IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) k A /^A<¥ .•^ « ..V <• ^' <^ Y 4 1.0 I.I 11.25 Hi 150 M2.5 lUU us 2.2 Photographic Sciences CorDoralion 33 WEST MAIN STRUT WHSTIR.N.Y. MStO (716) •7a-4503 ^ /. ^ ^ ^ .v^ ^ f/. fA J CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiqutis The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original copy available for filming. Features of this copy which may be bibliographicaily unique, which msy alter any of the images in the reproduction, or which may significantly change the usual method of filming, are checked below. D D D D D □ D Coloured covers/ Couverture de couleur I I Covers damaged/ Couverture endommag^e Covers restored and/or laminated/ Couverture restaurde et/ou pellicul6e I I Cover title missing/ Le titre de couverture manque I I Coloured maps/ Cartes g6ographiques en couleur Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/ Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/ Planches et/ou illustrations sn couleur Bound with other material/ Relii avec d'autres documents Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion along interior margin/ La re liure serr6e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la distortion le long de la marge inttrieure Blank leaves added during restoration may appear within the text. Whenever possible, these have been omitted from filming/ II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte, mais, lorsque cela 6tait possible, ces pages n'ont pas 6t6 fiimies. Additional comments:/ Commentaires suppl^mentaires: L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire qu'il lui a 6t6 possible de se procurer. Les details de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-dtre uniques du point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une modification dans la m6thode normale de filmage sont iniitqute ci-dessous. I I Coloured pages/ D ^y n This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/ Ce document est filmi au taux de rMuction indiquA ci-dessous. Pages de couleur Pages damaged/ Pages endommag^es I I Pages restored and/or laminated/ Pages restaur6es et/ou pelliculAes Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/ Pages ddcoiordes, tachetdes ou piqu6es Pages detached/ Pages d6tach6es The toth( Thei possi ofth filmir Origii begir the l{ sion, other first sion, or ilk Showthrough/ Transparence I I Quality of print varies/ Quality inigale de I'impression includes supplementary material/ Comprend du materiel supplAmentaire Only edition available/ Seule Mition disponible Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to ensure the best possible image/ Les pages totalement ou partiellement obscuicies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont M film^es A nouveau de fa9on A obtenir la meilleure image possible. Theli shall TINU whici Maps differ entirf begin right requii meth( 10X 14X 18X 22X 28X 30X y 12X 16X 20X 24X / 28X 32X iplaire .OS details liques du Bnt modifier 9xiger une de filmage id/ qu6es The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanits to the generosity of: National Library of Canada The images appearing here are the best quality possible considering the condition and legibility of the original copy and in keeping with the filming contract specifications. Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed beginning with the front cover and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All other original copies are filmed beginning on the first page with a printed or illustrated impres- sion, and ending on the last page with a printed or illustrated impression. The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol —»-( meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. L'exemplaire filmd f ut reproduit grAce d la gindrositd de: Bibliothdque nationale du Canada Les images sulvantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et de la nettet6 de rexemplaire film6, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est imprimde sont filmds en commengant par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont film6s en commengant par la premidre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaitra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — »• signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbols V signifie "FIN". taire Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre film6s d des taux de reduction diff6rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour 6tre repro^1tMt en un seul cliche, il est filmi d partir de I'angi^t £.up6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images nicessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6thode. by errata Tied to lent une pelure, fapon A 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 6 6 G W 8E. J. ®ae< * ^o's Sitwature §erica. TENNYSON'S GERAINT AND ENID AND OTHER POEMS EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES, BY J. E. WETHERELL, B.A., Principal of Strathroy Collegiate Institute. TORONTO : W. J. GAGE & COMPANY, 1891. Pa 5559 P / V7^ Entered according to the Act of Parliament ot Canada, in the year 1891, By W. J. Gage & Co., In the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. 1 PREFACE. The present volume contains those poems of Tennyson that have been pre.