The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 86

Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke.

II

Reprinted in 1872 among 'Early Sonnets' with two alterations, "If I were loved" for "But were I loved," and "tho'" for "though".

But were I loved, as I desire to be, What is there in the great sphere of the earth, And range of evil between death and birth, That I should fear--if I were loved by thee?

All the inner, all the outer world of pain Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine, As I have heard that, somewhere in the main, Fresh water-springs come up through bitter brine.

'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee, To wait for death--mute--careless of all ills, Apart upon a mountain, though the surge Of some new deluge from a thousand hills Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge Below us, as far on as eye could see.

THE HESPERIDES

Hesperus and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree.

(Comus).

The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarred night Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond The h.o.a.ry promontory of Soloe Past Thymiaterion, in calmed bays, Between the Southern and the Western Horn, Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusflute Blown seaward from the sh.o.r.e; but from a slope That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, Beneath a highland leaning down a weight Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade, Came voices, like the voices in a dream, Continuous, till he reached the other sea.

SONG

I

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charmed root.

Round about all is mute, As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.

Crocodiles in briny creeks Sleep and stir not: all is mute.

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, We shall lose eternal pleasure, Worth eternal want of rest.

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure Of the wisdom of the West.

In a corner wisdom whispers.

Five and three (Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.

For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth; Evermore it is born anew; And the sap to three-fold music floweth, From the root Drawn in the dark, Up to the fruit, Creeping under the fragrant bark, Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'.

Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, Looking warily Every way, Guard the apple night and day, Lest one from the East come and take it away.

II

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye, Looking under silver hair with a silver eye.

Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight; Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die; Honour comes with mystery; h.o.a.rded wisdom brings delight.

Number, tell them over and number How many the mystic fruittree holds, Lest the redcombed dragon slumber Rolled together in purple folds.

Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away, For his ancient heart is drunk with over-watchings night and day, Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled-- Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, without stop, Lest his scaled eyelid drop, For he is older than the world.

If he waken, we waken, Rapidly levelling eager eyes.

If he sleep, we sleep, Dropping the eyelid over the eyes.

If the golden apple be taken The world will be overwise.

Five links, a golden chain, are we, Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, Bound about the golden tree.

III

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day, Lest the old wound of the world be healed, The glory unsealed, The golden apple stol'n away, And the ancient secret revealed.

Look from west to east along: Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong.

Wandering waters unto wandering waters call; Let them clash together, foam and fall.

Out of watchings, out of wiles, Comes the bliss of secret smiles.

All things are not told to all, Half-round the mantling night is drawn, Purplefringed with even and dawn.

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.

IV

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath Of this warm seawind ripeneth, Arching the billow in his sleep; But the landwind wandereth, Broken by the highland-steep, Two streams upon the violet deep: For the western sun and the western star, And the low west wind, breathing afar, The end of day and beginning of night Make the apple holy and bright, Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, Mellowed in a land of rest; Watch it warily day and night; All good things are in the west, Till midnoon the cool east light Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow; But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, The luscious fruitage cl.u.s.tereth mellowly, Goldenkernelled, goldencored, Sunset-ripened, above on the tree, The world is wasted with fire and sword, But the apple of gold hangs over the sea, Five links, a golden chain, are we, Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, Daughters three, Bound about All round about The gnarled bole of the charmed tree, The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Watch it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charmed root.

ROSALIND

Not reprinted till 1884 when it was unaltered, as it has remained since: but the poem appended and printed by Tennyson (in the footnote) has not been reprinted.

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 lightningflash atween the rain, 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, Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.

Your hawkeyes are keen and bright, Keen with triumph, watching still To pierce me through with pointed light; And 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 home, 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, Touched 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. [1]

[Footnote 1: Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous:--

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, Is one of those who know no strife Of inward woe or outward fear; To whom the slope and stream of life, The life before, the life behind, In the ear, from far and near, Chimeth musically clear.