The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 50

[Footnote 10: 'Romance, Id'., v.:

"Then Sir Bedivere departed and went to the sword and lightly took it up and went to the waterside, and then he bound the girdle about the hilt and then he threw the sword as far into the water as he might, and then came an arm and a hand above the water, and met it and caught it and so shook it thrice and brandished it, and then vanished away the hand with the sword in the water."]

[Footnote 11: 'Romance, Id.', v.:

"'Alas,' said the king, 'help me hence for I dread me I have tarried over long'.

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back and so went with him to that water."]

[Footnote 12: 'Romance, Id'., v.:

"And when they were at the waterside even fast by the bank hoved a little barge and many fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen and all they had black hoods and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur. 'Now put me into the barge,' said the king, and so they did softly. And there received him three queens with great mourning, and so they set him down and in one of their laps King Arthur laid his head; and then that queen said: 'Ah, dear brother, why have ye tarried so long from me?'"]

[Footnote 13: 'Romance, Id'., v.:

"Then Sir Bedivere cried: 'Ah, my Lord Arthur, what shall become of me now ye go from me and leave me here alone among mine enemies?'

'Comfort thyself,' said the king, 'and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust to trust in. For I will unto the vale of Avilion to heal me of my grievous wound. And if thou never hear more of me, pray for my soul.'"]

[Footnote 14: With this 'cf>/i>. Greene, 'James IV'., v., 4:--

"Should all things still remain in one estate Should not in greatest arts some scars be found Were all upright nor chang'd what world were this?

A chaos made of quiet, yet no world."

And 'cf'. Shakespeare, 'Coriola.n.u.s', ii., iii.:--

What custom wills in all things should we do it, The dust on antique Time would be unswept, And mountainous error too highly heaped For Truth to overpeer.]

[Footnote 15: 'Cf.' Archdeacon Hare's "Sermon on the Law of Self-Sacrifice".

"This is the golden chain of love whereby the whole creation is bound to the throne of the Creator."

For further ill.u.s.trations see 'Ill.u.s.t. of Tennyson', p. 158.]

[Footnote 16: Paraphrased from 'Odyssey', vi., 42-5, or 'Lucretius', iii., 18-22.]

[Footnote 17: The expression "'crowned' with summer 'sea'" from 'Odyssey', x., 195: [Greek: naeson taen peri pontos apeiritos estaphan_otai.]]

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES

First published in 1842.

In the 'Gardener's Daughter' we have the first of that delightful series of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary English life, and named appropriately 'English Idylls'. The originator of this species of poetry in England was Southey, in his 'English Eclogues', written before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse, Southey says: "The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the German idylls given me in conversation." Southey's eclogues are eight in number: 'The Old Mansion House', 'The Grandmother's Tale', 'Hannah', 'The Sailor's Mother', 'The Witch', 'The Ruined Cottage', 'The Last of the Family' and 'The Alderman's Funeral'. Southey was followed by Wordsworth in 'The Brothers' and 'Michael'. Southey has nothing of the charm, grace and cla.s.sical finish of his disciple, but how nearly Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who compares Tennyson's studies with 'The Ruined Cottage'. But Tennyson's real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.

'The Gardener's Daughter' was written as early as 1835, as it was read to Fitzgerald in that year ('Life of Tennyson', i., 182). Tennyson originally intended to insert a prologue to be ent.i.tled 'The Antechamber', which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the 'Life', i., 233-4. This poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form "tho'" is subst.i.tuted for "though".

This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.

He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little;--Juliet, she [1]

So light of foot, so light of spirit--oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the sh.o.r.es of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but emba.s.sies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will _you_ paint like this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest), "'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March."

And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece ".

And up we rose, and on the spur we went.

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.

News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting m.u.f.fled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock; Although between it and the garden lies A league of gra.s.s, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster-towers.

The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. [2]

In that still place she, h.o.a.rded in herself, Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world.

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart, And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutter'd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them sweeter than the dream Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.

And sure this...o...b..t of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud [3]

Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel. And now, As tho' 'twere yesterday, as tho' it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these), Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, And lowing to his fellows. From the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves.

The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he near'd His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap [4] whistled; [5] and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.

And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said to me, "Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song?

Or have they any sense of why they sing?

And would they praise the heavens for what they have?"

And I made answer, "Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise".

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had pa.s.s'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a gra.s.sy walk Thro' crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool.

The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.

The garden-gla.s.ses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.

"Eustace," I said, "This wonder keeps the house."

He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, "Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.

For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft-- Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape-- Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.

A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist-- Ah, happy shade--and still went wavering down, But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe-bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her: "Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd, Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips Less exquisite than thine." She look'd: but all Suffused with blushes--neither self-possess'd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quiet--paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white star Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.

So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me.

"Now," said he, "will you climb the top of Art; You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The t.i.tianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,--the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all."

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving--such a noise of life Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice Call'd to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchmen peal The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, O'er the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odours on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East.

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.

Light pretexts drew me: sometimes a Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city-rooms; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year, One after one, thro' that still garden pa.s.s'd: Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in pa.s.sing touch'd with some new grace Or seem'd to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, [6]

Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will,"

Breathed, like the covenant of a G.o.d, to hold From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, [7] till I reach'd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there.

There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd; We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. [8]

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she answer'd me, And in the compa.s.s of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering [9] "I am thine".