^cribed by the University of Toronto for the pass Matriculation Examination, and adopted by the Education Department of the Province for the Junior Leaving Examina- tion. The text of the poems is that of the last English edition, many earlier readings being given in the notes whenever a comparison with the altered t^xt would serve to test or to im- prove the student's literary judgment and taste. The introduction is three-fold : (l)a chronology of the poet's career ; (2) a short series of biographical articles ; (3) a descrip- tion of Tennyson's homes and haunts, based on observations made by the present editor during a recent tour in Lincolnshire, Tennyson's native county. In the preparation of the notes and in making extracts from the comments and criticisms of others, the editor has kept con- stantly in view two things : (1) the limitations of oixlinary High School pupils as to the time at their disposal for original literary research ; (2) the necessity of supplying the student with those historical and biographical facts that serve to eluci- date the text Critical comments and notes of interpretation have been given only on passages where it was felt that the young student might need such aid. For obvious reasons special attention has been given in this euition to the ' ' Locksley Hall " poems. The excellent article in the Appendix on "The Two Locksley Halls" will be found of much value. It is scarcely necessary to mention the various works on Tennyson that have been consulted in the preparation of this little volume. Acknowledgements, however, are due to Miss E. M- Balmer, R A. , for very valuable aid in annotation. Strathroy, July 13th, 1891. "Shakespeare and Milton— what third blazoned name Shall lips of after ages link to these ? His who, beside the wide encircling seas, Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim, For threescore years ; whose word of praise was fame ; Whose scxjrn gave pause lo man's iniquities. What sti-ain was his in that Crimean war ? A bugle call in battle ; a low breath, Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death I So year by year tlic music rolled afar, From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar, Beaiing the laurel of the cypress wreath. Others shall have their little space of time. Their proper niche and bust, then fade away Into the darkness, poets of a day ; But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme, Thou Shalt not pass ! Thy fame in every clime On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway." —AldricJi, TENJIfTTSON'S LIFE. "J think it wisest in a man to do his work in the world as quietly and as well as he can, without much heeding the praise or dispraise." These wise words are the Laureate's own. That he has done his life-work well no one will question ; that he has done it quietly, anyone who attempts to write a biography of the poet is prepared tc admit. A calm, sensationless, unromantic life like that of Tennyson's furnishes only scanty materials for the bio- grapher. Moreover, the time has scarcely yet come for writing the life of a poet who has become a classic in his own lifetime. The future will disclose many matters of a private nature which lend interest and value to the story of a life, but which the present hides beneath the sacred seal of reverential silence. The only trustwortiiy biography of Tennyson that has yet been \7ritten is to be found in his works. His poems are, in a very great degree, his life. To the intelligent student th© growth of Tennyson's mind and soul may be traced unerringly in his art, if his productions are ex-' amined in their proper sequence. No attempt, then, will here be made to narrate the full life-story of the Poet Laureate. But all accessible infor- mation of a biographical nature will be given to the ii TENNYSON'S LIFE. student in other ways : -(1) In a succinct chronology of the poet s life, which will contain a summary of all events of literary interest ; (2) In a series of brief articles dealing with a few of the most interesting epochs and episodes in his career ; (3) In a description of Tennyson's early homes and haunts,— two chapters of a little volume, "Over the Sea," written last year by the present writer, after visiting ' ' Tennyson Land. " CHRONOLOGY. 1809. — Alfred Tennyson, the third son of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, was born at Somersby, in Lin- colnshire, on the 6th of August. In the same year Gladstone, Darwin, and Mrs. Browning were born. 1816. — Was sent to the Grammar School at Louth, where he remained for four years. 1827. — ' ' Poems by Two Brothers " was published in Louth by a local printer named Jackson. The anonymous poets were Charles and Alfred Tennyson. 1828. — Alfred Tennyson entered Trinity College, Cam- bridge. 1829.— Tennyson gained ^-he Chancellor's medal for Eng- lish verse by his poem ' * Timbuctoo. " 1830. — "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical," published in London. This volume contained "The Poet" and "Recollec- tions of the Arabian Nights." 1831.— His father died in March, and he left Cambridge prematurely. 1833.— "Poems by Alfred Tennyson." This volume con- tained "The Lady of Shalott," "The Lotus-Eaters," and " The May Queen." "The Lover's Tale," printed and immediately suppressed because the author was diffident about its merits. ^U- TENNYSON'S LIFE rU ^11 In the Quarterly Ucviaw for July the 183o poems were severely criticised b. Lockhart. In his "Table-Talk" Coleridge spoke thus of Tenny- son : "I have not read through all Mr. Tennyson's poems, which have been sent to me, but I think there are some things of a good deal of beauty in what I have seen. The misfortune is, that he has begun to write verses without very well understanding what metre is." On Sept. 15th Arthur Henry Hallam died suddenly at Vienna. 