she to be left

Alone at home, nor ventured out alone.

What ail’d her then, that ere she enter’d, often

Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,

Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew:

Such doubts and fears were common to her state,

Being with child: but when her child was born,

Then her new child was as herself renew’d,

Then the new mother came about her heart,

Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,

And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

* * *

(What of Enoch? On the voyage home, a storm broke up his boat; Enoch and two other sailors were ship-wrecked on a lonely isle.)

There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge

They built, and thatch’d with leaves of palm, a hut,

Half hut, half native cavern. So the three,

Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,

Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,

Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,

Lay lingering out a five-years’ death-in-life.

They could not leave him. After he was gone,

The two remaining found a fallen stem;

And Enoch’s comrade, careless of himself,

Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell

Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone.

In those two deaths he read God’s warning ‘wait.’

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns

And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,

The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes,

The lightning flash of insect and of bird,

The lustre of the long convolvuluses

That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran

Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows

And glories of the broad belt of the world,

All these he saw; but what he fain had seen

He could not see, the kindly human face,

Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard

The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,

The league-long roller thundering on the reef,

The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d

And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep

Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,

As down the shore he ranged, or all day long

Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,

A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail:

No sail from day to day, but every day

The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts

Among the palms and ferns and precipices;

The blaze upon the waters to the east;

The blaze upon his island overhead;

The blaze upon the waters to the west;

Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,

The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again

The scarlet shafts of sunrise – but no sail.

* * *

(Years pass: then at last a ship stops at the island to find water, and carries Enoch home. Back in the village, and unrecognised, he hears the story of his wife’s new marriage. Visiting her house, he looks through the window.)

Now when the dead man come to life beheld

His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe

Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee,

And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,

And his own children tall and beautiful,

And him, that other, reigning in his place,

Lord of his rights and of his children’s love,–

Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all,

Because things seen are mightier than things heard,

Stagger’d and shook, holding the branch, and fear’d

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,

Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief,

Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,

And feeling all along the garden-wall,

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,

Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed,

As lightly as a sick man’s chamber-door,

Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

* * *

(Enoch stays in the neighbourhood, but without revealing his identity.)

He was not all unhappy. His resolve

Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore

Prayer from a living source within the will,

And beating up thro’ all the bitter world,

Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,

Kept him a living soul. ‘This miller’s wife’

He said to Miriam ‘that you told me of,

Has she no fear that her first husband lives?’

‘Ay ay, poor soul’ said Miriam, ‘fear enow!

If you could tell her you had seen him dead,

Why, that would be her comfort;’ and he thought

‘After the Lord has call’d me she shall know,

I wait His time,’ and Enoch set himself,

Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.

Almost to all things could he turn his hand.

Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought

To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help’d

At lading and unlading the tall barks,

That brought the stinted commerce of those days;

Thus earn’d a scanty living for himself...

* * *

(Falling ill, Enoch asks the widow Miriam Lane to tell his story after his death.)

Then the third night after this,

While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale,

And Miriam watch’d and dozed at intervals,

There came so loud a calling of the sea,

That all the houses in the haven rang.

He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad

Crying with a loud voice ‘A sail! a sail!

I am saved;’ and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away.

And when they buried him the little port

Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

Notes

The subject matter was suggested to Tennyson by Thomas Woolner, the Pre-Raphaelite poet and sculptor; but does not appear to be based on a true story.

Aylmer’s Field 1793 (extract)

A land of hops and poppy-mingled corn,

Little about it stirring save a brook!

A sleepy land, where under the same wheel

The same old rut would deepen year by year;

Where almost all the village had one name;

Where Aylmer followed Aylmer at the Hall

And Averill Averill at the Rectory

Thrice over; so that Rectory and Hall,

Bound in an immemorial intimacy,

Were open to each other; tho’ to dream

That Love could bind them closer well had made

The hoar head of the Baronet bristle up

With horror, worse than he had heard his priest

Preach an inverted scripture, sons of men

Daughters of God; so sleepy was the land.

* * *

(Leolin Averill falls in love with Edith Aylmer)

A whisper half reveal’d her to herself.

For out beyond her lodges, where the brook

Vocal, with here and there a silence, ran

By sallowy rims, arose the labourers’ homes,

A frequent haunt of Edith, on low knolls

That dimpling died into each other, huts

At random scatter’d, each a nest in bloom.

Her art, her hand, her counsel all had wrought

About them: here was one that, summer-blanch’d,

Was parcel-bearded with the traveller’s-joy

In Autumn, parcel ivy-clad; and here

The warm-blue breathings of a hidden hearth

Broke from a bower of vine and honeysuckle:

One look’d all rosetree, and another wore

A close-set robe of jasmine sown with stars:

This had a rosy sea of gillyflowers

About it; this, a milky-way on earth,

Like visions in the Northern dreamer’s heavens,

A lily-avenue climbing to the doors;

One, almost to the martin-haunted eaves

A summer burial deep in hollyhocks;

Each, its own charm; and Edith’s everywhere;

And Edith ever visitant with him...

* * *

(However, the match is forbidden by her father Sir Aylmer. Edith, pining, dies of a fever; Leolin, banished, stabs himself to death; Averill senior preaches a long, poetic sermon, Edith’s mother dies and her father goes mad.)

And when he felt the silence of his house

About him, and the change and not the change,

And those fix’d eyes of painted ancestors

Staring for ever from their gilded walls

On him their last descendent, his own head

Began to droop, to fall; the man became

Imbecile; his one word was ‘desolate;’

Dead for two years before his death was he;

But when the second Christmas came, escaped

His keepers, and the silence which he felt,

To find a deeper in the narrow gloom

By wife and child; nor wanted at his end

The dark retinue reverencing death

At golden thresholds; nor from tender hearts,

And those who sorrow’d o’er a vanished race,

Pity, the violet on the tyrant’s grave.

Then the great Hall was wholly broken down,

And the broad woodland parcelled into farms;

And where the two contrived their daughter’s good,

Lies the hawk’s cast, the mole has made his run,

The hedgehog underneath the plantain bores,

The rabbit fondles his own harmless face,

The slow-worm creeps, and the thin weasel there

Follows the mouse, and all is open field.

The Princess: a medley  (extracts)

(The poet visits Sir Walter Vivian, his sister Lilia and family at his ancient house by the ruins of an abbey. Lilia playfully wraps her scarf around a statue of a knight:)

...But while they talk’d, above their heads I saw

The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought

My book to mind: and opening this I read

Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang

With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her

That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls,

And much I praised her nobleness, and ‘Where,’

Asked Walter, patting Lilia’s head (she lay

Beside him) ‘lives there such a woman now?’

Quick answer’d Lilia ‘There are thousands now

Such women, but convention beats them down:

It is but bringing up; no more than that:

You men have done it: how I hate you all!

Ah, were I something great! I wish I were

Some mighty poetess, I would shame you then,

That love to keep us children! O I wish

That I were some great princess, I would build

Far off from men a college like a man’s,

And I would teach them all that men are taught;

We are twice as quick!’ And here she shook aside

The hand that played the patron with her curls.

* * *

‘Take Lilia, then, for heroine,’ clamoured he,

‘And make her some great Princess, six feet high,

Grand, epic, homicidal; and be you

The Prince to win her!’

‘Then follow me, the Prince,’

I answer’d, ‘each be hero in his turn!

Seven and yet one, like shadows in a dream.–

Heroic seems our Princess as required–

But something made to suit with Time and place,

A Gothic ruin and a Grecian house,

A talk of college and of ladies’ rights,

A feudal knight in silken masquerade,

And, yonder, shrieks and strange experiments

For which the good Sir Ralph had burnt them all–

This were  a medley! we should have him back

Who told the “Winter’s tale” to do it for us.

No matter: we will say whatever comes.

And let the ladies sing us, if they will,

From time to time, some ballad or a song

To give us breathing-space.’

So I began,

And the rest follow’d: and the women sang

Between the rougher voices of the men,

Like linnets in the pauses of the wind:

And here I give the story and the songs.

I

A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face,

Of temper amorous, as the first of May,

With lengths of yellow ringlet, like a girl,

For on my cradle shone the Northern star.

There lived an ancient legend in our house.

Some sorcerer, whom a far-off grandsire burnt

Because he cast no shadow, had foretold,

Dying, that none of all our blood should know

The shadow from the substance, and that one

Should come to fight with shadows and to fall.

For so, my mother said, the story ran.

And, truly, waking dreams were, more or less,

An old and strange affection of the house.

Myself too had weird seizures, Heaven knows what:

On a sudden in the midst of men and day,

And while I walk’d and talk’d as heretofore,

I seem’d to move among a world of ghosts,

And feel myself the shadow of a dream.

Our great court-Galen poised his gilt-head cane,

And pawed his beard, and mutter’d ‘catalepsy’.

My mother pitying made a thousand prayers;

My mother was as mild as any saint,

Half-canonized by all that look’d on her,

So gracious was her tact and tenderness:

But my good father thought a king a king;

He cared not for the affection of the house;

He held his sceptre like a pedant’s wand

To lash offence, and with long arms and hands

Reach’d out, and pick’d offenders from the mass

For judgment.

Now it chanced that I had been,

While life was yet in bud and blade, betroth’d

To one, a neighbouring Princess: she to me

Was proxy-wedded with a bootless calf

At eight years old; and still from time to time

Came murmurs of her beauty from the South,

And of her brethren, youths of puissance;

And still I wore her picture by my heart,

And one dark tress; and all around them both

Sweet thoughts would swarm as bees about their queen.

* * *

(When grown, the Princess Ida vows she will not marry. With his friends, Cyril and Florian, the poet/prince narrator rides out to find her. He learns that she has founded a University for women, with Lady Blanche and Lady Psyche as tutors. The men dress up as women and are admitted.)

At break of day the College Portress came:

She brought us Academic silks, in hue

The lilac, with a silken hood to each,

And zoned with gold; and now when these were on,

And we as rich as moths from dusk cocoons,

She, curtseying her obeisance, let us know

The Princess Ida waited: out we paced,

I first, and following thro’ the porch that sang

All round with laurel, issued in a court

Compact of lucid marbles, boss’d with lengths

Of classic frieze, with ample awnings gay

Betwixt the pillars, and with great urns of flowers.

The Muses and the Graces, group’d in threes,

Enring’d a billowing fountain in the midst;

And here and there on lattice edges lay

Or book or lute; but hastily we past,

And up a flight of stairs into the hall.

There at a board by tome and paper sat,

With two tame leopards couch’d beside her throne,

All beauty compass’d in a female form,

The Princess; liker to the inhabitant

Of some clear planet close upon the Sun,

Than our man's earth; such eyes were in her head,

And so much grace and power, breathing down

From over her arch’d brows, with every turn

Liv’d thro’ her to the tips of her long hands,

And to her feet.

* * *

...then an officer

Rose up, and read the statutes, such as these:

Not for three years to correspond with home:

Not for three years to cross the liberties;

Not for three years to speak with any men;

And many more, which hastily subscribed,

We enter’d on the boards: and ‘Now,’ she cried,

‘Ye are green wood, see ye warp not...

...O lift your natures up:

Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls,

Knowledge is now no more a fountain seal’d:

Drink deep, until the habits of the slave,

The sins of emptiness, gossip and spite

And slander, die. Better not be at all

Than not be noble. Leave us: you may go:

Today the Lady Psyche will harangue

The fresh arrivals of the week before;

For they press in from all the provinces,

And fill the hive.’

She spoke, and bowing waved

Dismissal: back again we crost the court

To Lady Psyche’s: as we enter’d in,

There sat along the forms, like morning doves

That sun their milky bosoms on the thatch,

A patient range of pupils; she herself

Erect behind a desk of satin-wood,

A quick brunette, well-moulded, falcon-eyed,

And on the hither side, or so she look’d,

Of twenty summers.

* * *

At last a solemn grace

Concluded, and we sought the gardens: there

One walked reciting by herself, and one

In this hand held a volume as to read,

And smoothed a petted peacock down with that:

Some to a low song oar’d a shallop by,

Or under arches of the marble bridge

Hung, shadow’d from the heat: some hid and sought

In the orange thickets: others tost a ball

Above the fountain-jets, and back again

With laughter: others lay about the lawns,

Of the older sort, and murmured that their May

Was passing: what was learning unto them?

They wish’d to marry; they could rule a house;

Men hated learned women: but we three

Sat muffled like the Fates; and often came

Melissa hitting all we saw with shafts

Of gentle satire, kin to charity,

That harm’d not: then day droopt; the chapel bells

Call’d us: we left the walks; we mixt with those

Six hundred maidens clad in purest white,

Before two streams of light from wall to wall,

While the great organ almost burst his pipes,

Groaning for power, and rolling thro’ the court

A long melodious thunder to the sound

Of solemn psalms, and silver litanies,

The work of Ida, to call down from Heaven

A blessing on her labours for the world.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

* * *

(Lady Psyche is Florian’s sister; but although they are unmasked by her, the three men hide their identities from the princess. The narrator lets the Princess think he is a lady from his own court, who knows the man she is betrothed to.)

Then summoned to the porch we went. She stood

Among her maidens, higher by the head,

Her back against a pillar, her foot on one

Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he rolled

And pawed about her sandal. I drew near;

I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came

Upon me, the weird vision of our house:

The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show,

Her gay-furred cats a painted fantasy,

Her college and her maidens, empty masks,

And I myself the shadow of a dream,

For all things were and were not. Yet I felt

My heart beat thick with passion and with awe;

Then from my breast the involuntary sigh

Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes

That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook

My pulses, till to horse we got, and so

Went forth in long retinue following up

The river as it narrowed to the hills.

* * *

(He speaks to Princess Ida of her betrothed, whom she says she does not intend to marry)

I stammered that I knew him – could have wish’d–

‘Our king expects – was there no precontract?

There is no truer-hearted – ah, you seem

All he prefigured, and he could not see

The bird of passage flying south but long’d

To follow: surely, if your Highness keep

Your purport, you will shock him ev’n to death,

Or baser courses, children of despair.’

‘Poor boy,’ she said, ‘can he not read – no books?

Quoit, tennis, ball – no games? nor deals in that

Which men delight in, martial exercise?

To nurse a blind ideal like a girl,

Methinks he seems no better than a girl;

As girls were once, as we ourself have been:

We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them:

We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it,

Being other – since we learnt our meaning here,

To lift the woman’s fall’n divinity

Upon an even pedestal with man.’

* * *

(The Princess and her followers travel up into the hills.)

...up we came to where the river sloped

To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks

A breadth of thunder. O’er it shook the woods,

And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out

The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roar’d

Before man was. She gazed awhile and said,

‘As these rude bones to us, are we to her

That will be.’ ‘Dare we dream of that,’ I ask’d,

‘Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,

That practice betters?’ ‘How,’ she cried, ‘you love

The metaphysics! read and earn our prize,

A golden brooch: beneath an emerald plane

Sits Diotima, teaching him that died

Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;

She rapt upon her subject, he on her:

For there are schools for all.’ ‘And yet’ I said

‘Methinks I have not found among them all

One anatomic.’ ‘Nay, we thought of that,’

She answer’d, ‘but it pleased us not: in truth

We shudder but to dream our maids should ape

Those monstrous males that carve the living hound,

And cram him with the fragments of the grave,

Or in the dark dissolving human heart,

And holy secrets of this microcosm.’

(Diotima was an ancient Greek female philosopher and tutor of Socrates, “him that died of hemlock”. Anatomic means concerning the study of anatomy.

The group continues to travel through the hills.)

* * *

...then, climbing, Cyril kept

With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I

With mine affianced. Many a little hand

Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,

Many a light foot shone like a jewel set

In the dark crag: and then we turn’d, we wound

About the cliffs, the copses, out and in,

Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names

Of shale and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,

Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun

Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all

The rosy heights came out above the lawns.

IV

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

‘There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun,

If that hypothesis of theirs be sound’

Said Ida; ‘let us down and rest;’ and we

Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices,

By every coppice-feather’d chasm and cleft,

Dropt through the ambrosial gloom to where below

No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent

Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she lean’d on me,

Descending; once or twice she lent her hand,

And blissful palpitations in the blood,

Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell.

But when we planted level feet, and dipt

Beneath the satin dome and enter’d in,

There leaning deep in broider’d down we sank

Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst

A fragrant flame rose, and before us glow’d

Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold.

Then she, ‘Let some one sing to us: lightlier move

The minutes fledged with music:’ and a maid,

Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang.

‘Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

‘Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

‘Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

‘Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more.’

She ended with such passion that the tear,

She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl

Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain

Answered the Princess, ‘If indeed there haunt

About the moulder’d lodges of the Past

So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men,

Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool

And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatched

In silken-folded idleness...

* * *

(The narrator saves Ida when she falls in the river, but his identity is now revealed. The angry Princess is deciding judgment on him when two letters are delivered to her.)

She whirled them on to me, as who should say

Read, and I read – two letters – one her sire’s.

‘Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way,

We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt,

We, conscious of what temper you are built,

Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell

Into his father’s hands, who has this night,

You lying close upon his territory,

Slipt round and in the dark invested you,

And here he keeps me hostage for his son.’

The second was my father's running thus:

‘You have our son: touch not a hair of his head:

Render him up unscathed: give him your hand:

Cleave to your contract: tho’ indeed we hear

You hold the woman is the better man;

A rampant heresy, such as if it spread

Would make all women kick against their Lords

Through all the world, and which might well deserve

That we this night should pluck your palace down;

And we will do it, unless you send us back

Our son, on the instant, whole.’

* * *

(The narrator is sent away by the Princess and finds his way to his father, who is ready to wage war)

And roughly spake

My father, ‘Tut, you know them not, the girls.

Boy, when I hear you prate I almost think

That idiot legend credible. Look you, Sir!

Man is the hunter; woman is his game:

The sleek and shining creatures of the chase,

We hunt them for the beauty of their skins;

They love us for it, and we ride them down.

Wheedling and siding with them! Out! for shame!

