The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 48

So sitting, served by man and maid, She felt her heart grow prouder: But, ah! the more the white goose laid It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair, And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!"

Then wax'd her anger stronger: "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer".

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.

The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm, He utter'd words of scorning; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning".

The wild wind rang from park and plain, And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again, And half the chimneys tumbled.

The gla.s.s blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder.

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;

And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And G.o.d forget the stranger!"

THE EPIC

First published in 1842; "tho'" for "though" in line 44 has been the only alteration made since 1850.

This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after "The Epic" had been composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to antic.i.p.ate or excuse "the faint Homeric echoes," to give a reason for telling an old-world tale.

The poet "mouthing out his hollow oes and aes" is, we are told, a good description of Tennyson's tone and manner of reading.

At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,-- The game of forfeits done--the girls all kiss'd Beneath the sacred bush and past away-- The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall, The host, and I sat round the wa.s.sail-bowl, Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk, How all the old honour had from Christmas gone, Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out With cutting eights that day upon the pond, Where, three times slipping from the outer edge, I b.u.mp'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Now harping on the church-commissioners, [1]

Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down Upon the general decay of faith Right thro' the world, "at home was little left, And none abroad: there was no anchor, none, To hold by". Francis, laughing, clapt his hand On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him".

"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wa.s.sail-bowl."

"Why, yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way At college: but another which you had, I mean of verse (for so we held it then), What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books "--[2]

And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else Something so said 'twas nothing--that a truth Looks freshest in the fashion of the day: G.o.d knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.

It pleased _me_ well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall, "Why take the style of those heroic times?

For nature brings not back the Mastodon, Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models? these twelve books of mine [3]

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth, Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt."

"But I," Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth, And have it: keep a thing its use will come.

I h.o.a.rd it as a sugar-plum for Holmes."

He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, p.r.i.c.k'd my ears; For I remember'd Everard's college fame When we were Freshmen: then at my request He brought it; and the poet little urged, But with some prelude of disparagement, Read, mouthing out his hollow oes and aes, Deep-chested music, and to this result.

[Footnote 1: A burning topic with the clergy in and about 1833.]

[Footnote 2: 1842 to 1844. "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire!" The present reading, 1850.]

[Footnote 3: 1842, 1843.

Remodel models rather than the life?

And these twelve books of mine (to speak the truth).

Present reading, 1845.]

MORTE D'ARTHUR

This is Tennyson's first study from Malory's 'Morte d'Arthur'. We learn from Fitzgerald that it was written as early as the spring of 1835, for in that year Tennyson read it to Fitzgerald and Spedding, "out of a MS.

in a little red book," and again we learn that he repeated some lines of it at the end of May, 1835, one calm day on Windermere, adding "Not bad that, Fitz., is it?" ('Life', i., 184). It is here represented as the eleventh book of an Epic, the rest of which had been destroyed, though Tennyson afterwards incorporated it, adding introductory lines, with what was virtually to prove an Epic in twelve books, 'The Idylls of the King'. The substance of the poem is drawn from the third, fourth and fifth chapters of the twenty-first book of Malory's 'Romance', which is followed very closely. It is called "an Homeric echo," but the diction bears a much closer resemblance to that of Virgil than to that of Homer, though the rhythm is perhaps more Homeric than Virgilian. It is Tennyson's masterpiece in "the grand style," and is indeed as near perfection as any work of this kind could be. In spite of its singular mixture of simplicity, purely Homeric, and artificiality, at times ultra-Virgilian, the incongruity never shocks, so n.o.ble and impressive is the general effect. The text of 1842 was never subsequently altered except in the spelling of "mere" and "though" in lines 37, 77, 147, 155, 162, 272, and in the insertion in 1853 of the line:--

"Across the ridge and pac'd beside the mere."

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 fall'n in Lyonness 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, [1]

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 spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made,-- Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more--but let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn.

Thou therefore take my brand [2] Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword--and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.

A little thing may harm a wounded man.

Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, [3]

Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, [4]

In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.

So strode he back slow to the wounded king.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?

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

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, [5]

And the wild water lapping on the crag."

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a n.o.ble knight: For surer sign had follow'd, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.

This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again [6]

As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, [7]

Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud, "And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.

What good should follow this, if this were done?

What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule, Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable against himself?

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

What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.

Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills."

So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honour and much fame were lost."