1835. — The Tennyson family left Somersby. Carlyle wrote thus to Emerson about Tennyson's movements thereafter : ' ' He preferred clubbing with his mother and some sisters, to live unpromoted and write poems ; .... now here, now there ; the family always within reach of London, never in it ; he himself making rare and brief visits, lodging in some old comrade's rooms. ?» 1837. — The Edinburgh Review notices Tennyson with favor. W. S. Landor wrote to a friend on Dec. 9th : *' Yesterday a young man (Mr, Moreton) read to me a manuscript hj Mr. Tennyson very different in tyle from his printed poems. The subject is the deai h - Arthur. It is more Homeric than any poem of •time, and rivals some of the noblest parts oi ti Odyssey. " 1838. — Tennyson lived in London, and was a member of the Anonymous Club, with Carlyle, Thackeray, Macready, Landor. 1842. — "Poems by Alfred Tennyson." After nine years of almost unbroken silence appeared this famous ■ collection of poems, including " Morte d' Arthur," "Lockbley Hall," "Ulysses," Sir Galahad," "St. Agnes." These poems w^ere received with warm enthusiasm by Carlyle, Dickens, Emerson, a^id Poe, and indeed by almost all contemporary authors and iv TENNYS0N*8 LIPB. critics. '' ; It is quite evident that Tennyson had heeded the voices of earlier criticism, for in this edition were republished only th3 best of the 1833 edition, and even these had been pruned and revised. 1845. _The poet received a pension of £200 through Sir Robert Peel. This year in a letter to a friend, Wordsworth, then Poet Laureate, wrote as follows of Tennyson : "He is decidedly the first of our living poets, and I hope will live to ftive the world still better things." It was about this time that Poe wrote thus in an American review : "I am not sure that Tennyson is not the greatest of poets." 1847. — * ' The Princess ; A Medley. " 1850. — " In Memoriam " appears. On June 13th, the poet was married to Emily Sarah Sellwood, at Shiplake Church, Oxfordshire, of which church the bride's cousin was vicar. This year Wordsworth died, and on Nov. 19th, Alfred Tennyson was appointed Poet Laureate of England. 1851. — Lived at Twickenham. Travelled in France and Italy. 1852.—" Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington." 1853. — Went to live at Farringford, Freshwater, at the south-west corner of the Isle of Wight. 1854.— "The Charge of the Light Brigade." 1855. — "Maud, and other Poems." The University of Oxford conferred on him the degree of D.C.L. 1857. — "Enid and Nimue," an Arthurian poem, printed but suppressed before publication. This year Bayard Taylor visited Tennyson at Farringford, and walked with him along the cliffs. Thus he speaks of the Laureate: "I was struck with the variety of his knowledge. Not a little Uis TENNYSON'S LIFE. flower on the downs escaped his notice, and the geology of the coast was perfectly familiar to him. I thought of a remark I once heard from Thackeray, that Tennyson was the wisest man he knew." 1859.- "Idylls of the King." The four Idylls were "Enid," "Vivien," "Elaine," and "Guinevere." Ten thousand copies of this book were sold in six weeks. This year the poet visited Portugal. 1860. — "Sea Dreams" and "Tithonus" appeared in mag- azines. 1861. — Revisited the Pyrenees, where he had been with Hallam in 1829. "A Welcome to Alexandra." "Enoch Arden." 1863.- 1864.- 1865. — Declined a baronetcy offered by the Queen. 1867. — Bought the Greenhill estate in Sussex. 1868. — Longfellow visited Farringford. 1870. — ' ' The Holy Grail. " Forty thousand copies ordered in advance. 1872.— "Gareth and Lynette." This year the poet took possession of Aldworth, his new house in Sussex. The poet chose this place on account of its bracing atmosphere in si^mmer, and to have a place of retirement from Farringford, to which many visitors were flocking in the summer months. 1875. — " Queen Mary : a Drama." 1877.— "Harold: a Drama." 1879.— "The Lover's Tale." A revision of the supprfjssed poem of 1833, made necessary by the fact that it had been pirated. 1880.— ' ' Ballads and other Poems. " VI TENNYSON'S LIFE. I 1881.— "The Cup," produced at the Lyceum Theatre, with Henry Irving and Ellen Terry in the leading parts. 1883.— Tennyson and Gladstone took a sea-trip to Copen- hagen. Tennyson accepted a peerage. 1884.— "The Cup" and "The Falcon" published. "Becket" published. This and "Queen Mary" and "Harold" constitute the "Historic Trilogy." This year the poet was gazetted as Baron of Aid- worth and Farringford. 1885.— "Tiresias and other Poems." 1886. — " Locksley Hall Sixty Years After." 1889. — " Demetor and other Poems. " 1 GENEALOGY OF Tl YSON. I I III "> tha. ronets, i, Norman blood." It is Tennyson who sings " Kind hearts are And simple fait This sentiment, however, springs from no proletarian narrowness, for the poet can trace his ancestry to ' ' Nor- man blood," and even to the wearers of coronets and crowns. In Tennyson's descent two lines are blended, the middle- class line of the Tennysons, and the noble line of the D'Eyncourts. The Tennysons are an old Yorkshire family. The D'Eyncourts, through many vicissitudes of blood, sprang from John of Gaunt, the fourth son of Edward III. Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL.D., the poet's father, has been described as "a man of energetic char- acter, remarkable for his great strength and stature, and of very various talents, — something of a poet, painter, architect, and musician, and also a considerable linguist and mathematician." TENNYSON'S LIFE. VU The poet's mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Fytche, was a daughter of the Vicar of Louth. Her mother was a granddaughter of a certain Mons. Fauvelle, a French Huguenot, related to Madame de Maiijtenpn. Mrs. Tennyson is described as ' ' a sweet id gentle and most imaginative woman, so kind-hearted that it had passed into a proverb " in the neighborhood. Her nature was wholly emotional, and from her the sons probably inherited their poetical natures. Her habitual exaltation of soul is said to have shone from wonderfully luminous eyes. Tennyson has given us this portrait of his mother in ''The Princess :" "One, Not learned, save in gracious household ways, Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt In angel instincts, l)reathing Paradise, Interin'eter between the Gods and men, Who look'd all native to her place, and yet On tiptoe seein'd to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce • Sway'd to her from her orbits as they moved. And girdled her with music." TENNYSON'S BOYHOOD. Of Tennyson's early days we know very little. With the sensitiveness of a recluse the poet has always lived his life apart from the outer world, and even of his boy- hood he speaks only to "unrecording friends." A few scant and not too reliable traditions we have, — and little more. Although the hamlet of Somersby was quite out of the world— and indeed it is so to-day — the village rectory was a cosmos of itself. The seven sons and five daughters of Dr. Tennyson were no ordinary children, nor was their education of an ordinary kind. No dull routine or mar- VUl TENNYSON'S LIFE. tinet methods sapped the originality of the rector's cliild- ren. Their education, it is true, was not what the world calls practical, but it -was such as nourishes poets. The air of the rectory was always full of ideality and poetry. Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie, in an article on "Alfred Tennyson" in Harper's Magazine for December, 1883, gives us a glimpse into this little world: "The boys played great games, like Arthur's Knights; they were champions and warriors defending a stone heap ; or, again, they would set up opposing camps with a King in the midst of each. The King was a willow wand stuck into the ground, with an outer circle of immortals to defend him of li^mer, stiffer sticks. Then each party would come with stones, hurling at each other's King, and trying to overthrow him. Perhaps as the day wore on they became romancers, leaving the jousts de- serted. When dinner-time came, and they all sat round the table, each in turn put a chapter of his history underneath the potato-bowl,- long endless histories, chap- ter after chapter, diffuse, absorbing, unending, as are the stories of real life of which each sunrise opens on a new part. Alfred used to tell a story which lasted for months, and which was called ' The Old Horse. ' " Tennyson has vouchsafed to correct the popular tradition that as a boy in Somersby he was a shy student, wandering about with book in hand, or rapt in some deep reverie. He gives the following as more characteristic of his boyish habits. He and his elder brother Charles used to defend one of the bridges over the Somersby brook against superior numbers of the village boys. They could, he says, hold their own against four or five, but on one occasion when the attacking force was eight or ten the brothers had to beat a retreat. TENNYSON'S LIFE. Alfred Tennyson spent about four years of his early boyhood at the Grammar School of Louth (1816-1820). The poet's recollection of the place is that no one learned very much there, and that he learned very little indeed. The substance of his education, he says, was given him by his father in the eight years following the period at Louth. Doubtless much of his wonderful erudition was self- acquired, as he was from his earliest days a great reader. One of the poet's reminiscences of Loutb is that he took par^ in a procession which was connected with the town festivities an the occasion of the coronation of King George the Fourth. Although the Grammar School at Louth contributed little to the poet's mental development, there is no doubt that his earliest attempts at versification were made here, —if we except the first promise of native genius which found voice in the rectory garden at Somersby when little Alfred at the age of five, listening to the wind murmuring in the neighboring trees, exclaimed: **I hear a voice that's speaking in the wind." At Louth, Mrs. Ritchie tells us, he wrote his first verses. These were written upon a slate which his elder brother Charles put into his hand one Sundaj^, when all the elder members of the family had gone to church, and Alfred was left alone. Charles gave him a subject, — the flowers in the garden, — and when he came back from church, the slate was produced, all covered with lines of blank verse, made on the model of Thomson's Seasons, the only long poem he had