Boy, there’s no rose that’s half so dear to them

As he that does the thing they dare not do,

Breathing and sounding beauteous battle, comes

With the air of the trumpet round him, and leaps in

Among the women, snares them by the score

Flatter’d and fluster’d, wins, though dash’d with death

He reddens what he kisses: thus I won

Your mother, a good mother, a good wife,

Worth winning; but this firebrand – gentleness

To such as her! if Cyril spake her true,

To catch a dragon in a cherry net,

To trip a tigress with a gossamer

Were wisdom to it.’

* * *

(They go to war. The narrator vows to fight on the Princess’s behalf, but in combat meets the huge warrior Arac)

But that large-moulded man,

His visage all agrin as at a wake,

Made at me thro’ the press, and, staggering back

With stroke on stroke the horse and horseman, came

As comes a pillar of electric cloud,

Flaying the roofs and sucking up the drains,

And shadowing down the champaign till it strikes

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

And twists the grain with such a roar that Earth

Reels, and the herdsmen cry; for everything

Gave way before him: only Florian, he

That loved me closer than his own right eye,

Thrust in between; but Arac rode him down:

And Cyril seeing it, push’d against the Prince,

With Psyche’s colour round his helmet, tough,

Strong, supple, sinew-corded, apt at arms;

But tougher, heavier, stronger, he that smote

And threw him: last I spurr’d; I felt my veins

Stretch with fierce heat; a moment hand to hand,

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

Till I struck out and shouted; the blade glanced,

I did but shear a feather, and dream and truth

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

* * *

(Ida and her girls become nurses to tend the wounded)

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell,

And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame.

Old studies fail’d; seldom she spoke: but oft

Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours

On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of men

Darkening her female field: void was her use,

And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze

O’er land and main, and sees a great black cloud

Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night,

Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore,

And suck the blinding splendour from the sand,

And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn

Expunge the world: so fared she gazing there;

So blacken’d all her world in secret, blank

And waste it seem’d and vain; till down she came,

And found fair peace once more among the sick.

And twilight dawn’d; and morn by morn the lark

Shot up and shrill’d in flickering gyres, but I

Lay silent in the muffled cage of life:

And twilight gloom’d; and broader-grown the bowers

Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven,

Star after Star, arose and fell; but I,

Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay

Quite sundered from the moving Universe,

Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand

That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep.

* * *

Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, held

A volume of the Poets of her land:

There to herself, all in low tones, she read.

‘Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;

Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;

Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:

The fire-fly wakens: wake thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost,

And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,

And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves

A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,

And slips into the bosom of the lake:

So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip

Into my bosom and be lost in me.’

* * *

(The princess admits to loving the narrator, and castigates herself for former foolishness)

‘Blame not thyself too much,’ I said, ‘nor blame

Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws;

These were the rough ways of the world till now.

Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know

The woman’s cause is man’s: they rise or sink

Together, dwarf’d or godlike, bond or free:

For she that out of Lethe scales with man

The shining steps of Nature, shares with man

His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal,

Stays all the fair young planet in her hands–

If she be small, slight-natured, miserable,

How shall men grow? but work no more alone!

Our place is much: as far as in us lies

We two will serve them both in aiding her–

Will clear away the parasitic forms

That seem to keep her up but drag her down–

Will leave her space to burgeon out of all

Within her – let her make herself her own

To give or keep, to live and learn and be

All that not harms distinctive womanhood.

For woman is not undevelopt man,

But diverse: could we make her as the man,

Sweet Love were slain: his dearest bond is this,

Not like to like, but like in difference.

Yet in the long years liker must they grow;

The man be more of woman, she of man;

He gain in sweetness and in moral height,

Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;

She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,

Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind;

Till at the last she set herself to man,

Like perfect music unto noble words;

And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,

Sit side by side, full-summ’d in all their powers,

Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be,

Self-reverent each and reverencing each,

Distinct in individualities,

But like each other even as those who love.

* * *

Giv’n back to life, to life indeed, thro’ thee,

Indeed I love: the new day comes, the light

Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults

Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts are dead,

My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change,

This truthful change in thee has kill’d it. Dear,

Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine,

Like yonder morning on the blind half-world;

Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows;

In that fine air I tremble, all the past

Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this

Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come

Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels

Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me,

I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride,

My wife, my life. O we will walk this world,

Yoked in all exercise of noble end,

And so through those dark gates across the wild

That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come,

Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one:

Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself;

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.’

Note

The poem was used by Gilbert and Sullivan as the basis for their comic opera Princess Ida (1884), which satirised feminism.

Miscellaneous poems

Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington (extract)

I

Bury the Great Duke

With an empire’s lamentation,

Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,

Mourning when their leaders fall,

Warriors carry the warrior’s pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?

Here, in streaming London’s central roar.

Let the sound of those he wrought for,

And the feet of those he fought for,

Echo round his bones for evermore.

III

Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,

As fits an universal woe,

Let the long long procession go,

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,

And let the mournful martial music blow;

The last great Englishman is low.

The Charge of the Light Brigade

I

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

‘Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!’ he said.

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

II

‘Forward, the Light Brigade!’

Was there a man dismay’d?

Not tho’ the soldier knew

Someone had blunder’d.

Their’s not to make reply,

Their’s not to reason why,

Their’s but to do and die;

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

III

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley’d and thunder’d;

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

IV

Flash’d all their sabres bare,

Flash’d as they turn’d in air

Sabring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wonder’d:

Plunged in the battery-smoke

Right thro’ the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reel’d from the sabre-stroke

Shatter’d and sunder’d,

Then they rode back, but not

Not the six hundred.

V

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley’d and thunder’d;

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of six hundred.

VI

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder’d.

Honour the charge they made!

Honour the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred!

Notes

This was written in 1854 during the Crimean War to mark the disastrous charge at Balaclava, when the Light Brigade of the British Army were wrongly ordered to attack a Russian artillery battery and suffered dreadful casualties.

In 1890, a wax cylinder recording was made of Tennyson reciting the poem. This remarkable, if somewhat indistinct, recording can be heard online (at various websites including Youtube.)

The Higher Pantheism

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains–

Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?

Is not the Vision He, tho’ He be not that which He seems?

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and limb,

Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him?

Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why,

For is He not all but that which has power to feel ‘I am I’?

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom,

Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendour and gloom.

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet–

Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

God is law, say the wise; O soul, and let us rejoice,

For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice.

Law is God, say some; no God at all, says the fool;

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool;

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;

But if we could see and hear, this Vision – were it not He?

Note

Pantheism: the doctrine that God is in everything and everything is God.

Hendecasyllabics

O you chorus of indolent reviewers,

Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,

Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem

All composed in a metre of Catullus,

All in quantity, careful of my motion,

Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,

Lest I fall unawares before the people,

Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.

Should I flounder awhile without a tumble

Thro’ this metrification of Catullus,

They should speak to me not without a welcome,

All that chorus of indolent reviewers.

Hard, hard, hard it is, only not to tumble,

So fantastical is the dainty metre.

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me

Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers.

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather–

Since I blush to belaud myself a moment–

As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost

Horticultural art, or half-coquette-like

Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.

Note

A hendecasyllabic is a verse line of eleven syllables, with the fourth, fifth, seventh and ninth syllables unaccented. It was used by the Roman poet Catullus (c 84 BC to 54 BC) but is fiendishly difficult to compose in English.

In Memoriam A.H.H. (extracts)

I

Strong Son of God, immortal Love,

Whom we, that have not seen thy face,

By faith, and faith alone, embrace,

Believing where we cannot prove;

Thine are these orbs of light and shade;

Thou madest Life in man and brute;

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot

Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:

Thou madest man, he knows not why,

He thinks he was not made to die;

And thou hast made him: thou art just.

* * *

IV

To sleep I give my powers away;

My will is bondsman to the dark;

I sit within a helmless bark,

And with my heart I muse and say:

O heart, how fares it with thee now,

That thou should’st fail from thy desire,

Who scarcely darest to inquire,

‘What is it makes me beat so low?’

Something it is which thou hast lost,

Some pleasure from thine early years.

Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,

That grief hath shaken into frost!

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross

All night below the darken’d eyes;

With morning wakes the will, and cries,

‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’

* * *

VII

Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp’d no more–

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

* * *

X

I hear the noise about thy keel;

I hear the bell struck in the night:

I see the cabin-window bright;

I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringst the sailor to his wife,

And travell’d men from foreign lands;

And letters unto trembling hands;

And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.

* * *

XV

To-night the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day:

The last red leaf is whirl’d away,

The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,

The cattle huddled on the lea;

And wildly dash’d on tower and tree

The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver

That all thy motions gently pass

Athwart a plane of molten glass,

I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;

And but for fear it is not so,

The wild unrest that lives in woe

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,

And onward drags a labouring breast,

And topples round the dreary west,

A looming bastion fringed with fire.

* * *

XX

The lesser griefs that may be said,

That breathe a thousand tender vows,

Are but as servants in a house

Where lies a master newly dead;

Who speak their feeling as it is,

And weep the fulness from the mind:

‘It will be hard,’ they say, ‘to find

Another service such as this.’

My lighter moods are like to these,

That out of words a comfort win;

But there are other griefs within,

And tears that at their fountain freeze;

For by the hearth the children sit

Cold in that atmosphere of Death,

And scarce endure to draw the breath,

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit:

But open converse is there none,

So much the vital spirits sink

To see the vacant chair, and think,

‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’

* * *

XXII

The path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well,

Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell,

From flower to flower, from snow to snow:

And we with singing cheer’d the way,

And, crown’d with all the season lent,

From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May:

But where the path we walk’d began

To slant the fifth autumnal slope,

As we descended following Hope,

There sat the Shadow fear’d of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,

And wrapt thee formless in the fold,

And dull’d the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see

Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste,

And think, that somewhere in the waste

The Shadow sits and waits for me.

* * *

XXVII

The time draws near the birth of Christ:

The moon is hid; the night is still;

The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,

Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease,

Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,

I almost wish’d no more to wake,

And that my hold on life would break

Before I heard those bells again:

But they my troubled spirit rule,

For they controll’d me when a boy;

They bring me sorrow touched with joy,

The merry merry bells of Yule.

* * *

XXXV

Yet if some voice that man could trust

Should murmur from the narrow house,

‘The cheeks drop in; the body bows

Man dies: nor is there hope in dust.’

Might I not say? ‘Yet even here,

But for one hour, O Love, I strive

To keep so sweet a thing alive:’

But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,

The sound of streams that swift or slow

Draw down Aeonian hills, and sow

The dust of continents to be...

* * *

XLI

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss

Did ever rise from high to higher;

As mounts the heavenward altar-fire,

As flies the lighter through the gross.

But thou art turn’d to something strange,

And I have lost the links that bound

Thy changes; here upon the ground,

No more partaker of thy change.

Deep folly! yet that this could be–

That I could wing my will with might

To leap the grades of life and light,

And flash at once, my friend, to thee.

For tho’ my nature rarely yields

To that vague fear implied in death;

Now shudders at the guilt beneath,

The howlings from forgotten fields;

Yet oft when sundown skirts the moor

An inner trouble I behold,

A spectral doubt which makes me cold,

That I shall be thy mate no more,

Tho’ following with an upward mind

The wonders that have come to thee,

Thro’ all the secular to-be,

But evermore a life behind.

* * *

XLV

The baby new to earth and sky,

What time his tender palm is prest

Against the circle of the breast,

Has never thought that ‘this is I:’

But as he grows he gathers much,

And learns the use of ‘I,’ and ‘me,’

And finds ‘I am not what I see,

And other than the things I touch.’

So rounds he to a separate mind

From whence clear memory may begin,

As thro’ the frame that binds him in

His isolation grows defined.

This use may lie in blood and breath,

Which else were fruitless of their due,

Had man to learn himself anew

Beyond the second birth of Death.

* * *

L

Be near me when my light is low,

When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick

And tingle; and the heart is sick,

And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame

Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust;

And Time, a maniac scattering dust,

And life, a fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,

And men the flies of latter spring,

That lay their eggs, and sting and sing

And weave their pretty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,

To point the term of human strife,

And on the low dark verge of life

The twilight of eternal day.

* * *

LVII

Peace; come away: the song of woe

Is after all an earthly song:

Peace; come away: we do him wrong

To sing so wildly: let us go.

Come; let us go: your cheeks are pale;

But half my life I leave behind:

Methinks my friend is richly shrined;

But I shall pass; my work will fail.

Yet in these ears, till hearing dies,

One set slow bell will seem to toll

The passing of the sweetest soul

That ever look’d with human eyes.

* * *

LXVII

When on my bed the moonlight falls,

I know that in thy place of rest

By that broad water of the west,

There comes a glory on the walls:

Thy marble bright in dark appears,

As slowly steals a silver flame

Along the letters of thy name,

And o’er the number of thy years.

The mystic glory swims away;

From off my bed the moonlight dies;

And closing eaves of wearied eyes

I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray:

And then I know the mist is drawn

A lucid veil from coast to coast,

And in the dark church like a ghost

Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn.

* * *

LXXIII

So many worlds, so much to do,

So little done, such things to be,

How know I what had need of thee,

For thou wert strong as thou wert true?

The flame is quenched that I foresaw,

The head hath miss’d an earthly wreath:

I curse not nature, no, nor death;

For nothing is that errs from law.

We pass; the path that each man trod

Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:

What fame is left for human deeds

In endless age? It rests with God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,

Fade wholly, while the sold exults,

And self-infolds the large results

Of force that would have forged a name.

* * *

LXXXIII

Dip down upon the northern shore,

O sweet new-year delaying long;

Thou doest expectant nature wrong;

Delaying long, delay no more.

What stays thee from the clouded noons,

Thy sweetness from its proper place?

Can trouble live with April days,

Or sadness in the summer moons?

Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire,

The little speedwell’s darling blue,

Deep tulips dash’d with fiery dew,

Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire.

O thou new-year, delaying long,

Delayest the sorrow in my blood,

That longs to burst a frozen bud

And flood a fresher throat with song.

* * *

LXXXV

This truth came borne with bier and pall,

I felt it, when I sorrow’d most,

’Tis better to have loved and lost,

Than never to have loved at all–

O true in word, and tried in deed,

Demanding, so to bring relief

To this which is our common grief,

What kind of life is that I lead;

And whether trust in things above

Be dimm’d of sorrow, or sustain’d;

And whether love for him have drain’d

My capabilities of love;

Your words have virtue such as draws

A faithful answer from the breast,

Thro’ light reproaches, half exprest

And loyal unto kindly laws.

My blood an even tenor kept,

Till on mine ear this message falls,

That in Vienna’s fatal walls

God’s finger touch’d him, and he slept.

* * *

But  Summer on the steaming floods,

And Spring that swells the narrow brooks,

And Autumn, with a noise of rooks,

That gather in the waning woods,

And every pulse of wind and wave

Recalls, in change of light or gloom,

My old affection of the tomb,

And my prime passion in the grave:

My old affection of the tomb,

A part of stillness, yearns to speak:

‘Arise, and get thee forth and seek

A friendship for the years to come.

‘I watch thee from the quiet shore;

Thy spirit up to mine can reach;

But in dear words of human speech

We two communicate no more.’

* * *

LXXXVI

Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,

That rollest from the gorgeous gloom

Of evening over brake and bloom

And meadow, slowly breathing bare

The round of space, and rapt below

Thro’ all the dewy-tassell’d wood,

And shadowing down the horned flood

In ripples, fan my brow and blow

The fever from my cheek, and sigh

The full new life that feeds thy breath

Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death,

Ill brethren, let the fancy fly

From belt to belt of crimson seas

On leagues of odour streaming far,

To where in yonder orient star

A hundred spirits whisper ‘Peace.’

LXXXVII

I past beside the reverend walls

In which of old I wore the gown;

I roved at random thro’ the town,

And saw the tumult of the halls;

And heard once more in college fanes

The storm their high-built organs make,

And thunder-music, rolling, shake

The prophet blazon’d on the panes;

And caught once more the distant shout,

The measured pulse of racing oars

Among the willows; paced the shores

Of many a bridge, and all about

The same gray flats again, and felt

The same, but not the same; and last

Up that long walk of limes I past

To see the rooms in which he dwelt.

* * *

XCV

By night we linger’d on the lawn,

For underfoot the herb was dry;

And genial warmth; and o’er the sky

The silvery haze of summer drawn;

And calm that let the tapers burn

Unwavering: not a cricket chirr’d:

The brook alone far-off was heard,

And on the board the fluttering urn:

And bats went round in fragrant skies,

And wheel’d or lit the filmy shapes

That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes

And woolly breasts and beaded eyes;

While now we sang old songs that peal’d

From knoll to knoll, where, couch’d at ease,

The white kine glimmer’d, and the trees

Laid their dark arms about the field.

But when those others, one by one,

Withdrew themselves from me and night,

And in the house light after light

Went out, and I was all alone,

A hunger seized my heart; I read

Of that glad year which once had been,

In those fall’n leaves which kept their green,

The noble letters of the dead:

And strangely on the silence broke

The silent-speaking words, and strange

Was love’s dumb cry defying change

To test his worth; and strangely spoke

The faith, the vigour, bold to dwell

On doubts that drive the coward back,

And keen thro’ wordy snares to track

Suggestion to her inmost cell.

So word by word, and line by line,

The dead man touch’d me from the past,

And all at once it seem’d at last

The living soul was flash’d on mine.

* * *

XCVII

My love has talk’d with rocks and trees;

He finds on misty mountain-ground

His own vast shadow glory-crown’d;

He sees himself in all he sees.

Two partners of a married life–

I look’d on these and thought of thee

In vastness and in mystery,

And of my spirit as a wife.

These two – they dwelt with eye on eye,

Their hearts of old have beat in tune,

Their meetings made December June,

And every parting was to die.

* * *

XCIX

Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,

So loud with voices of the birds,

So thick with lowings of the herds,

Day, when I lost the flower of men;

Who tremblest thro’ thy darkling red

On yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fast

By meadows breathing of the past,

And woodlands holy to the dead;

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves

A song that slights the coming care,

And Autumn laying here and there

A fiery finger on the leaves;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath

To myriads on the genial earth,

Memories of bridal, or of birth,

And unto myriads more, of death.

O wheresoever those may be,

Betwixt the slumber of the poles,

Today they count as kindred souls;

They know me not, but mourn with me.

* * *

CI

Unwatched, the garden bough shall sway,

The tender blossom flutter down,

Unloved, that beech will gather brown,

This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,

Ray round with flames her disk of seed,

And many a rose-carnation feed

With summer spice the humming air.

* * *

CIV

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

* * *

CXV

Now fades the last long streak of snow,

Now burgeons every maze of quick

About the flowering squares, and thick

By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long,

The distance takes a lovelier hue,

And drown’d in yonder living blue

The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,

The flocks are whiter down the vale,

And milkier every milky sail

On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives

In yonder greening gleam, and fly

The happy birds, that change their sky

To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast

Spring wakens too; and my regret

Becomes an April violet,

And buds and blossoms like the rest.

* * *

CXVII

O days and hours, your work is this

To hold me from my proper place,

A little while from his embrace,

For fuller gain of after bliss:

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet;

And unto meeting when we meet,

Delight a hundredfold accrue,

For every grain of sand that runs,

And every span of shade that steals,

And every kiss of toothed wheels,

And all the courses of the suns.

* * *

CXXIII

There rolls the deep where grew the tree.

O earth, what changes hast thou seen!

There where the long street roars, hath been

The stillness of the central sea.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands;

They melt like mist, the solid lands,

The clouds they shape themselves and go.

But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true;

For tho’ my lips may breathe adieu,

I cannot think the thing farewell.

* * *

CXXX

Thy voice is on the rolling air;

I hear thee where the waters run;

Thou standest in the rising sun,

And in the setting thou art fair.

Who art thou then? I cannot guess;

But tho’ I seem in star and flower

To feel thee some diffusive power,

I do not therefore love thee less:

My love involves the love before;

My love is vaster passion now;

Tho’ mix’d with God and Nature thou,

I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;

I have thee still, and I rejoice;

I prosper, circled with thy voice;

I shall not lose thee tho’ I die.

Notes

Written in memory of Arthur Henry Hallam (1811 – 1833), whom Tennyson met at Trinity College. A promising scholar, poet and critic, Hallam became a close friend and was also engaged to Tennyson’s sister at the time of his sudden death in Vienna. Tennyson wrote sections of the poem over many subsequent years until it was finally published in 1850.

Maud; a Monodrama (extracts)

Part I

I

I.

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,

Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,

The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,

And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers ‘Death.’

II.

For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found,

His who had given me life – O father! O God! was it well?–

Mangled, and flatten’d, and crush’d, and dinted into the ground:

There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.

III.

Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail’d,

And ever he mutter’d and madden’d, and ever wann’d with despair,

And out he walk’d when the wind like a broken worlding wail’d,

And the flying gold of the ruin’d woodlands drove thro' the air.

IV.

I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr’d

By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail’d, by a whisper’d fright,

And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard

The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night.

V

Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all.

Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be maintained,

But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall,

Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain’d.

* * *

XIV.

What! am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood?

Must I too creep to the hollow and dash myself down and die

Rather than hold by the law that I made, nevermore to brood

On a horror of shatter’d limbs and a wretched swindler’s lie?

XV.

Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek,

Love for the silent thing that had made false haste to the grave–

Wrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he would rise and speak

And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he used to rave.

XVI.

I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main.

Why should I stay? can a sweeter chance ever come to me here?

O, having the nerves of motion as well as the nerves of pain,

Were it not wise if I fled from the place and the pit and the fear?

XVII.

Workmen up at the Hall! – they are coming back from abroad;

The dark old place will be gilt by the touch of a millionaire:

I have heard, I know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud;

I play’d with the girl when a child; she promised then to be fair.

XVIII.

Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes,

Maud the delight of the village, the ringing joy of the Hall,

Maud with her sweet purse-mouth when my father dangled the grapes,

Maud the beloved of my mother, the moon-faced darling of all,–

XIX.

What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse.

No, there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone.

Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse.

I will bury myself in myself, and the Devil may pipe to his own.

* * *

II

Long have I sigh’d for a calm: God grant I may find it at last!

It will never be broken by Maud, she has neither savour nor salt,

But a cold and clear-cut face, as I found when her carriage past,

Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault?

All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen)

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null,

Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been

For a chance of travel, a paleness, an hour’s defect of the rose,

Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full,

Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose,

From which I escaped heart-free, with the least little touch of spleen.

* * *

IV

III

When have I bow’d to her father, the wrinkled head of the race?

I met to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow’d:

I bow’d to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor;

But the fire of a foolish pride flash’d over her beautiful face.

O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud;

Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor.

* * *

IX.

Be mine a philosopher’s life in the quiet woodland ways,

Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace be my lot,

Far-off from the clamour of liars belied in the hubbub of lies;

From the long-neck’d geese of the world that are ever hissing dispraise

Because their natures are little, and, whether he heed it or not,

Where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous flies.

X.

And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love,

The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill.

Ah Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a wife.

Your mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above;

Your father is ever in London, you wander about at your will;

You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life.

V

I.

A voice by the cedar tree

In the meadow under the Hall!

She is singing an air that is known to me,

A passionate ballad gallant and gay,

A martial song like a trumpet’s call!

Singing alone in the morning of life,

In the happy morning of life and of May,

Singing of men that in battle array,

Ready in heart and ready in hand,

March with banner and bugle and fife

To the death, for their native land.

II.

Maud with her exquisite face,

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,

And feet like sunny gems on an English green,

Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,

Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die,

Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,

And myself so languid and base.

III

Silence, beautiful voice!

Be still, for you only trouble the mind

With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,

A glory I shall not find.

Still! I will hear you no more,

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice

But to move to the meadow and fall before

Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,

Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,

Not her, not her, but a voice.

VI

I.

Morning arises stormy and pale,

No sun, but a wannish glare

In fold upon fold of hueless cloud,

And the budded peaks of the wood are bow’d

Caught and cuff’d by the gale:

I had fancied it would be fair.

II.

Whom but Maud should I meet

Last night, when the sunset burn’d

On the blossom’d gable-ends

At the head of the village street,

Whom but Maud should I meet?

And she touch’d my hand with a smile so sweet,

She made me divine amends

For a courtesy not return’d.

III.

And thus a delicate spark

Of glowing and growing light

Thro’ the livelong hours of the dark

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams,

Ready to burst in a colour’d flame;

Till at last when the morning came

In a cloud, it faded, and seems

But an ashen-gray delight.

IV.

What if with her sunny hair,

And smile as sunny as cold,

She meant to weave me a snare

Of some coquettish deceit,

Cleopatra-like as of old

To entangle me when we met,

To have her lion roll in a silken net

And fawn at a victor's feet.

* * *

VIII.

Perhaps the smile and tender tone

Came out of her pitying womanhood,

For am I not, am I not, here alone

So many a summer since she died,

My mother, who was so gentle and good?

Living alone in an empty house,

Here half-hid in the gleaming wood,

Where I hear the dead at midday moan,

And the shrieking rush of the wainscot mouse,

And my own sad name in corners cried,

When the shiver of dancing leaves is thrown

About its echoing chambers wide,

Till a morbid hate and horror have grown

Of a world in which I have hardly mixt,

And a morbid eating lichen fixt

On a heart half-turn’d to stone.

IX

O heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught

By that you swore to withstand?

For what was it else within me wrought

But, I fear, the new strong wine of love,

That made my tongue so stammer and trip

When I saw the treasured splendour, her hand,

Come sliding out of her sacred glove,

And the sunlight broke from her lip?

X

I have play’d with her when a child;

She remembers it now when we meet.

Ah well, well, well, I may be beguiled

By some coquettish deceit.

Yet, if she were not a cheat,

If Maud were all that she seem’d,

And if her smile had all that I dream’d,

Then the world were not so bitter

But a smile could make it sweet.

* * *

VIII

She came to the village church,

And sat by a pillar alone;

An angel watching an urn

Wept over her, carved in stone;

And once, but once, she lifted her eyes,

And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush’d

To find they were met by my own;

And suddenly, sweetly, my heart beat stronger

And thicker, until I heard no longer

The snowy-banded, dilettante,

Delicate-handed priest intone;

And thought, is it pride, and mused and sigh’d

‘No surely, now it cannot be pride.’

* * *

X

I

Sick, am I sick of a jealous dread?

Was not one of the two at her side

This new-made lord, whose splendour plucks

The slavish hat from the villager’s head?

Whose old grandfather has lately died,

Gone to a blacker pit, for whom

Grimy nakedness dragging his trucks

And laying his trams in a poison’d gloom

Wrought, till he crept from a gutted mine

Master of half a servile shire,

And left his coal all turn’d into gold

To a grandson, first of his noble line,

Rich in the grace all women desire,

Strong in the power that all men adore,

And simper and set their voices lower,

And soften as if to a girl, and hold

Awe-stricken breaths at a work divine,

Seeing his gewgaw castle shine,

New as his title, built last year,

There amid perky larches and pine,

And over the sullen-purple moor

(Look at it) pricking a cockney ear.

XI

I.

O let the solid ground

Not fail beneath my feet

Before my life has found

What some have found so sweet;

Then let come what come may,

What matter if I go mad,

I shall have had my day.

II.

Let the sweet heavens endure,

Not close and darken above me

Before I am quite quite sure

That there is one to love me;

Then let come what come may

To a life that has been so sad,

I shall have had my day.

XII

I.

Birds in the high Hall-garden

When twilight was falling,

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,

They were crying and calling.

II.

Where was Maud? in our wood;

And I, who else, was with her,

Gathering woodland lilies,

Myriads blow together.

III.

Birds in our wood sang

Ringing thro’ the valleys,

Maud is here, here, here

In among the lilies.

IV.

I kiss’d her slender hand,

She took the kiss sedately;

Maud is not seventeen,

But she is tall and stately.

V.

I to cry out on pride

Who have won her favour!

O Maud were sure of Heaven

If lowliness could save her.

VI.

I know the way she went

Home with her maiden posy,

For her feet have touch’d the meadows

And left the daisies rosy.

VII.

Birds in the high Hall-garden

Were crying and calling to her,

Where is Maud, Maud, Maud?

One is come to woo her.

VIII.

Look, a horse at the door,

And little King Charley snarling,

Go back, my lord, across the moor,

You are not her darling.

* * *

XIV

III.

The fancy flatter’d my mind,

And again seem’d overbold;

Now I thought that she cared for me,

Now I thought she was kind

Only because she was cold.

IV.

I heard no sound where I stood

But the rivulet on from the lawn

Running down to my own dark wood;

Or the voice of the long sea-wave as it swell’d

Now and then in the dim-gray dawn;

But I look’d, and round, all round the house I beheld

The death-white curtain drawn;

Felt a horror over me creep,

Prickle my skin and catch my breath,

Knew that the death-white curtain meant but sleep,

Yet I shudder’d and thought like a fool of the sleep of death.

XV

So dark a mind within me dwells,

And I make myself such evil cheer,

That if I be dear to some one else,

Then some one else may have much to fear;

But if I be dear to some one else,

Then I should be to myself more dear.

Shall I not take care of all that I think,

Yea ev’n of wretched meat and drink,

If I be dear,

If I be dear to some one else.

XVII

Go not, happy day,

From the shining fields,

Go not, happy day,

Till the maiden yields.

Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth

When the happy Yes

Falters from her lips,

Pass and blush the news

Over glowing ships;

Over blowing seas,

Over seas at rest,

Pass the happy news,

Blush it thro’ the West;

Till the red man dance

By his red cedar-tree,

And the red man’s babe

Leap, beyond the sea.

Blush from West to East,

Blush from East to West,

Till the West is East,

Blush it thro’ the West.

Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

XVIII

I.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend.

There is none like her, none.

And never yet so warmly ran my blood

And sweetly, on and on

Calming itself to the long-wish’d-for end,

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

II.

None like her, none.

Just now the dry-tongued laurels’ pattering talk

Seem’d her light foot along the garden walk,

And shook my heart to think she comes once more;

But even then I heard her close the door,

The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.

III.

There is none like her, none.

Nor will be when our summers have deceased.

O, art thou sighing for Lebanon

In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,

Sighing for Lebanon,

Dark cedar, tho’ thy limbs have here increased,

Upon a pastoral slope as fair,

And looking to the South, and fed

With honey’d rain and delicate air,

And haunted by the starry head

Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate,

And made my life a perfumed altar-flame;

And over whom thy darkness must have spread

With such delight as theirs of old, thy great

Forefathers of the thornless garden, there

Shadowing the snow-limb’d Eve from whom she came.

* * *

XIX

I.

Her brother is coming back to-night,

Breaking up my dream of delight.

II

My dream? do I dream of bliss?

I have walk’d awake with Truth.

O when did a morning shine

So rich in atonement as this

For my dark-dawning youth,

Darken’d watching a mother decline

And that dead man at her heart and mine:

For who was left to watch her but I?

Yet so did I let my freshness die.

III.

I trust that I did not talk

To gentle Maud in our walk

(For often in lonely wanderings

I have cursed him even to lifeless things)

But I trust that I did not talk,

Not touch on her father's sin:

I am sure I did but speak

Of my mother's faded cheek

When it slowly grew so thin,

That I felt she was slowly dying

Vext with lawyers and harass’d with debt:

For how often I caught her with eyes all wet,

Shaking her head at her son and sighing

A world of trouble within!

* * *

IX

For, Maud, so tender and true,

As long as my life endures

I feel I shall owe you a debt,

That I never can hope to pay;

And if ever I should forget

That I owe this debt to you

And for your sweet sake to yours;

O then, what then shall I say?–

If ever I should forget,

May God make me more wretched

Than ever I have been yet!

X.

So now I have sworn to bury

All this dead body of hate,

I feel so free and so clear

By the loss of that dead weight,

That I should grow light-headed, I fear,

Fantastically merry;

But that her brother comes, like a blight

On my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night.

* * *

XXII

I.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the rose is blown.

II.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

To faint in his light, and to die.

III.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d

To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

* * *

X.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’

And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’

The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’

And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’

XI.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;

Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;

My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

PART II

I

I.

‘The fault was mine, the fault was mine’–

Why am I sitting here so stunn’d and still,

Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill?–

It is this guilty hand!–

And there rises ever a passionate cry

From underneath in the darkening land–

What is it, that has been done?

O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky,

The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun,

The fires of Hell and of Hate;

For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word,

When her brother ran in his rage to the gate,

He came with the babe-faced lord;

Heap’d on her terms of disgrace,

And while she wept, and I strove to be cool,

He fiercely gave me the lie,

Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,

And he struck me, madman, over the face,

Struck me before the languid fool,

Who was gaping and grinning by:

Struck for himself an evil stroke;

Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe;

For front to front in an hour we stood,

And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke

From the red-ribb’d hollow behind the wood,

And thunder’d up into Heaven the Christless code,

That must have life for a blow.

Ever and ever afresh they seem’d to grow.

Was it he lay there with a fading eye?

‘The fault was mine,’ he whisper’d, ‘fly!’

Then glided out of the joyous wood

The ghastly Wraith of one that I know;

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,

A cry for a brother’s blood:

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die.

* * *

II

I.

See what a lovely shell,

Small and pure as a pearl,

Lying close to my foot,

Frail, but a work divine,

Made so fairily well

With delicate spire and whorl,

How exquisitely minute,

A miracle of design!

II.

What is it? a learned man

Could give it a clumsy name.

Let him name it who can,

The beauty would be the same.

III.

The tiny cell is forlorn,

Void of the little living will

That made it stir on the shore.

Did he stand at the diamond door

Of his house in a rainbow frill?

Did he push, when he was uncurl’d,

A golden foot or a fairy horn

Thro’ his dim water-world?

IV.

Slight, to he crush’d with a tap

Of my finger-nail on the sand,

Small, but a work divine,

Frail, but of force to withstand,

Year upon year, the shock

Of cataract seas that snap

The three decker’s oaken spine

Athwart the ledges of rock,

Here on the Breton strand!

V.

Breton, not Briton; here

Like a shipwreck’d man on a coast

Of ancient fable and fear–

Plagued with a flitting to and fro,

A disease, a hard mechanic ghost

That never came from on high

Nor ever arose from below,

But only moves with the moving eye,

Flying along the land and the main–

Why should it look like Maud?

Am I to be overawed

By what I cannot but know

Is a juggle born of the brain?

VI.

Back from the Breton coast,

Sick of a nameless fear,

Back to the dark sea-line

Looking, thinking of all I have lost;

An old song vexes my ear;

But that of Lamech is mine.

VII.

For years, a measureless ill,

For years, for ever, to part–

But she, she would love me still;

And as long, O God, as she

Have a grain of love for me,

So long, no doubt, no doubt,

Shall I nurse in my dark heart,

However weary, a spark of will

Not to be trampled out.

VIII.

Strange, that the mind, when fraught

With a passion so intense

One would think that it well

Might drown all life in the eye,–

That it should, by being so overwrought,

Suddenly strike on a sharper sense

For a shell, or a flower, little things

Which else would have been past by!

And now I remember, I,

When he lay dying there,

I noticed one of his many rings

(For he had many, poor worm) and thought

It is his mother’s hair.

IX.

Who knows if he be dead?

Whether I need have fled?

Am I guilty of blood?

However this may be,

Comfort her, comfort her, all things good,

While I am over the sea!

Let me and my passionate love go by,

But speak to her all things holy and high,

Whatever happen to me!

Me and my harmful love go by;

But come to her waking, find her asleep,

Powers of the height, Powers of the deep,

And comfort her tho’ I die.

III

Courage, poor heart of stone!

I will not ask thee why

Thou canst not understand

That thou art left for ever alone:

Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.–

Or if I ask thee why,

Care not thou to reply:

She is but dead, and the time is at hand

When thou shalt more than die.

IV

I.

O that ’twere possible

After long grief and pain

To find the arms of my true love

Round me once again!

II.

When I was wont to meet her

In the silent woody places

By the home that gave me birth,

We stood tranced in long embraces

Mixt with kisses sweeter sweeter

Than anything on earth.

* * *

VI.

’Tis a morning pure and sweet,

And a dewy splendour falls

On the little flower that clings

To the turrets and the walls;

’Tis a morning pure and sweet,

And the light and shadow fleet;

She is walking in the meadow,

And the woodland echo rings;

In a moment we shall meet;

She is singing in the meadow

And the rivulet at her feet

Ripples on in light and shadow

To the ballad that she sings.

VII.

Do I hear her sing as of old,

My bird with the shining head,

My own dove with the tender eye?

But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,

There is some one dying or dead,

And a sullen thunder is roll’d;

For a tumult shakes the city,

And I wake, my dream is fled;

In the shuddering dawn, behold,

Without knowledge, without pity,

By the curtains of my bed

That abiding phantom cold.

* * *

V

I

Dead, long dead,

Long dead!

And my heart is a handful of dust,

And the wheels go over my head,

And my bones are shaken with pain,

For into a shallow grave they are thrust,

Only a yard beneath the street,

And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,

The hoofs of the horses beat,

Beat into my scalp and my brain,

With never an end to the stream of passing feet,

Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,

Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter,

And here beneath it is all as bad,

For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so;

To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad?

But up and down and to and fro,

Ever about me the dead men go;

And then to hear a dead man chatter

Is enough to drive one mad.

* * *

VIII.

But I know where a garden grows,

Fairer than aught in the world beside,

All made up of the lily and rose

That blow by night, when the season is good,

To the sound of dancing music and flutes:

It is only flowers, they had no fruits,

And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood;

For the keeper was one, so full of pride,

He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride;

For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes,

Would he have that hole in his side?

IX

But what will the old man say?

He laid a cruel snare in a pit

To catch a friend of mine one stormy day;

Yet now I could even weep to think of it;

For what will the old man say

When he comes to the second corpse in the pit?

X

Friend, to be struck by the public foe,

Then to strike him and lay him low,

That were a public merit, far,

Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin;

But the red life spilt for a private blow–

I swear to you, lawful and lawless war

Are scarcely even akin.

XI

O me, why have they not buried me deep enough?

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?

Maybe still I am but half-dead;

Then I cannot be wholly dumb;

I will cry to the steps above my head

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come

To bury me, bury me

Deeper, ever so little deeper.

PART III

VI

I.

My life has crept so long on a broken wing

Thro’ cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,

That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing:

My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs,

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer

And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns

Over Orion’s grave low down in the west,

That like a silent lightning under the stars

She seem’d to divide in a dream from a band of the blest,

And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars–

‘And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest,

Knowing I tarry for thee,’ and pointed to Mars

As he glow’d like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast.

* * *

III.

And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew,

‘It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,’ said I

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true),

‘It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,

That old hysterical mock-disease should die.’

And I stood on a giant deck and mix’d my breath

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.

* * *

V.

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind,

We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still,

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind;

It is better to fight for the good than to rail at the ill;

I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind,

I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign’d.

From Idylls of the King: in twelve books (extracts)

The Coming of Arthur

Leodogran, the King of Cameliard,

Had one fair daughter, and none other child;

And she was the fairest of all flesh on earth,

Guinevere, and in her his one delight.

For many a petty king ere Arthur came

Ruled in this isle, and ever waging war

Each upon other, wasted all the land;

And still from time to time the heathen host

Swarmed overseas, and harried what was left.

And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,

Wherein the beast was ever more and more,

But man was less and less, till Arthur came.

* * *

And Arthur yet had done no deed of arms,

But heard the call, and came: and Guinevere

Stood by the castle walls to watch him pass;

But since he neither wore on helm or shield

The golden symbol of his kinglihood,

But rode a simple knight among his knights,

And many of these in richer arms than he,

She saw him not, or mark’d not, if she saw,

One among many, tho’ his face was bare.

But Arthur, looking downward as he past,

Felt the light of her eyes into his life

Smite on the sudden, yet rode on, and pitch’d

His tents beside the forest. Then he drave

The heathen; after, slew the beast, and fell’d

The forest, letting in the sun, and made

Broad pathways for the hunter and the knight

And so return’d.

* * *

(Arthur asks for Guinevere’s hand in marriage; but her father is doubtful of his worthiness. Queen Bellicent of Orkney tells him of Arthur’s birth and his gathering of knights. She says:)

Then the King in low deep tones,

And simple words of great authority,

Bound them by so strait vows to his own self,

That when they rose, knighted from kneeling, some

Were pale as at the passing of a ghost,

Some flush’d, and others dazed, as one who wakes

Half-blinded at the coming of a light.

‘But when he spake and cheer’d his Table Round

With large, divine, and comfortable words,

Beyond my tongue to tell thee – I beheld

From eye to eye through all their Order flash

A momentary likeness of the King:

And ere it left their faces, thro’ the cross

And those around it and the Crucified,

Down from the casement over Arthur, smote

Flame-colour, vert and azure, in three rays,

One falling upon each of three fair queens,

Who stood in silence near his throne, the friends

Of Arthur, gazing on him, tall, with bright

Sweet faces, who will help him at his need.

‘And there I saw mage Merlin, whose vast wit

And hundred winters are but as the hands

Of loyal vassals toiling for their liege.

‘And near him stood the Lady of the Lake,

Who knows a subtler magic than his own–

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.

She gave the King his huge cross-hilted sword,

Whereby to drive the heathen out: a mist

Of incense curl’d about her, and her face

Wellnigh was hidden in the minster gloom;

But there was heard among the holy hymns

A voice as of the waters, for she dwells

Down in a deep; calm, whatsoever storms

May shake the world, and when the surface rolls,

Hath power to walk the waters like our Lord.

‘There likewise I beheld Excalibur

Before him at his crowning borne, the sword

That rose from out the bosom of the lake,

And Arthur row’d across and took it – rich

With jewels, elfin Urim, on the hilt,

Bewildering heart and eye – the blade so bright

That men are blinded by it – on one side,

Graven in the oldest tongue of all this world,

“Take me,” but turn the blade and ye shall see,

And written in the speech ye speak yourself,

“Cast me away!” And sad was Arthur’s face

Taking it, but old Merlin counselled him,

“Take thou and strike! the time to cast away

Is yet far-off.” So this great brand the king

Took, and by this will beat his foemen down.’

* * *

She spake and King Leodogran rejoiced,

But musing, Shall I answer yea or nay?’

Doubted, and drowsed, nodded and slept, and saw,

Dreaming, a slope of land that ever grew,

Field after field, up to a height, the peak

Haze-hidden, and thereon a phantom king,

Now looming, and now lost; and on the slope

The sword rose, the hind fell, the herd was driven,

Fire glimpsed; and all the land from roof and rick,

In drifts of smoke before a rolling wind,

Stream’d to the peak, and mingled with the haze

And made it thicker; while the phantom king

Sent out at times a voice; and here or there

Stood one who pointed toward the voice, the rest

Slew on and burnt, crying, ‘No king of ours,

No son of Uther, and no king of ours;’

Till with a wink his dream was changed, the haze

Descended, and the solid earth became

As nothing, but the King stood out in heaven,

Crown’d. And Leodogran awoke, and sent

Ulfius, and Brastias and Bedivere,

Back to the court of Arthur answering yea.

* * *

Gareth and Lynette

The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,

And tallest, Gareth, in a showerful spring

Stared at the spate. A slender-shafted Pine

Lost footing, fell, and so was whirl’d away.

‘How he went down,’ said Gareth, ‘as a false knight

Or evil king before my lance if lance

Were mine to use – O senseless cataract,

Bearing all down in thy precipitancy–

And yet thou art but swollen with cold snows

And mine is living blood: thou dost His will,

The Maker’s, and not knowest, and I that know,

Have strength and wit, in my good mother’s hall

Linger with vacillating obedience,

Prison’d, and kept and coax’d and whistled to–

Since the good mother holds me still a child!

Good mother is bad mother unto me!

A worse were better; yet no worse would I.

Heaven yield her for it, but in me put force

To weary her ears with one continuous prayer,

Until she let me fly discaged to sweep

In ever-highering eagle-circles up

To the great Sun of Glory, and thence swoop

Down upon all things base, and dash them dead,

A knight of Arthur, working out his will,

To cleanse the world. Why, Gawain, when he came

With Modred hither in the summertime,

Ask’d me to tilt with him, the proven knight.

Modred for want of worthier was the judge.

Then I so shook him in the saddle, he said,

“Thou hast half prevailed against me,” said so–he–

Tho’ Modred biting his thin lips was mute,

For he is alway sullen: what care I?’

* * *

(Gareth’s protective mother is reluctant to let him become a knight. She tells him he may go to Arthur’s court, but only if disguised as a servant. Although she thinks this will dissuade him, it does not. He arrives at the court and sees other knights entering)

Then came in hall the messenger of Mark,

A name of evil savour in the land,

The Cornish king. In either hand he bore

What dazzled all, and shone far-off as shines

A field of charlock in the sudden sun

Between two showers, a cloth of palest gold,

Which down he laid before the throne, and knelt,

Delivering, that his lord, the vassal king,

Was ev’n upon his way to Camelot;

For having heard that Arthur of his grace

Had made his goodly cousin, Tristram, knight,

And, for himself was of the greater state,

Being a king, he trusted his liege-lord

Would yield him this large honour all the more;

So pray’d him well to accept this cloth of gold,

In token of true heart and fealty.

Then Arthur cried to rend the cloth, to rend

In pieces, and so cast it on the hearth.

An oak-tree smoulder’d there. ‘The goodly knight!

What! shall the shield of Mark stand among these?’

For, midway down the side of that long hall

A stately pile,– whereof along the front,

Some blazon’d, some but carven, and some blank,

There ran a treble range of stony shields,–

Rose, and high-arching overbrow’d the hearth.

And under every shield a knight was named:

For this was Arthur’s custom in his hall;

When some good knight had done one noble deed,

His arms were carven only; but if twain

His arms were blazon’d also; but if none,

The shield was blank and bare without a sign

Saving the name beneath; and Gareth saw

The shield of Gawain blazon’d rich and bright,

And Modred’s blank as death; and Arthur cried

To rend the cloth and cast it on the hearth.

‘More like are we to reave him of his crown

Than make him knight because men call him king.

The kings we found, ye know we stay’d their hands

From war among themselves, but left them kings;

Of whom were any bounteous, merciful,

Truth-speaking, brave, good livers, them we enroll’d

Among us, and they sit within our hall.

But as Mark hath tarnish’d the great name of king,

As Mark would sully the low state of churl:

And, seeing he hath sent us cloth of gold,

Return, and meet, and hold him from our eyes,

Lest we should lap him up in cloth of lead,

Silenced for ever – craven – a man of plots,

Craft, poisonous counsels, wayside ambushings–

No fault of thine: let Kay the seneschal

Look to thy wants, and send thee satisfied–

Accursed, who strikes nor lets the hand be seen!’

And many another suppliant crying came

With noise of ravage wrought by beast and man,

And evermore a knight would ride away.

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily

Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men,

Approach’d between them toward the King, and ask’d,

‘A boon, Sir King (his voice was all ashamed),

For see ye not how weak and hungerworn

I seem – leaning on these? grant me to serve

For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves

A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name.

Hereafter I will fight.’

* * *

(Lynette comes to the court seeking help for her sister. She wants Lancelot to ride with her, but is disgusted at Gareth’s joining her instead.)

‘What doest thou, scullion, in my fellowship?

Deem’st thou that I accept thee aught the more

Or love thee better, that by some device

Full cowardly, or by mere unhappiness,

Thou hast overthrown and slain thy master – thou!–

Dish-washer and broach-turner, loon! – to me

Thou smellest all of kitchen as before.’

‘Damsel,’ Sir Gareth answered gently, ‘say

Whate’er ye will, but whatsoe’er ye say,

I leave not till I finish this fair quest,

Or die therefore.’

‘Ay, wilt thou finish it?

Sweet lord, how like a noble knight he talks!

The listening rogue hath caught the manner of it.

But, knave, anon thou shalt be met with, knave,

And then by such a one that thou for all

The kitchen brewis that was ever supt

Shalt not once dare to look him in the face.’

‘I shall assay,’ said Gareth with a smile

That madden’d her, and away she flash’d again

Down the long avenues of a boundless wood,

And Gareth following was again beknaved.

‘Sir Kitchen-knave, I have miss’d the only way

Where Arthur’s men are set along the wood;

The wood is nigh as full of thieves as leaves:

If both be slain, I am rid of thee; but yet,

Sir Scullion, canst thou use that spit of thine?

Fight, an thou canst: I have miss’d the only way.’

So till the dusk that follow’d evensong

Rode on the two, reviler and reviled;

Then after one long slope was mounted, saw,

Bowl-shaped, through tops of many thousand pines

A gloomy-gladed hollow slowly sink

To westward – in the deeps whereof a mere,

Round as the red eye of an Eagle-owl,

Under the half-dead sunset glared; and shouts

Ascended, and there brake a servingman

Flying from out of the black wood, and crying,

‘They have bound my lord to cast him in the mere.’

* * *

(Gareth rescues the lord, and after other valiant acts faces three brothers in battle)

And Gareth hearing ever stronglier smote,

And hew’d great pieces of his armour off him,

But lash’d in vain against the hardened skin,

And could not wholly bring him under, more

Than loud Southwesterns, rolling ridge on ridge,

The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs

For ever; till at length Sir Gareth’s brand

Clashed his, and brake it utterly to the hilt.

‘I have thee now;’ but forth that other sprang,

And, all unknightlike, writhed his wiry arms

Around him, till he felt, despite his mail,

Strangled, but straining e’en his uttermost

Cast, and so hurl’d him headlong o’er the bridge

Down to the river, sink or swim, and cried,

‘Lead, and I follow.’

But the damsel said,

‘I lead no longer; ride thou at my side;

Thou art the kingliest of all kitchen-knaves.’

* * *

The Marriage of Geraint

The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur’s court,

A tributary prince of Devon, one

Of that great Order of the Table Round,

Had married Enid, Yniol’s only child,

And loved her, as he loved the light of Heaven.

And as the light of Heaven varies, now

At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night

With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geraint

To make her beauty vary day by day,

In crimsons and in purples and in gems.

And Enid, but to please her husband’s eye,

Who first had found and loved her in a state

Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him

In some fresh splendour; and the Queen herself,

Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,

Loved her, and often with her own white hands

Array’d and deck’d her, as the loveliest,

Next after her own self, in all the court.

And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart

Adored her, as the stateliest and the best

And loveliest of all women upon earth.

And seeing them so tender and so close,

Long in their common love rejoiced Geraint.

But when a rumour rose about the Queen,

Touching her guilty love for Lancelot,

Tho’ yet there lived no proof, nor yet was heard

The world’s loud whisper breaking into storm,

Not less Geraint believed it; and there fell

A horror on him, lest his gentle wife,

Thro’ that great tenderness for Guinevere,

Had suffer’d, or should suffer any taint

In nature...

* * *

(Geraint removes Enid from the court, and forgets his knightly duties to the King, to Enid’s distress)

And day by day she thought to tell Geraint,

But could not out of bashful delicacy;

While he that watch’d her sadden, was the more

Suspicious that her nature had a taint.

At last, it chanced that on a summer morn

(They sleeping each by either) the new sun

Beat thro’ the blindless casement of the room,

And heated the strong warrior in his dreams;

Who, moving, cast the coverlet aside,

And bared the knotted column of his throat,

The massive square of his heroic breast,

And arms on which the standing muscle sloped,

As slopes a wild brook o’er a little stone,

Running too vehemently to break upon it.

And Enid woke and sat beside the couch,

Admiring him, and thought within herself,

Was ever man so grandly made as he?

Then, like a shadow, past the people’s talk

And accusation of uxoriousness

Across her mind, and bowing over him,

Low to her own heart piteously she said:

‘O noble breast and all-puissant arms,

Am I the cause, I the poor cause that men

Reproach you, saying all your force is gone?

I am the cause, because I dare not speak

And tell him what I think and what they say.

And yet I hate that he should linger here;

I cannot love my lord and not his name.

Far liefer had I gird his harness on him,

And ride with him to battle and stand by,

And watch his mightful hand striking great blows

At caitiffs and at wrongers of the world.

Far better were I laid in the dark earth,

Not hearing any more his noble voice,

Not to be folded more in these dear arms,

And darken’d from the high light in his eyes,

Than that my lord thro’ me should suffer shame.

Am I so bold, and could I so stand by,

And see my dear lord wounded in the strife,

And maybe pierced to death before mine eyes,

And yet not dare to tell him what I think,

And how men slur him, saying all his force

Is melted into mere effeminacy?

O me, I fear that I am no true wife.’

Half inwardly, half audibly she spoke,

And the strong passion in her made her weep

True tears upon his broad and naked breast,

And these awoke him, and by great mischance

He heard but fragments of her later words,

And that she fear’d she was not a true wife.

And then he thought, ‘In spite of all my care,

For all my pains, poor man, for all my pains,

She is not faithful to me, and I see her

Weeping for some gay knight in Arthur’s hall.’

(Geraint asks Enid to ride with him into the wilderness, wearing her poorest dress, the one which she had worn when they first met. Enid remembers how he had also asked her to wear it on her first arrival at Camelot:)

Now thrice that morning Guinevere had climb’d

The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say,

Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset,

And white sails flying on the yellow sea;

But not to goodly hill or yellow sea

Look’d the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk,

By the flat meadow, till she saw them come;

And then descending met them at the gates,

Embraced her with all welcome as a friend,

And did her honour as the Prince’s bride,

And clothed her for her bridals like the sun;

And all that week was old Caerleon gay,

For by the hands of Dubric, the high saint,

They twain were wedded with all ceremony.

And this was on the last year’s Whitsuntide.

But Enid ever kept the faded silk,

Remembering how first he came on her,

Drest in that dress, and how he loved her in it,

And all her foolish fears about the dress,

And all his journey toward her, as himself

Had told her, and their coming to the court.

And now this morning when he said to her,

‘Put on your worst and meanest dress,’ she found

And took it, and array’d herself therein.

Geraint and Enid

...That morning, when they both had got to horse,

Perhaps because he loved her passionately,

And felt that tempest brooding round his heart,

Which, if he spoke at all, would break perforce

Upon a head so dear in thunder, said:

‘Not at my side. I charge thee ride before,

Ever a good way on before; and this

I charge thee, on thy duty as a wife,

Whatever happens, not to speak to me,

No, not a word!’ and Enid was aghast;

And forth they rode, but scarce three paces on,

When crying out, ‘Effeminate as I am,

I will not fight my way with gilded arms,

All shall be iron;’ he loosed a mighty purse,

Hung at his belt, and hurl’d it toward the squire.

So the last sight that Enid had of home

Was all the marble threshold flashing, strown

With gold and scatter’d coinage, and the squire

Chafing his shoulder: then he cried again,

‘To the wilds!’ and Enid leading down the tracks

Thro’ which he bad her lead him on, they past

The marches, and by bandit-haunted holds,

Gray swamps and pools, waste places of the hern,

And wildernesses, perilous paths, they rode:

Round was their pace at first, but slacken’d soon:

A stranger meeting them had surely thought

They rode so slowly and they look’d so pale,

That each had suffer’d some exceeding wrong.

For he was ever saying to himself,

‘O I that wasted time to tend upon her,

To compass her with sweet observances,

To dress her beautifully and keep her true’–

And there he broke the sentence in his heart

Abruptly, as a man upon his tongue

May break it, when his passion masters him.

And she was ever praying the sweet heavens

To save her dear lord whole from any wound.

* * *

(Enid sees bandits lying in wait and goes back to tell Geraint. Angry with her, he slays them. They come to a town ruled by Earl Limours, who used to woo Enid before she met Geraint. Limours speaks to her:)

‘Enid, the pilot star of my lone life,

Enid, my early and my only love,

Enid, the loss of whom hath turn’d me wild–

What chance is this? how is it I see you here?

Ye are in my power at last, are in my power.

Yet fear me not: I call mine own self wild,

But keep a touch of sweet civility

Here in the heart of waste and wilderness.

I thought, but that your father came between,

In former days you saw me favourably.

And if it were so do not keep it back:

Make me a little happier: let me know it:

Owe you me nothing for a life half-lost?

Yea, yea, the whole dear debt of all you are.

And, Enid, you and he, I see with joy,

Ye sit apart, you do not speak to him,

You come with no attendance, page or maid,

To serve you – doth he love you as of old?

For, call it lovers’ quarrels, yet I know

Tho’ men may bicker with the things they love,

They would not make them laughable in all eyes,

Not while they loved them; and your wretched dress,

A wretched insult on you, dumbly speaks

Your story, that this man loves you no more.’

* * *

(Enid tells Geraint, who leaves the place with her, but still distrusts her. Limours follows and is defeated by Geraint in combat.)

But as a man to whom a dreadful loss

Falls in a far land and he knows it not,

But coming back he learns it, and the loss

So pains him that he sickens nigh to death;

So fared it with Geraint, who being prick’d

In combat with the follower of Limours,

Bled underneath his armour secretly,

And so rode on, nor told his gentle wife

What ail’d him, hardly knowing it himself,

Till his eye darken’d and his helmet wagg’d;

And at a sudden swerving of the road,

Tho’ happily down on a bank of grass,

The Prince, without a word, from his horse fell.

And Enid heard the clashing of his fall,

Suddenly came, and at his side all pale

Dismounting, loosed the fastenings of his arms,

Nor let her true hand falter, nor blue eye

Moisten, till she had lighted on his wound,

And tearing off her veil of faded silk

Had bared her forehead to the blistering sun,

And swathed the hurt that drain’d her dear lord’s life.

Then after all was done that hand could do,

She rested, and her desolation came

Upon her, and she wept beside the way.

* * *

(Earl Doorm gives them shelter in his hall.)

So for long hours sat Enid by her lord,

There in the naked hall, propping his head,

And chafing his pale hands, and calling to him.

Till at the last he waken’d from his swoon,

And found his own dear bride propping his head,

And chafing his faint hands, and calling to him;

And felt the warm tears falling on his face;

And said to his own heart, ‘She weeps for me:’

And yet lay still, and feign’d himself as dead,

That he might prove her to the uttermost,

And say to his own heart, ‘She weeps for me.’

But in the falling afternoon return’d

The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall.

His lusty spearmen follow’d him with noise:

Each hurling down a heap of things that rang

Against his pavement, cast his lance aside,

And doff’d his helm: and then there flutter’d in,

Half-bold, half-frighted, with dilated eyes,

A tribe of women, dress’d in many hues,

And mingled with the spearmen: and Earl Doorm

Struck with a knife’s haft hard against the board,

And call’d for flesh and wine to feed his spears.

And men brought in whole hogs and quarter beeves,

And all the hall was dim with steam of flesh:

And none spake word, but all sat down at once,

And ate with tumult in the naked hall,

Feeding like horses when you hear them feed;

Till Enid shrank far back into herself,

To shun the wild ways of the lawless tribe.

But when Earl Doorm had eaten all he would,

He roll’d his eyes about the hall, and found

A damsel drooping in a corner of it.

Then he remember’d her, and how she wept;

And out of her there came a power upon him;

And rising on the sudden he said, ‘Eat!

I never yet beheld a thing so pale.

God’s curse, it makes me mad to see you weep.

Eat! Look yourself. Good luck had your good man,

For were I dead who is it would weep for me?

Sweet lady, never since I first drew breath

Have I beheld a lily like yourself.

And so there lived some colour in your cheek,

There is not one among my gentlewomen

Were fit to wear your slipper for a glove.

But listen to me, and by me be ruled,

And I will do the thing I have not done,

For ye shall share my earldom with me, girl,

And we will live like two birds in one nest,

And I will fetch you forage from all fields,

For I compel all creatures to my will.’

* * *

(Earl Doorm tries to force Enid to eat, but she refuses. He strikes her and she cries out.)

This heard Geraint, and grasping at his sword,

(It lay beside him in the hollow shield),

Made but a single bound, and with a sweep of it

Shore thro’ the swarthy neck, and like a ball

The russet-bearded head rolled on the floor.

So died Earl Doorm by him he counted dead.

And all the men and women in the hall

Rose when they saw the dead man rise, and fled

Yelling as from a spectre, and the two

Were left alone together, and he said:

‘Enid, I have used you worse than that dead man;

Done you more wrong: we both have undergone

That trouble which has left me thrice your own:

Henceforward I will rather die than doubt.

And here I lay this penance on myself,

Not, tho’ mine own ears heard you yestermorn–

You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say,

I heard you say, that you were no true wife:

I swear I will not ask your meaning in it:

I do believe yourself against yourself,

And will henceforward rather die than doubt.’

(Reunited, they return to Camelot.)

Balin and Balan

Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot

In that first war, and had his realm restored

But render’d tributary, failed of late

To send his tribute; wherefore Arthur called

His treasurer, one of many years, and spake,

‘Go thou with him and him and bring it to us,

Lest we should set one truer on his throne.

Man’s word is God in man.’

His Baron said

‘We go but harken: there be two strange knights

Who sit near Camelot at a fountain-side,

A mile beneath the forest, challenging

And overthrowing every knight who comes.

Wilt thou I undertake them as we pass,

And send them to thee?’

Arthur laugh’d upon him.

‘Old friend, too old to be so young, depart,

Delay not thou for aught, but let them sit,

Until they find a lustier than themselves.’

So these departed. Early, one fair dawn,

The light-wing’d spirit of his youth return’d

On Arthur's heart; he arm’d himself and went,

So coming to the fountain-side beheld

Balin and Balan sitting statuelike,

Brethren, to right and left the spring, that down,

From underneath a plume of lady-fern,

Sang, and the sand danced at the bottom of it.

And on the right of Balin Balin’s horse

Was fast beside an alder, on the left

Of Balan Balan’s near a poplartree.

‘Fair Sirs,’ said Arthur, ‘wherefore sit ye here?’

Balin and Balan answer’d ‘For the sake

Of glory; we be mightier men than all

In Arthur’s court; that also have we proved;

For whatsoever knight against us came

Or I or he have easily overthrown.’

‘I too,’ said Arthur, ‘am of Arthur’s hall,

But rather proven in his Paynim wars

Than famous jousts; but see, or proven or not,

Whether me likewise ye can overthrow.’

And Arthur lightly smote the brethren down,

And lightly so returned, and no man knew.

* * *

(Balin tells Arthur he was exiled for striking a servant, but Arthur welcomes the brothers back into his court. Balan goes on a quest to hunt a demon of the woods. Balin sees Lancelot and Guinevere meeting as if lovers, and in a gloomy fit he  leaves the court too. He meets the treacherous Vivien, who maddens him with talk of Guinevere’s faithlessness:)

She lied with ease; but horror-stricken he,

Remembering that dark bower at Camelot,

Breathed in a dismal whisper ‘It is truth.’

Sunnily she smiled ‘And even in this lone wood,

Sweet lord, ye do right well to whisper this.

Fools prate, and perish traitors. Woods have tongues,

As walls have ears: but thou shalt go with me,

And we will speak at first exceeding low.

Meet is it the good King be not deceived.

See now, I set thee high on vantage ground,

From whence to watch the time, and eagle-like

Stoop at thy will on Lancelot and the Queen.’

She ceased; his evil spirit upon him leapt,

He ground his teeth together, sprang with a yell,

Tore from the branch, and cast on earth, the shield,

Drove his mail’d heel athwart the royal crown,

Stampt all into defacement, hurl’d it from him

Among the forest weeds, and cursed the tale,

The told-of, and the teller.

That weird yell,

Unearthlier than all shriek of bird or beast,

Thrill’d thro’ the woods; and Balan lurking there

(His quest was unaccomplish’d) heard and thought

‘The scream of that Wood-devil I came to quell!’

Then nearing ‘Lo! he hath slain some brother-knight,

And tramples on the goodly shield to show

His loathing of our Order and the Queen.

My quest, meseems, is here. Or devil or man

Guard thou thine head.’ Sir Balin spake not word,

But snatch’d a sudden buckler from the Squire,

And vaulted on his horse, and so they crash’d

In onset, and King Pellam’s holy spear,

Reputed to be red with sinless blood,

Redden’d at once with sinful, for the point

Across the maiden shield of Balan prick’d

The hauberk to the flesh; and Balin’s horse

Was wearied to the death, and, when they clash’d,

Rolling back upon Balin, crush’d the man

Inward, and either fell, and swoon’d away.

* * *

But when their foreheads felt the cooling air,

Balin first woke, and seeing that true face,

Familiar up from cradle-time. so wan,

Crawl’d slowly with low moans to where he lay,

And on his dying brother cast himself

Dying; and he lifted faint eyes; he felt

One near him; all at once they found the world,

Staring wild-wide; then with a childlike wail

And drawing down the dim disastrous brow

That o’er him hung, he kiss’d it, moan’d and spake;

‘O Balin, Balin, I that fain had died

To save thy life, have brought thee to thy death.

Why had ye not the shield I knew? and why

Trampled ye thus on that which bare the Crown?’

Then Balin told him brokenly, and in gasps,

All that had chanced, and Balan moan’d again.

‘Brother, I dwelt a day in Pellam’s hall:

This Garlon mock’d me, but I heeded not.

And one said “Eat in peace! a liar is he,

And hates thee for the tribute!” this good knight

Told me, that twice a wanton damsel came,

And sought for Garlon at the castle-gates,

Whom Pellam drove away with holy heat.

I well believe this damsel, and the one

Who stood beside thee even now, the same.

“She dwells among the woods” he said “and meets

And dallies with him in the Mouth of Hell.”

Foul are their lives; foul are their lips; they lied.

Pure as our own true Mother is our Queen.’

‘O brother’ answer’d Balin ‘woe is me!

My madness all thy life has been thy doom,

Thy curse, and darken’d all thy day; and now

The night has come. I scarce can see thee now.

Goodnight! for we shall never bid again

Goodmorrow – Dark my doom was here, and dark

It will be there. I see thee now no more.

I would not mine again should darken thine,

Goodnight, true brother.’

Balan answered low

‘Goodnight, true brother here! goodmorrow there!

We two were born together, and we die

Together by one doom:’ and while he spoke

Closed his death-drowsing eyes, and slept the sleep

With Balin, either lock’d in either’s arm.

Merlin and Vivian

A storm was coming, but the winds were still,

And in the wild woods of Broceliande,

Before an oak, so hollow, huge and old

It look’d a tower of ivied masonwork,

At Merlin’s feet the wily Vivien lay.

For he that always bare in bitter grudge

The slights of Arthur and his Table, Mark

The Cornish King, had heard a wandering voice,

A minstrel of Caerlon by strong storm

Blown into shelter at Tintagil, say

That out of naked knightlike purity

Sir Lancelot worshipt no unmarried girl

But the great Queen herself, fought in her name,

Sware by her – vows like theirs, that high in heaven

Love most, but neither marry, nor are given

In marriage, angels of our Lord’s report.

He ceased, and then – for Vivien sweetly said

(She sat beside the banquet nearest Mark),

‘And is the fair example followed, Sir,

In Arthur's household?’ – answered innocently:

‘Ay, by some few – ay, truly – youths that hold

It more beseems the perfect virgin knight

To worship woman as true wife beyond

All hopes of gaining, than as maiden girl.

They place their pride in Lancelot and the Queen.

So passionate for an utter purity

Beyond the limit of their bond, are these,

For Arthur bound them not to singleness.

Brave hearts and clean! and yet – God guide them – young.’

Then Mark was half in heart to hurl his cup

Straight at the speaker, but forbore: he rose

To leave the hall, and, Vivien following him,

Turn’d to her: ‘Here are snakes within the grass;

And you methinks, O Vivien, save ye fear

The monkish manhood, and the mask of pure

Worn by this court, can stir them till they sting.’

* * *

(Vivian goes to the court, to sow malicious rumours about Guinevere and Lancelot; and then seeks to seduce Merlin.)

And after that, she set herself to gain

Him, the most famous man of all those times,

Merlin, who knew the range of all their arts,

Had built the King his havens, ships, and halls,

Was also Bard, and knew the starry heavens;

The people call’d him Wizard; whom at first

She play’d about with slight and sprightly talk,

And vivid smiles, and faintly-venom’d points

Of slander, glancing here and grazing there;

And yielding to his kindlier moods, the Seer

Would watch her at her petulance, and play,

Ev’n when they seem’d unloveable, and laugh

As those that watch a kitten; thus he grew

Tolerant of what he half disdain’d, and she,

Perceiving that she was but half disdain’d,

Began to break her sports with graver fits,

Turn red or pale, would often when they met

Sigh fully, or all-silent gaze upon him

With such a fixt devotion, that the old man,

Tho’ doubtful, felt the flattery, and at times

Would flatter his own wish in age for love,

And half believe her true: for thus at times

He waver’d; but that other clung to him,

Fixt in her will, and so the seasons went.

Then fell on Merlin a great melancholy;

He walk’d with dreams and darkness, and he found

A doom that ever poised itself to fall,

An ever-moaning battle in the mist,

World-war of dying flesh against the life,

Death in all life and lying in all love,

The meanest having power upon the highest,

And the high purpose broken by the worm.

So leaving Arthur's court he gain’d the beach;

There found a little boat, and stept into it;

And Vivien follow’d, but he mark’d her not.

She took the helm and he the sail; the boat

Drave with a sudden wind across the deeps,

And touching Breton sands, they disembark’d.

And then she follow’d Merlin all the way,

Ev’n to the wild woods of Broceliande.

For Merlin once had told her of a charm,

The which if any wrought on anyone

With woven paces and with waving arms,

The man so wrought on ever seem’d to lie

Closed in the four walls of a hollow tower,

From which was no escape for evermore;

And none could find that man for evermore,

Nor could he see but him who wrought the charm

Coming and going, and he lay as dead

And lost to life and use and name and fame.

And Vivien ever sought to work the charm

Upon the great Enchanter of the Time,

As fancying that her glory would be great

According to his greatness whom she quenched.

There lay she all her length and kiss’d his feet,

As if in deepest reverence and in love.

A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe

Of samite without price, that more exprest

Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs,

In colour like the satin-shining palm

On sallows in the windy gleams of March:

And while she kiss’d them, crying, ‘Trample me,

Dear feet, that I have follow’d thro’ the world,

And I will pay you worship; tread me down

And I will kiss you for it;’ he was mute:

So dark a forethought rolled about his brain,

As on a dull day in an Ocean cave

The blind wave feeling round his long sea-hall

In silence: wherefore, when she lifted up

A face of sad appeal, and spake and said,

‘O Merlin, do ye love me?’ and again,

‘O Merlin, do ye love me?’ and once more,

‘Great Master, do ye love me?’ he was mute.

* * *

(At last Merlin wearies of Vivien and she vows to leave, saying:)

‘But ere I leave thee let me swear once more

That if I schemed against thy peace in this,

May yon just heaven, that darkens o’er me, send

One flash, that, missing all things else, may make

My scheming brain a cinder, if I lie.’

Scarce had she ceased, when out of heaven a bolt

(For now the storm was close above them) struck,

Furrowing a giant oak, and javelining

With darted spikes and splinters of the wood

The dark earth round. He raised his eyes and saw

The tree that shone white-listed thro’ the gloom.

But Vivien, fearing heaven had heard her oath,

And dazzled by the livid-flickering fork,

And deafen’d with the stammering cracks and claps

That follow’d, flying back and crying out,

‘O Merlin, tho’ you do not love me, save,

Yet save me!’ clung to him and hugg’d him close;

And called him dear protector in her fright,

Nor yet forgot her practice in her fright,

But wrought upon his mood and hugg’d him close.

The pale blood of the wizard at her touch

Took gayer colours, like an opal warm’d.

She blamed herself for telling hearsay tales:

She shook from fear, and for her fault she wept

Of petulancy; she call’d him lord and liege,

Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve,

Her God, her Merlin, the one passionate love

Of her whole life; and ever overhead

Bellow’d the tempest, and the rotten branch

Snapt in the rushing of the river-rain

Above them; and in change of glare and gloom

Her eyes and neck glittering went and came;

Till now the storm, its burst of passion spent,

Moaning and calling out of other lands,

Had left the ravaged woodland yet once more

To peace; and what should not have been had been,

For Merlin, overtalk’d and overworn,

Had yielded, told her all the charm, and slept.

Then, in one moment, she put forth the charm

Of woven paces and of waving hands,

And in the hollow oak he lay as dead,

And lost to life and use and name and fame.

Then crying ‘I have made his glory mine,’

And shrieking out ‘O fool!’ the harlot leapt

Adown the forest, and the thicket closed

Behind her, and the forest echo’d ‘fool.’

Lancelot and Elaine

Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,

Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,

High in her chamber up a tower to the east

Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;

Which first she placed where the morning’s earliest ray

Might strike it, and awake her with the gleam;

Then fearing rust or soilure fashion’d for it

A case of silk, and braided thereupon

All the devices blazon’d on the shield

In their own tinct, and added, of her wit,

A border fantasy of branch and flower,

And yellow-throated nestling in the nest.

Nor rested thus content, but day by day,

Leaving her household and good father, climb’d

That eastern tower, and entering barr’d her door,

Stript off the case, and read the naked shield,

Now guess’d a hidden meaning in his arms,

Now made a pretty history to herself

Of every dint a sword had beaten in it,

And every scratch a lance had made upon it,

Conjecturing when and where: this cut is fresh;

That ten years back; this dealt him at Caerlyle;

That at Caerleon; this at Camelot:

And ah God’s mercy, what a stroke was there!

And here a thrust that might have kill’d, but God

Broke the strong lance, and roll’d his enemy down,

And saved him: so she lived in fantasy.

* * *

(The tale is told of how Elaine came by Lancelot’s shield; when he visited her father’s castle, she fell in love with and invited him to wear her token in the tournament; in return she kept his shield.)

He spoke and ceased: the lily maid Elaine,

Won by the mellow voice before she look’d,

Lifted her eyes, and read his lineaments.

The great and guilty love he bare the Queen,

In battle with the love he bare his lord,

Had marr’d his face, and mark’d it ere his time.

Another sinning on such heights with one,

The flower of all the west and all the world,

Had been the sleeker for it: but in him

His mood was often like a fiend, and rose

And drove him into wastes and solitudes

For agony, who was yet a living soul.

Marr’d as he was, he seem’d the goodliest man

That ever among ladies ate in hall,

And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes.

However marr’d, of more than twice her years,

Seam’d with an ancient swordcut on the cheek,

And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes

And loved him, with that love which was her doom.

* * *

(Elaine’s love is not returned. However, when Lancelot is wounded in the lists, she comes to succour him in a cave where he lies.)

Then rose Elaine and glided thro’ the fields,

And past beneath the weirdly-sculptured gates

Far up the dim rich city to her kin;

There bode the night: but woke with dawn, and past

Down thro’ the dim rich city to the fields,

Thence to the cave: so day by day she past

In either twilight ghost-like to and fro

Gliding, and every day she tended him,

And likewise many a night: and Lancelot

Would, tho’ he called his wound a little hurt

Whereof he should be quickly whole, at times

Brain-feverous in his heat and agony, seem

Uncourteous, even he: but the meek maid

Sweetly forbore him ever, being to him

Meeker than any child to a rough nurse,

Milder than any mother to a sick child,

And never woman yet, since man’s first fall,

Did kindlier unto man, but her deep love

Upbore her; till the hermit, skilled in all

The simples and the science of that time,

Told him that her fine care had saved his life.

And the sick man forgot her simple blush,

Would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine,

Would listen for her coming and regret

Her parting step, and held her tenderly,

And loved her with all love except the love

Of man and woman when they love their best,

Closest and sweetest, and had died the death

In any knightly fashion for her sake.

And peradventure had he seen her first

She might have made this and that other world

Another world for the sick man; but now

The shackles of an old love straiten’d him,

His honour rooted in dishonour stood,

And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

* * *

(Lancelot gently refuses her love before he departs. Elaine pines away, telling her father she will die.)

She grew so cheerful that they deem’d her death

Was rather in the fantasy than the blood.

But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh

Her father laid the letter in her hand,

And closed the hand upon it, and she died.

So that day there was dole in Astolat.

But when the next sun brake from underground,

Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows

Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier

Past like a shadow thro’ the field, that shone

Full-summer, to that stream whereon the barge,

Pall’d all its length in blackest samite, lay.

There sat the lifelong creature of the house,

Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,

Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.

So those two brethren from the chariot took

And on the black decks laid her in her bed,

Set in her hand a lily, o’er her hung

The silken case with braided blazonings,

And kiss’d her quiet brows, and saying to her

‘Sister, farewell for ever,’ and again

‘Farewell, sweet sister,’ parted all in tears.

Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,

Oar’d by the dumb, went upward with the flood–

In her right hand the lily, in her left

The letter – all her bright hair streaming down–

And all the coverlid was cloth of gold

Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white

All but her face, and that clear-featured face

Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,

But fast asleep, and lay as tho’ she smiled.

* * *

(The barge containing Elaine’s body sails past Camelot. Her letter is read: it declares her love for Lancelot. Arthur orders that she be buried with due honour, telling Lancelot:)

‘Lancelot, my Lancelot, thou in whom I have

Most joy and most affiance, for I know

What thou hast been in battle by my side,

And many a time have watch’d thee at the tilt

Strike down the lusty and long practised knight,

And let the younger and unskill’d go by

To win his honour and to make his name,

And loved thy courtesies and thee, a man

Made to be loved; but now I would to God,

Seeing the homeless trouble in thine eyes,

Thou couldst have loved this maiden, shaped, it seems,

By God for thee alone, and from her face,

If one may judge the living by the dead,

Delicately pure and marvellously fair,

Who might have brought thee, now a lonely man

Wifeless and heirless, noble issue, sons

Born to the glory of thine name and fame,

My knight, the great Sir Lancelot of the Lake.’

Then answer’d Lancelot, ‘Fair she was, my King,

Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be.

To doubt her fairness were to want an eye,

To doubt her pureness were to want a heart–

Yea, to be loved, if what is worthy love

Could bind him, but free love will not be bound.’

The Holy Grail

(Sir Percivayle, a knight of the Round Table, becomes a monk. In discussion with another monk, Ambrosius, he describes how his sister, a nun, had a vision of the Holy Grail – the cup from which Jesus drank at the Last Supper, which was reputedly brought to England by Joseph of Arimathea.)

‘For on a day she sent to speak with me.

And when she came to speak, behold her eyes

Beyond my knowing of them, beautiful,

Beyond all knowing of them, wonderful,

Beautiful in the light of holiness.

And “O my brother Percivale,” she said,

“Sweet brother, I have seen the Holy Grail:

For, waked at dead of night, I heard a sound

As of a silver horn from o’er the hills

Blown, and I thought, ‘It is not Arthur's use

To hunt by moonlight;’ and the slender sound

As from a distance beyond distance grew

Coming upon me – O never harp nor horn,

Nor aught we blow with breath, or touch with hand,

Was like that music as it came; and then

Stream’d thro’ my cell a cold and silver beam,

And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail,

Rose-red with beatings in it, as if alive,

Till all the white walls of my cell were dyed

With rosy colours leaping on the wall;

And then the music faded, and the Grail

Past, and the beam decay’d, and from the walls

The rosy quiverings died into the night.

So now the Holy Thing is here again

Among us, brother, fast thou too and pray,

And tell thy brother knights to fast and pray,

That so perchance the vision may be seen

By thee and those, and all the world be heal’d.”

* * *

(Percivayle goes on to relate how many of Arthur’s knights vowed to ride out to seek the Holy Grail.  Percivayle was one of them.)

‘And I was lifted up in heart, and thought

Of all my late-shown prowess in the lists,

How my strong lance had beaten down the knights,

So many and famous names; and never yet

Had heaven appear’d so blue, nor earth so green,

For all my blood danced in me, and I knew

That I should light upon the Holy Grail.

‘Thereafter, the dark warning of our King,

That most of us would follow wandering fires,

Came like a driving gloom across my mind.

Then every evil word I had spoken once,

And every evil thought I had thought of old,

And every evil deed I ever did,

Awoke and cried, “This Quest is not for thee.”

And lifting up mine eyes, I found myself

Alone, and in a land of sand and thorns,

And I was thirsty even unto death;

And I, too, cried, “This Quest is not for thee.”

‘And on I rode, and when I thought my thirst

Would slay me, saw deep lawns, and then a brook,

With one sharp rapid, where the crisping white

Play’d ever back upon the sloping wave,

And took both ear and eye; and o’er the brook

Were apple-trees, and apples by the brook

Fallen, and on the lawns. “I will rest here,”

I said, “I am not worthy of the Quest;”

But even while I drank the brook, and ate

The goodly apples, all these things at once

Fell into dust, and I was left alone,

And thirsting, in a land of sand and thorns.

‘And then behold a woman at a door

Spinning; and fair the house whereby she sat,

And kind the woman’s eyes and innocent,

And all her bearing gracious; and she rose

Opening her arms to meet me, as who should say,

“Rest here;” but when I touch’d her, lo! she, too,

Fell into dust and nothing, and the house

Became no better than a broken shed,

And in it a dead babe; and also this

Fell into dust, and I was left alone.’

* * *

(Percivayle tells how he and Galahad came to a chapel, where Galahad saw the Holy Grail; but Percivayle did not, until they rode on again:)

‘There rose a hill that none but man could climb,

Scarr’d with a hundred wintry water-courses–

Storm at the top, and when we gain’d it, storm

Round us and death; for every moment glanced

His silver arms and gloom’d: so quick and thick

The lightnings here and there to left and right

Struck, till the dry old trunks about us, dead,

Yea, rotten with a hundred years of death,

Sprang into fire: and at the base we found

On either hand, as far as eye could see,

A great black swamp and of an evil smell,

Part black, part whiten’d with the bones of men,

Not to be crost, save that some ancient king

Had built a way, where, link’d with many a bridge,

A thousand piers ran into the great Sea.

And Galahad fled along them bridge by bridge,

And every bridge as quickly as he crost

Sprang into fire and vanish’d, tho’ I yearned

To follow; and thrice above him all the heavens

Open’d and blazed with thunder such as seem’d

Shoutings of all the sons of God: and first

At once I saw him far on the great Sea,

In silver-shining armour starry-clear;

And o’er his head the Holy Vessel hung

Clothed in white samite or a luminous cloud.

And with exceeding swiftness ran the boat,

If boat it were – I saw not whence it came.

And when the heavens open’d and blazed again

Roaring, I saw him like a silver star–

And had he set the sail, or had the boat

Become a living creature clad with wings?

And o’er his head the Holy Vessel hung

Redder than any rose, a joy to me,

For now I knew the veil had been withdrawn.’

* * *

(Percivayle tells Ambrosius that many knights failed to return to Camelot from their quest. Of those that did, Sir Bors also was granted a vision of the Grail; Lancelot, though, was not. Percivayle relates Lancelot’s account of how he set sail in despair:)

‘ “I burst the chain, I sprang into the boat.

Seven days I drove along the dreary deep,

And with me drove the moon and all the stars;

And the wind fell, and on the seventh night

I heard the shingle grinding in the surge,

And felt the boat shock earth, and looking up,

Behold, the enchanted towers of Carbonek,

A castle like a rock upon a rock,

With chasm-like portals open to the sea,

And steps that met the breaker! there was none

Stood near it but a lion on each side

That kept the entry, and the moon was full.

Then from the boat I leapt, and up the stairs.

There drew my sword. With sudden-flaring manes

Those two great beasts rose upright like a man,

Each gript a shoulder, and I stood between;

And, when I would have smitten them, heard a voice,

‘Doubt not, go forward; if thou doubt, the beasts

Will tear thee piecemeal.’ Then with violence

The sword was dashed from out my hand, and fell.

And up into the sounding hall I past;

But nothing in the sounding hall I saw,

No bench nor table, painting on the wall

Or shield of knight; only the rounded moon

Thro’ the tall oriel on the rolling sea.

But always in the quiet house I heard,

Clear as a lark, high o’er me as a lark,

A sweet voice singing in the topmost tower

To the eastward: up I climb’d a thousand steps

With pain: as in a dream I seem’d to climb

For ever: at the last I reach’d a door,

A light was in the crannies, and I heard,

‘Glory and joy and honour to our Lord

And to the Holy Vessel of the Grail.’

Then in my madness I essay’d the door;

It gave; and thro’ a stormy glare, a heat

As from a seventimes-heated furnace, I,

Blasted and burnt, and blinded as I was,

With such a fierceness that I swoon’d away–

O, yet methought I saw the Holy Grail,

All pall’d in crimson samite, and around

Great angels, awful shapes, and wings and eyes.

And but for all my madness and my sin,

And then my swooning, I had sworn I saw

That which I saw; but what I saw was veil’d

And cover’d; and this Quest was not for me.”

* * *

(Finally, Percivayle relates Arthur’s answer to his knights after they told their tales.)

‘ “And spake I not too truly, O my knights?

Was I too dark a prophet when I said

To those who went upon the Holy Quest,

That most of them would follow wandering fires,

Lost in the quagmire? – lost to me and gone,

And left me gazing at a barren board,

And a lean Order – scarce returned a tithe–

And out of those to whom the vision came

My greatest hardly will believe he saw;

Another hath beheld it afar off,

And leaving human wrongs to right themselves,

Cares but to pass into the silent life.

And one hath had the vision face to face,

And now his chair desires him here in vain,

However they may crown him otherwhere.

‘ “And some among you held, that if the King

Had seen the sight he would have sworn the vow:

Not easily, seeing that the King must guard

That which he rules, and is but as the hind

To whom a space of land is given to plow.

Who may not wander from the allotted field

Before his work be done; but, being done,

Let visions of the night or of the day

Come, as they will; and many a time they come,

Until this earth he walks on seems not earth,

This light that strikes his eyeball is not light,

This air that smites his forehead is not air

But vision – yea, his very hand and foot–

In moments when he feels he cannot die,

And knows himself no vision to himself,

Nor the high God a vision, nor that One

Who rose again: ye have seen what ye have seen.”

‘So spake the King: I knew not all he meant.’

Pelleas and Ettarre

King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap

Left by the Holy Quest; and as he sat

In hall at old Caerleon, the high doors

Were softly sunder’d, and through these a youth,

Pelleas, and the sweet smell of the fields

Past, and the sunshine came along with him.

‘Make me thy knight, because I know, Sir King,

All that belongs to knighthood, and I love.’

Such was his cry: for having heard the King

Had let proclaim a tournament – the prize

A golden circlet and a knightly sword,

Full fain had Pelleas for his lady won

The golden circlet, for himself the sword:

And there were those who knew him near the King,

And promised for him: and Arthur made him knight.

* * *

(Pelleas vows to win the love of Ettare in a tournament. Despite his courage, she spurns him.)

But after, when her damsels, and herself,

And those three knights all set their faces home,

Sir Pelleas follow’d. She that saw him cried,

‘Damsels – and yet I should be shamed to say it –

I cannot bide Sir Baby. Keep him back

Among yourselves. Would rather that we had

Some rough old knight who knew the worldly way,

Albeit grizzlier than a bear, to ride

And jest with: take him to you, keep him off,

And pamper him with papmeat, if ye will,

Old milky fables of the wolf and sheep,

Such as the wholesome mothers tell their boys.

Nay, should ye try him with a merry one

To find his mettle, good: and if he fly us,

Small matter! let him.’ This her damsels heard,

And mindful of her small and cruel hand,

They, closing round him thro’ the journey home,

Acted her hest, and always from her side

Restrain’d him with all manner of device,

So that he could not come to speech with her.

And when she gain’d her castle, upsprang the bridge,

Down rang the grate of iron thro’ the groove,

And he was left alone in open field.

‘These be the ways of ladies,’ Pelleas thought,

‘To those who love them, trials of our faith.

Yea, let her prove me to the uttermost,

For loyal to the uttermost am I.’

So made his moan; and darkness falling, sought

A priory not far off, there lodged, but rose

With morning every day, and, moist or dry,

Full-arm’d upon his charger all day long

Sat by the walls, and no one open’d to him.

* * *

Ettare, despising Pelleas, sets her knights on him; although Pelleas defeats them, they bind him and bring him to her.

And Pelleas answered, ‘Lady, for indeed

I loved you and I deem’d you beautiful,

I cannot brook to see your beauty marr’d

Through evil spite: and if ye love me not,

I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn:

I had liefer ye were worthy of my love,

Than to be loved again of you – farewell;

And tho’ ye kill my hope, not yet my love,

Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.’

While thus he spake, she gazed upon the man

Of princely bearing, tho’ in bonds, and thought,

‘Why have I pushed him from me? this man loves,

If love there be: yet him I loved not. Why?

I deem’d him fool? yea, so? or that in him

A something – was it nobler than myself?

Seem’d my reproach? He is not of my kind.

He could not love me, did he know me well.

Nay, let him go – and quickly.' And her knights

Laugh’d not, but thrust him bounden out of door.

He is rescued by Gawain, who, suggests that he should pretend he has killed Pelleas to soften Ettare’s heart. Meanwhile Pelleas roams outside, waiting, doubtfully.).

‘A rose, but one, none other rose had I,

A rose, one rose, and this was wondrous fair,

One rose, a rose that gladden’d earth and sky,

One rose, my rose, that sweeten’d all mine air–

I cared not for the thorns; the thorns were there.

‘One rose, a rose to gather by and by,

One rose, a rose, to gather and to wear,

No rose but one – what other rose had I?

One rose, my rose; a rose that will not die,–

He dies who loves it, – if the worm be there.’

This tender rhyme, and evermore the doubt,

‘Why lingers Gawain with his golden news?’

So shook him that he could not rest, but rode

Ere midnight to her walls, and bound his horse

Hard by the gates. Wide open were the gates,

And no watch kept; and in thro’ these he past,

And heard but his own steps, and his own heart

Beating, for nothing moved but his own self,

And his own shadow. Then he crost the court,

And spied not any light in hall or bower,

But saw the postern portal also wide

Yawning; and up a slope of garden, all

Of roses white and red, and brambles mixt

And overgrowing them, went on, and found,

Here too, all hush’d below the mellow moon,

Save that one rivulet from a tiny cave

Came lightening downward, and so spilt itself

Among the roses, and was lost again.

Then was he ware of three pavilions rear’d

Above the bushes, gilden-peakt: in one,

Red after revel, droned her lurdane knights

Slumbering, and their three squires across their feet:

In one, their malice on the placid lip

Froz’n by sweet sleep, four of her damsels lay:

And in the third, the circlet of the jousts

Bound on her brow, were Gawain and Ettarre.

Back, as a hand that pushes thro’ the leaf

To find a nest and feels a snake, he drew:

Back, as a coward slinks from what he fears

To cope with, or a traitor proven, or hound

Beaten, did Pelleas in an utter shame

Creep with his shadow thro’ the court again,

Fingering at his sword-handle until he stood

There on the castle-bridge once more, and thought,

‘I will go back, and slay them where they lie.’

And so went back, and seeing them yet in sleep

Said, ‘Ye, that so dishallow the holy sleep,

Your sleep is death,’ and drew the sword, and thought,

‘What! slay a sleeping knight? the King hath bound

And sworn me to this brotherhood;’ again,

‘Alas that ever a knight should be so false.’

Then turn’d, and so return’d, and groaning laid

The naked sword athwart their naked throats,

There left it, and them sleeping; and she lay,

The circlet of her tourney round her brows,

And the sword of the tourney across her throat.

Maddened by shame and grief, Pelleas returns to the court, where he accuses Lancelot and Guinevere of sin.

But Pelleas lifted up an eye so fierce

She quail’d; and he, hissing ‘I have no sword,’

Sprang from the door into the dark. The Queen

Look’d hard upon her lover, he on her;

And each foresaw the dolorous day to be:

And all talk died, as in a grove all song

Beneath the shadow of some bird of prey;

Then a long silence came upon the hall,

And Modred thought, ‘The time is hard at hand.’

The Last Tournament

(A tournament is held in honour of a dead child)

But when the morning of a tournament,

By these in earnest those in mockery call’d

The Tournament of the Dead Innocence,

Brake with a wet wind blowing, Lancelot,

Round whose sick head all night, like birds of prey,

The words of Arthur flying shriek’d, arose,

And down a streetway hung with folds of pure

White samite, and by fountains running wine,

Where children sat in white with cups of gold,

Moved to the lists, and there, with slow sad steps

Ascending, filled his double-dragon’d chair.

He glanced and saw the stately galleries,

Dame, damsel, each thro’ worship of their Queen

White-robed in honour of the stainless child,

And some with scatter’d jewels, like a bank

Of maiden snow mingled with sparks of fire.

He look’d but once, and vail’d his eyes again.

The sudden trumpet sounded as in a dream

To ears but half-awaked, then one low roll

Of Autumn thunder, and the jousts began:

And ever the wind blew, and yellowing leaf

And gloom and gleam, and shower and shorn plume

Went down it. Sighing weariedly, as one

Who sits and gazes on a faded fire,

When all the goodlier guests are past away,

Sat their great umpire, looking o’er the lists.

He saw the laws that ruled the tournament

Broken, but spake not; once, a knight cast down

Before his throne of arbitration cursed

The dead babe and the follies of the King;

And once the laces of a helmet crack’d,

And show’d him, like a vermin in its hole,

Modred, a narrow face: anon he heard

The voice that billow’d round the barriers roar

An ocean-sounding welcome to one knight,

But newly-enter’d, taller than the rest,

And armour’d all in forest green, whereon

There tript a hundred tiny silver deer,

And wearing but a holly-spray for crest,

With ever-scattering berries, and on shield

A spear, a harp, a bugle – Tristram – late

From overseas in Brittany return’d,

And marriage with a princess of that realm,

Isolt the White – Sir Tristram of the Woods–

Whom Lancelot knew, had held sometime with pain

His own against him, and now yearn’d to shake

The burthen off his heart in one full shock

With Tristram e’en to death: his strong hands gript

And dinted the gilt dragons right and left,

Until he groan’d for wrath – so many of those,

That ware their ladies’ colours on the casque,

Drew from before Sir Tristram to the bounds,

And there with gibes and flickering mockeries

Stood, while he mutter’d, ‘Craven crests! O shame!

What faith have these in whom they sware to love?

The glory of our Round Table is no more.’

* * *

(Tristram wins the tournament and is presented with rubies which were found with the dead child.)

And little Dagonet on the morrow morn,

High over all the yellowing Autumn-tide,

Danced like a wither’d leaf before the hall.

Then Tristram saying, ‘Why skip ye so, Sir Fool?’

Wheel’d round on either heel, Dagonet replied,

‘Belike for lack of wiser company;

Or being fool, and seeing too much wit

Makes the world rotten, why, belike I skip

To know myself the wisest knight of all.’

‘Ay, fool,’ said Tristram, ‘but ’tis eating dry

To dance without a catch, a roundelay

To dance to.’ Then he twangled on his harp,

And while he twangled little Dagonet stood

Quiet as any water-sodden log

Stay’d in the wandering warble of a brook;

But when the twangling ended, skipt again;

And being asked, ‘Why skipt ye not, Sir Fool?’

Made answer, ‘I had liefer twenty years

Skip to the broken music of my brains

Than any broken music thou canst make.’

Then Tristram, waiting for the quip to come,

‘Good now, what music have I broken, fool?’

And little Dagonet, skipping, ‘Arthur, the King’s;

For when thou playest that air with Queen Isolt,

Thou makest broken music with thy bride,

Her daintier namesake down in Brittany–

And so thou breakest Arthur's music too.’

(Although he is married to Isolt the White of Brittany, Tristram is in love with another Isolt, the wife of King Mark of Cornwall, to whom he now returns.)

Down in a casement sat,

A low sea-sunset glorying round her hair

And glossy-throated grace, Isolt the Queen.

And when she heard the feet of Tristram grind

The spiring stone that scaled about her tower,

Flush’d, started, met him at the doors, and there

Belted his body with her white embrace,

Crying aloud, ‘Not Mark – not Mark, my soul!

The footstep flutter’d me at first: not he:

Catlike thro’ his own castle steals my Mark,

But warrior-wise thou stridest through his halls

Who hates thee, as I him – e’en to the death.

My soul, I felt my hatred for my Mark

Quicken within me, and knew that thou wert nigh.’

To whom Sir Tristram smiling, ‘I am here.

Let be thy Mark, seeing he is not thine.’

And drawing somewhat backward she replied,

‘Can he be wronged who is not e’en his own,

But save for dread of thee had beaten me,

Scratch’d, bitten, blinded, marr’d me somehow – Mark?

What rights are his that dare not strike for them?

Not lift a hand – not, tho’ he found me thus!

But harken! have ye met him? hence he went

Today for three days’ hunting – as he said–

And so returns belike within an hour.

Mark’s way, my soul! – but eat not thou with Mark,

Because he hates thee even more than fears;

Nor drink: and when thou passest any wood

Close vizor, lest an arrow from the bush

Should leave me all alone with Mark and hell.

My God, the measure of my hate for Mark

Is as the measure of my love for thee.’

* * *

He that while she spake,

Mindful of what he brought to adorn her with,

The jewels, had let one finger lightly touch

The warm white apple of her throat, replied,

‘Press this a little closer, sweet, until–

Come, I am hunger’d and half-anger’d – meat,

Wine, wine – and I will love thee to the death,

And out beyond into the dream to come.’

So then, when both were brought to full accord,

She rose, and set before him all he will’d;

And after these had comforted the blood

With meats and wines, and satiated their hearts–

Now talking of their woodland paradise,

The deer, the dews, the fern, the founts, the lawns;

Now mocking at the much ungainliness,

And craven shifts, and long crane legs of Mark–

Then Tristram laughing caught the harp, and sang:

‘Ay, ay, O ay – the winds that bend the brier!

A star in heaven, a star within the mere!

Ay, ay, O ay – a star was my desire,

And one was far apart, and one was near:

Ay, ay, O ay – the winds that bow the grass!

And one was water and one star was fire,

And one will ever shine and one will pass.

Ay, ay, O ay – the winds that move the mere.’

Then in the light’s last glimmer Tristram show’d

And swung the ruby carcanet. She cried,

‘The collar of some Order, which our King

Hath newly founded, all for thee, my soul,

For thee, to yield thee grace beyond thy peers.'

‘Not so, my Queen,’ he said, ‘but the red fruit

Grown on a magic oak-tree in mid-heaven,

And won by Tristram as a tourney-prize,

And hither brought by Tristram for his last

Love-offering and peace-offering unto thee.’

He spoke, he turn’d, then, flinging round her neck,

Claspt it, and cried, ‘Thine Order, O my Queen!’

But, while he bow’d to kiss the jewell’d throat,

Out of the dark, just as the lips had touch’d,

Behind him rose a shadow and a shriek–

‘Mark’s way,’ said Mark, and clove him thro’ the brain.

That night came Arthur home, and while he climb’d,

All in a death-dumb autumn-dripping gloom,

The stairway to the hall, and look’d and saw

The great Queen’s bower was dark, – about his feet

A voice clung sobbing till he question’d it,

‘What art thou?’ and the voice about his feet

Sent up an answer, sobbing, ‘I am thy fool,

And I shall never make thee smile again.’

Guinevere

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat

There in the holy house at Almesbury

Weeping, none with her save a little maid,

A novice: one low light betwixt them burn’d

Blurr’d by the creeping mist, for all abroad,

Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full,

The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face,

Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight

Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast

Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne,

Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this

He chill’d the popular praises of the King

With silent smiles of slow disparagement;

And tamper’d with the Lords of the White Horse,

Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought

To make disruption in the Table Round

Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds

Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims

Were sharpen’d by strong hate for Lancelot.

* * *

The story is told of how Guinevere was disgraced, because she and Lancelot would not leave each other)

...she said,

‘O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land,

For if thou tarry we shall meet again,

And if we meet again, some evil chance

Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze

Before the people, and our lord the King.’

And Lancelot ever promised, but remain’d,

And still they met and met. Again she said,

‘O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.’

And then they were agreed upon a night

(When the good King should not be there) to meet

And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard.

She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met

And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye,

Low on the border of her couch they sat

Stammering and staring. It was their last hour,

A madness of farewells. And Modred brought

His creatures to the basement of the tower

For testimony; and crying with full voice

‘Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,’ aroused

Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike

Leapt on him, and hurl’d him headlong, and he fell

Stunn’d, and his creatures took and bare him off,

And all was still: then she, ‘The end is come,

And I am shamed for ever;’ and he said,

‘Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise,

And fly to my strong castle overseas:

There will I hide thee, till my life shall end,

There hold thee with my life against the world.’

She answer’d, ‘Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so?

Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells.

Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself!

Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thou

Unwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly,

For I will draw me into sanctuary,

And bide my doom.’

* * *

There rode an armed warrior to the doors.

A murmuring whisper thro’ the nunnery ran,

Then on a sudden a cry, ‘The King.’ She sat

Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armed feet

Thro’ the long gallery from the outer doors

Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell,

And grovell’d with her face against the floor:

There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair

She made her face a darkness from the King:

And in the darkness heard his armed feet

Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice,

Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost’s

Denouncing judgment, but tho’ changed, the King’s:

‘Liest thou here so low, the child of one

I honour’d, happy, dead before thy shame?

Well is it that no child is born of thee.

The children born of thee are sword and fire,

Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws,

The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts

Of heathen swarming o’er the Northern Sea;

Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm,

The mightiest of my knights, abode with me,

Have everywhere about this land of Christ

In twelve great battles ruining overthrown.

And knowest thou now from whence I come – from him,

From waging bitter war with him: and he,

That did not shun to smite me in worse way,

Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left,

He spared to lift his hand against the King

Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain;

And many more, and all his kith and kin

Clave to him, and abode in his own land.

And many more when Modred raised revolt,

Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave

To Modred, and a remnant stays with me.

And of this remnant will I leave a part,

True men who love me still, for whom I live,

To guard thee in the wild hour coming on,

Lest but a hair of this low head be harm’d.

Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death.

Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies

Have err’d not, that I march to meet my doom.

Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me,

That I the King should greatly care to live;

For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life.

Bear with me for the last time while I show,

Ev’n for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinn’d.

For when the Roman left us, and their law

Relax’d its hold upon us, and the ways

Were fill’d with rapine, here and there a deed

Of prowess done redress’d a random wrong.

But I was first of all the kings who drew

The knighthood-errant of this realm and all

The realms together under me, their Head,

In that fair Order of my Table Round,

A glorious company, the flower of men,

To serve as model for the mighty world,

And be the fair beginning of a time.

I made them lay their hands in mine and swear

To reverence the King, as if he were

Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,

To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,

To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,

To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,

To honour his own word as if his God’s,

To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,

To love one maiden only, cleave to her,

And worship her by years of noble deeds,

Until they won her; for indeed I knew

Of no more subtle master under heaven

Than is the maiden passion for a maid,

Not only to keep down the base in man,

But teach high thought, and amiable words

And courtliness, and the desire of fame,

And love of truth, and all that makes a man.

And all this throve before I wedded thee,

Believing, “lo mine helpmate, one to feel

My purpose and rejoicing in my joy.”

Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot;

Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt;

Then others, following these my mightiest knights,

And drawing foul ensample from fair names,

Sinn’d also, till the loathsome opposite

Of all my heart had destined did obtain,

And all thro’ thee! so that this life of mine

I guard as God’s high gift from scathe and wrong,

Not greatly care to lose; but rather think

How sad it were for Arthur, should he live,

To sit once more within his lonely hall,

And miss the wonted number of my knights,

And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds

As in the golden days before thy sin.

For which of us, who might be left, could speak

Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee?

And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk

Thy shadow still would glide from room to room,

And I should evermore be vext with thee

In hanging robe or vacant ornament,

Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair.

For think not, tho’ thou wouldst not love thy lord,

Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee.’

* * *

Then, listening till those armed steps were gone,

Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found

The casement: ‘peradventure,’ so she thought,

‘If I might see his face, and not be seen.’

And lo, he sat on horseback at the door!

And near him the sad nuns with each a light

Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen,

To guard and foster her for evermore.

And while he spake to these his helm was lower’d,

To which for crest the golden dragon clung

Of Britain; so she did not see the face,

Which then was as an angel’s, but she saw,

Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights,

The Dragon of the great Pendragonship

Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire.

And even then he turn’d; and more and more

The moony vapour rolling round the King,

Who seem’d the phantom of a Giant in it,

Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray

And grayer, till himself became as mist

Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

Then she stretch’d out her arms and cried aloud

‘Oh Arthur!’ there her voice brake suddenly,

Then – as a stream that spouting from a cliff

Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base

Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale–

Went on in passionate utterance:

‘Gone – my lord!

Gone thro’ my sin to slay and to be slain!

And he forgave me, and I could not speak.

Farewell? I should have answer’d his farewell.

His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King,

My own true lord! how dare I call him mine?

The shadow of another cleaves to me,

And makes me one pollution: he, the King,

Call’d me polluted: shall I kill myself?

What help in that? I cannot kill my sin,

If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame;

No, nor by living can I live it down.

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months

The months will add themselves and make the years,

The years will roll into the centuries,

And mine will ever be a name of scorn.’

(Guinevere remains in the convent, where she later becomes Abbess and dies.)

The Passing of Arthur

(Arthur goes to battle with Modred and his followers)

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:

‘Far other is this battle in the west

Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,

And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,

Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,

And shook him thro’ the north. Ill doom is mine

To war against my people and my knights.

The king who fights his people fights himself.

And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke

That strikes them dead is as my death to me.

Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way

Thro’ this blind haze, which ever since I saw

One lying in the dust at Almesbury,

Hath folded in the passes of the world.’

Then rose the King and moved his host by night,

And ever push’d Sir Modred, league by league,

Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse–

A land of old upheaven from the abyss

By fire, to sink into the abyss again;

Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,

And the long mountains ended in a coast

Of ever-shifting sand, and far away

The phantom circle of a moaning sea.

There the pursuer could pursue no more,

And he that fled no further fly the King;

And there, that day when the great light of heaven

Burn’d at his lowest in the rolling year,

On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.

Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight

Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.

A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew

Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold

With formless fear; and ev’n on Arthur fell

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,

And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;

And some had visions out of golden youth,

And some beheld the faces of old ghosts

Look in upon the battle; and in the mist

Was many a noble deed, many a base,

And chance and craft and strength in single fights,

And ever and anon with host to host

Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,

Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash

Of battleaxes on shatter’d helms, and shrieks

After the Christ, of those who falling down

Look’d up for heaven, and only saw the mist;

And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,

Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,

Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs

In that close mist, and cryings for the light,

Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

Last, as by some one deathbed after wail

Of suffering, silence follows, or thro’ death

Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,

Save for some whisper of the seething seas,

A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day

Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came

A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew

The mist aside, and with that wind the tide

Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field

Of battle: but no man was moving there;

Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,

Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave

Brake in among dead faces, to and fro

Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down

Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,

And shiver’d brands that once had fought with Rome,

And rolling far along the gloomy shores

The voice of days of old and days to be.

(Modred, who has survived the battle, strikes King Arthur and is slain by him. Sir Bedivere carries the wounded King to a nearby chapel. Arthur asks him to throw his sword, Excalibur, into the lake, but Bedivere, thinking this a waste, does not obey. He hides the sword instead..)

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:

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

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:

‘I heard the water lapping on the crag,

And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:

‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,

Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!

Authority forgets a dying king,

Laid widow’d of the power in his eye

That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,

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

In whom should meet the offices of all,

Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;

Either from lust of gold, or like a girl

Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.

Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,

And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:

But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,

And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged

Among the bulrush beds, and clutch’d the sword,

And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand

Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,

And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,

Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,

Seen where the moving isles of winter shock

By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.

So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:

But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,

And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him

Three times, and drew him under in the mere.

And lightly went the other to the King.

(Satisfied that Bedivere has done his will, the King asks him to help him walk to the edge of the lake.

But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,

Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed

When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,

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

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

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d,

Larger than human on the frozen hills.

He heard the deep behind him, and a cry

Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves

And barren chasms, and all to left and right

The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang

Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels–

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,

And the long glories of the winter moon.

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,

Beneath them; and descending they were ware

That all the decks were dense with stately forms,

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

Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose

A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,

And, as it were one voice, an agony

Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills

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

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge.’

So to the barge they came. There those three Queens

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

* * *

And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:

‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

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

May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seest – if indeed I go

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

To the island-valley of Avilion;

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

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns

And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull

Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

But when that moan had past for evermore,

The stillness of the dead world’s winter dawn

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

And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,

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

Whereat he slowly turn’d and slowly clomb

The last hard footstep of that iron crag;

Thence mark’d the black hull moving yet, and cried,

‘He passes to be King among the dead,

And after healing of his grievous wound

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

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

Who shriek’d and wail’d, the three whereat we gazed

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

They stood before his throne in silence, friends

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

Then from the dawn it seem’d there came, but faint

As from beyond the limit of the world,

Like the last echo born of a great cry,

Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice

Around a king returning from his wars.

Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb

Ev’n to the highest he could climb, and saw,

Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,

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

Down that long water opening on the deep

Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go

From less to less and vanish into light.

And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

From: Ballads and other poems

Rizpah

I

Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea–

And Willy’s voice in the wind, ‘O mother, come out to me.’

Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go?

For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow.

II

We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town.

The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down,

When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain,

And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drench’d with the rain.

III

Anything fallen again? nay – what was there left to fall?

I have taken them home, I have number’d the bones, I have hidden them all.

What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as a spy?

Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie.

IV

Who let her in? how long has she been? you – what have you heard?

Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word.

O – to pray with me – yes – a lady – none of their spies–

But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes.

V

Ah – you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the night,

The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright?

I have done it, while you were asleep – you were only made for the day.

I have gather’d my baby together – and now you may go your way.

VI

Nay – for it’s kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife.

But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life.

I kiss’d my boy in the prison, before he went out to die.

‘They dared me to do it,’ he said, and he never has told me a lie.

I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child–

‘The farmer dared me to do it,’ he said; he was always so wild–

And idle – and couldn’t be idle – my Willy – he never could rest.

The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best.

VII

But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good;

They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would;

And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done

He flung it among his fellows – I’ll none of it, said my son.

VIII

I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale,

God’s own truth – but they kill’d him, they kill’d him for robbing the mail.

They hang’d him in chains for a show – we had always borne a good name–

To be hang’d for a thief – and then put away – isn’t that enough shame?

Dust to dust – low down – let us hide! but they set him so high

That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by.

God ’ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air,

But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill’d him and hang’d him there.

IX

And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last goodbye;

They had fasten’d the door of his cell, ‘O mother!’ I heard him cry.

I couldn’t get back tho’ I tried, he had something further to say,

And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away.

X

Then since I couldn’t but hear that cry of my boy that was dead,

They seiz’d me and shut me up: they fasten’d me down on my bed.

‘Mother, O mother!’ – he call’d in the dark to me year after year–

They beat me for that, they beat me – you know that I couldn’t but hear;

And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still

They let me abroad again – but the creatures had worked their will.

XI

Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left–

I stole them all from the lawyers – and you, will you call it a theft?–

My baby, the bones that had suck’d me, the bones that had laugh’d and had cried–

Theirs? O no! they are mine – not theirs – they had mov’d in my side.

XII

Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kiss’d ’em, I buried ’em all–

I can’t dig deep, I am old – in the night by the churchyard wall.

My Willy ’ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment ’ill sound,

But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground.

XIII

They would scratch him up – they would hang him again on the cursed tree.

Sin? O yes – we are sinners, I know – let all that be,

And read me a Bible verse of the Lord’s good will toward men–

‘Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord’ – let me hear it again;

‘Full of compassion and mercy – long-suffering.’ Yes, O yes!

For the lawyer is born but to murder – the Saviour lives but to bless.

He’ll never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst,

And the first may be last – I have heard it in church – and the last may be first.

Suffering – O long-suffering – yes, as the Lord must know,

Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow.

XIV

Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin.

How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin?

Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began,

The wind that ’ill wail like a child and the sea that ’ill moan like a man?

XV

Election, Election and Reprobation – it’s all very well.

But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell.

For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look’d into my care,

And He means me I’m sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where.

XVI

And if he be lost – but to save my soul, that is all your desire:

Do you think that I care for my soul if my boy be gone to the fire?

I have been with God in the dark – go, go, you may leave me alone–

You never have borne a child – you are just as hard as a stone.

XVII

Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind,

But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy’s voice in the wind–

The snow and the sky so bright – he used but to call in the dark,

And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet – for hark!

Nay – you can hear it yourself – it is coming – shaking the walls–

Willy – the moon’s in a cloud – Good-night. I am going. He calls.

Notes

This dramatic monologue is thought to have been inspired by the true story of a young man who was hanged for robbery in Sussex in 1793, and whose bones were collected from the gibbet and buried by his mother. In the Old Testament, Rizpah was a woman who watched over the bodies of her sons after their execution, to prevent their being eaten by birds and beasts of carrion. (Samuel Book 2)

The Revenge: a Ballad of the Fleet (extracts)

I

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,

And a pinnace, like a flutter’d bird, came flying from far away;

‘Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!’

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: ‘’Fore God I am no coward;

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.

We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?’

II

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: ‘I know you are no coward;

You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.

But I’ve ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.

I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,

To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.’

* * *

IX

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame;

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame.

For some were sunk and many were shatter’d, and so could fight us no more–

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

X

For he said, ‘Fight on! fight on!’

Tho’ his vessel was all but a wreck;

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,

With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,

But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,

And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,

And he said, ‘Fight on! fight on!’

* * *

XIII

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,

Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,

And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:

‘I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;

I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:

With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!’

And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

Notes

Sir Richard Grenville (1542 – 1591) was an English sea-captain who died at the Battle of Flores, after refusing to surrender to the Spanish.

The Village Wife; or, the Entail. (extract)

I

’Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur New Squire coom’d last night.

Butter an’ heggs – yis – yis. I’ll goä wi’ tha back: all right;

Butter I warrants be prime, an’ I warrants the heggs be as well,

Hafe a pint o’ milk runs out when ya breäks the shell.

II.

Sit thysen down fur a bit: hev a glass o’ cowslip wine!

I liked the owd Squire an’ ’is gells as thaw they was gells o’ mine,

Fur then we was all es one, the Squire an’ ’is darters an’ me,

Hall but Miss Annie, the heldest, I niver not took to she:

But Nelly, the last of the cletch, I liked ’er the fust on ’em all,

Fur hoffens we talkt o’ my darter es died o’ the fever at fall:

An’ I thowt ’twur the will o’ the Lord, but Miss Annie she said it wur draäins,

Fur she hedn’t naw coomfut in ’er, an’ arn’d naw thanks fur ’er paäins.

Eh! thebbe all wi’ the Lord my childer, I han’t gotten none!

Sa new squire’s coom’d wi’ ’is taäil in ’is ’and, an’ owd Squire’s gone.

Notes

Tennyson wrote a number of dialect poems, of which this extract is included as an example. The dialect was that of Lincolnshire, in the east of England, where he grew up.

Columbus (extract)

(In his old age, the explorer Columbus recalls his voyages)

...Still for all that, my lord,

I lying here bedridden and alone,

Cast off, put by, scouted by court and king–

The first discoverer starves – his followers, all

Flower into fortune – our world's way – and I,

Without a roof that I can call mine own,

With scarce a coin to buy a meal withal,

And seeing what a door for scoundrel scum

I open’d to the West, thro’ which the lust,

Villany, violence, avarice, of your Spain

Pour’d in on all those happy naked isles–

Their kindly native princes slain or slaved,

Their wives and children Spanish concubines,

Their innocent hospitalities quench’d in blood,

Some dead of hunger, some beneath the scourge,

Some over-labour’d, some by their own hands,–

Yea, the dear mothers, crazing Nature, kill

Their babies at the breast for hate of Spain–

Ah God, the harmless people whom we found

In Hispaniola’s island-Paradise!

Who took us for the very Gods from Heaven,

And we have sent them very fiends from Hell;

And I myself, myself not blameless, I

Could sometimes wish I had never led the way.

From: Tiresias and other poems

To E. Fitzgerald

Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange,

Where once I tarried for a while,

Glance at the wheeling Orb of change,

And greet it with a kindly smile;

Whom yet I see as there you sit

Beneath your sheltering garden-tree,

And watch your doves about you flit,

And plant on shoulder, hand, and knee,

Or on your head their rosy feet,

As if they knew your diet spares

Whatever moved in that full sheet

Let down to Peter at his prayers;

Who live on milk and meal and grass;

And once for ten long weeks I tried

Your table of Pythagoras,

And seem’d at first ‘a thing enskied’

(As Shakespeare has it) airy-light

To float above the ways of men,

Then fell from that half-spiritual height

Chill’d, till I tasted flesh again

One night when earth was winter-black,

And all the heavens flash’d in frost;

And on me, half-asleep, came back

That wholesome heat the blood had lost,

And set me climbing icy capes

And glaciers, over which there roll’d

To meet me long-arm’d vines with grapes

Of Eshcol hugeness; for the cold

Without, and warmth within me, wrought

To mould the dream; but none can say

That Lenten fare makes Lenten thought,

Who reads your golden Eastern lay,

Than which I know no version done

In English more divinely well;

A planet equal to the sun

Which cast it, that large infidel

Your Omar; and your Omar drew

Full-handed plaudits from our best

In modern letters, and from two,

Old friends outvaluing all the rest,

Two voices heard on earth no more;

But we old friends are still alive,

And I am nearing seventy-four,

While you have touch’d at seventy-five,

And so I send a birthday line

Of greeting; and my son, who dipt

In some forgotten book of mine

With sallow scraps of manuscript,

And dating many a year ago,

Has hit on this, which you will take

My Fitz, and welcome, as I know,

Less for its own than for the sake

Of one recalling gracious times,

When, in our younger London days,

You found some merit in my rhymes,

And I more pleasure in your praise.

Notes

Tennyson’s friend Edward FitzGerald was a writer and translator best known for his lyrical translation of the 12th century Persian work, The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Tiresias (extract)

I wish I were as in the years of old,

While yet the blessed daylight made itself

Ruddy thro’ both the roofs of sight, and woke

These eyes, now dull, but then so keen to seek

The meanings ambush’d under all they saw,

The flight of birds, the flame of sacrifice,

What omens may foreshadow fate to man

And woman, and the secret of the Gods.

My son, the Gods, despite of human prayer,

Are slower to forgive than human kings.

The great God Ares burns in anger still

Against the guiltless heirs of him from Tyre

Our Cadmus, out of whom thou art, who found

Beside the springs of Dirce, smote, and still’d

Thro’ all its folds the multitudinous beast

The dragon, which our trembling fathers call’d

The God's own son.

A tale, that told to me,

When but thine age, by age as winter-white

As mine is now, amazed, but made me yearn

For larger glimpses of that more than man

Which rolls the heavens, and lifts, and lays the deep,

Yet loves and hates with mortal hates and loves,

And moves unseen among the ways of men.

Then, in my wanderings all the lands that lie

Subjected to the Heliconian ridge

Have heard this footstep fall, altho’ my wont

Was more to scale the highest of the heights

With some strange hope to see the nearer God.

One naked peak – the sister of the sun

Would climb from out the dark, and linger there

To silver all the valleys with her shafts–

There once, but long ago, five-fold thy term

Of years, I lay; the winds were dead for heat;

The noonday crag made the hand burn; and sick

For shadow – not one bush was near – I rose

Following a torrent till its myriad falls

Found silence in the hollows underneath.

There in a secret olive-glade I saw

Pallas Athene climbing from the bath

In anger; yet one glittering foot disturb’d

The lucid well; one snowy knee was prest

Against the margin flowers; a dreadful light

Came from her golden hair, her golden helm

And all her golden armour on the grass,

And from her virgin breast, and virgin eyes

Remaining fixt on mine, till mine grew dark

For ever, and I heard a voice that said

‘Henceforth be blind, for thou hast seen too much,

And speak the truth that no man may believe.’

Notes

There were several versions of the ancient Greek myth of Tiresias: on the one on which Tennyson drew, Tiresias, blinded by Athene for glimpsing her naked, was also given the gift of foresight.  Tiresias was used as a character in Greek tragedies about Theban history by Sophocles and Euripedes, although his role varied from play to play.

The Flight (extracts)

I.

Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not sleep, my sister dear!

How can you sleep? the morning brings the day I hate and fear;

The cock has crow’d already once, he crows before his time;

Awake! the creeping glimmer steals, the hills are white with rime.

II.

Ah, clasp me in your arms, sister, ah, fold me to your breast!

Ah, let me weep my fill once more, and cry myself to rest!

To rest? to rest and wake no more were better rest for me,

Than to waken every morning to that face I loathe to see:

* * *

V.

Come, speak a little comfort! all night I pray’d with tears,

And yet no comfort came to me, and now the morn appears,

When he will tear me from your side, who bought me for his slave:

This father pays his debt with me, and weds me to my grave.

VI.

What father, this or mine, was he, who, on that summer day

When I had fall’n from off the crag we clamber’d up in play,

Found, fear’d me dead, and groan’d, and took and kiss’d me, and again

He kiss’d me; and I loved him then; he was my father then.

VII.

No father now, the tyrant vassal of a tyrant vice!

The Godless Jephtha vows his child... to one cast of the dice.

These ancient woods, this Hall at last will go – perhaps have gone,

Except his own meek daughter yield her life, heart, soul to one–

VIII.

To one who knows I scorn him. O the formal mocking bow,

The cruel smile, the courtly phrase that masks his malice now–

But often in the sidelong eyes a gleam of all things ill–

It is not Love but Hate that weds a bride against her will;

IX.

Hate, that would pluck from this true breast the locket that I wear,

The precious crystal into which I braided Edwin’s hair!

The love that keeps this heart alive beats on it night and day–

One golden curl, his golden gift, before he past away.

X.

He left us weeping in the woods; his boat was on the sand;

How slowly down the rocks he went, how loth to quit the land!

And all my life was darken’d, as I saw the white sail run,

And darken, up that lane of light into the setting sun.

* * *

XXII.

You will not leave me thus in grief to wander forth forlorn;

We never changed a bitter word, not once since we were born;

Our dying mother join’d our hands; she knew this father well;

She bid its love, like souls in Heaven, and now I fly from Hell,

XXIII.

And you with me; and we shall light upon some lonely shore,

Some lodge within the waste sea-dunes, and hear the waters roar,

And see the ships from out the West go dipping thro’ the foam,

And sunshine on that sail at last which brings our Edwin home.

XXIV.

But look, the morning grows apace, and lights the old church-tower,

And lights the clock! the hand points five – O me – it strikes the hour–

I bide no more, I meet my fate, whatever ills betide!

Arise, my own true sister, come forth! the world is wide.

From: Demeter and other poems

The Progress of Spring (extract)

I

The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,

Fair Spring slides hither o’er the Southern sea,

Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold

That trembles not to kisses of the bee:

Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves

The spear of ice has wept itself away,

And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves

O’er his uncertain shadow droops the day.

She comes! The loosen’d rivulets run;

The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;

Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,

Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bare

To breaths of balmier air;

II

Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her,

About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays,

Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker,

The linnet’s bosom blushes at her gaze,

While round her brows a woodland culver flits,

Watching her large light eyes and gracious looks,

And in her open palm a halcyon sits

Patient – the secret splendour of the brooks.

Come, Spring! She comes on waste and wood,

On farm and field: but enter also here,

Diffuse thyself at will thro’ all my blood,

And, tho’ thy violet sicken into sere,

Lodge with me all the year!

Merlin and the Gleam (extracts)

I.

O young Mariner,

You from the haven

Under the sea-cliff,

You that are watching

The gray Magician

With eyes of wonder,

I am Merlin,

And I am dying,

I am Merlin

Who follow The Gleam.

II.

Mighty the Wizard

Who found me at sunrise

Sleeping, and woke me

And learn’d me Magic!

Great the Master,

And sweet the Magic,

When over the valley,

In early summers,

Over the mountain,

On human faces,

And all around me,

Moving to melody,

Floated The Gleam.

* * *

VII.

Clouds and darkness

Closed upon Camelot;

Arthur had vanish’d

I knew not whither,

The king who loved me,

And cannot die;

For out of the darkness

Silent and slowly

The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry glimmer

On icy fallow

And faded forest,

Drew to the valley

Named of the shadow,

And slowly brightening

Out of the glimmer,

And slowly moving again to a melody

Yearningly tender,

Fell on the shadow,

No longer a shadow,

But clothed with The Gleam.

* * *

IX.

Not of the sunlight,

Not of the moonlight,

Not of the starlight!

O young Mariner,

Down to the haven,

Call your companions,

Launch your vessel,

And crowd your canvas,

And, ere it vanishes

Over the margin,

After it, follow it,

Follow The Gleam.

Crossing the bar

Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell,

When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

*

Other free poetry ebooks in this series:

John Clare – Selected Poems

English Poetry of Landscape: An Anthology 1370 – 1928

(Due late 2017) John Keats – Selected Poems.

All these are free to download from Emma Laybourn’s website,

www.englishliteratureebooks.com

You are welcome to share or copy them, so long as they remain free.

Return to start of book