ever read. "Yes, you can write," said Charles, as he gave Alfred back the slate. Another interesting anecdote of the poet's early efforts may be told here. His grandfather had asked him to X'\ TENNYSON'S LIFE. write an elegy on his grandmother, who had recently died. When the poem was finished the old man put ten shillings into the lad's hands, saying, "There, that is the first money you have ever earned by your poetry, and, take my word for it, it will be the last." Some interesting facts about Louth and Tennyson's connection therewith will be found on a subsequent page in the editor's description of a tour through Lincolnshire. One other incident of Tennyson's boyhood must not be omitted from this short sketch. The most striking feature in the landscape of Somersby parish is Holywell Gl«i, a wooded ravine described on a subsequent, page. At the upper end of this pretty glen are some sandstone rocks, over to be remembered in literary history. On a day early in May, 1824, the news reached this remote Lincolnshire village, at least a lortnight after the event, that the great Foet of Passion was dead. Young Tennyson, not yet fifteen years old, retu-ed alone to this secluded glen and carved into the sandstone rocks the epitaph BYRON IS DEAD. What a profound impression was made upon the boy's mind by the death of the great poet whose life had been a painfully exciting drama he has himself told us in impressive words: "I thought the whole world was at an end ; I thought that everything was over and finished for everyone, that nothing else mattered." Here was a lad, certainly, with all the feelings of a poet; the ex- pression was sure to coLie. Had Byron's poetry any real influence on Tennyson's art? More than is generally acknowledged. Byron was to the youth of that time more than any other poet has ever been to his contemporaries. His poems were passion- ate romances and his very life was a passionate vomance. TBNNY30N*S LIPB. xi No wonder, therefore, that the imaginations of the young, especially of young poets, were in thrall to this strange genius. Not to have been in thrall would have displayed a bleak barrenness of spirit. In the case of Tennyson tho influence of Byron was more than personal ; — it took a firm hold on his earlier song, and even in ''Locksley Hall " and ' ' Maud " may be seen lingering traces of his earlier devotion. POEMS BY TWO BROTHERS. Tennyson was cnily eighteen when he quietly and anony- mously slipped into jjrint as the junior author of "Poems by Two Brothers." The book was published by Messrs. Jackson of Louth, who, after engaging to pay the boys ten pounds for the copyright of their juvenile efforts, actually paid them twenty pounds ! L(yuth has certainly a right to be proud of its generous and keen-sighted townsmen. The title-page of the little volume bore a modest motto from Martial : Haec nos novimus esse nihil (We ourselves know that these are nothing). The same modesty char- acterizes the preface : "The following Poems were wi'itten frona the ages of fifteen to eighteen, not conjointly but individually ; which may account for their differences of style and matter. To light upon any novel combination of images, or to open any vein of sparkling thought, untouched before, were no easy task : indeed the remark itself is as old as the truth is clear : and no doubt if submitted to the microscopic eye of periodical criticism, a long list of inaccuracies and imitations would result from the investigation. But so it is : we have passed the Rubicon and we leave the rest **U^ '- xii TSNNY60NS Lira. to fate; though it.^ edict may create a fruitless r&gret that we ever emerged from ' the shade ' and courted notor- iety." The little book contains one hundred and two pieces on themes drawn from all ages and many lands. Many of the poems are iutroduced by qiiotations ; among others, from Byron, Milton, Moore, and Scott. There are fre- quent foot-notes, which display much learning but no suggestion of pedantry. The critics have found it im- possible in this volume to distinguish the poems of Alfred from those of Charles, and, as the Poet Laureate has never admitted the paternity of any of these early poems by incorporating them in his later volumes, we must be content to accept his own estimate of his early work. Certainly none of IJhe poems in the pioneer volume are very inspiring, even if none are very bad. There is one significant thing about this little book that cannot escape notice, — the strong brotherly instincts of the authors. The two boys had been kindred spirits fron; earliest boyhood. They had shared each other's sports and cares and ambitions, and now with faces hidden from view, they come before an unsympiktbetic public hand in hand. Of Charles Tennyson, who was associat-id with Alfred in this precocious literary venture, and who after- wards assumed the name of Turner on inheriting certain estates from his grandmother, it may be said that he afterwards puWished several volumes of meritorious verse. It is of this favorite brother that we read in *' In Memor- lam '•But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature's mint ; And \iV and wood and field did print The same ::>weet forms on either mind. s TENNYSON'S JLIFB. xiii For U8 the same cold streamlet curled Thi'o' all hi 3 eddj'ing- coves ; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer'd vows ; One lesson from one book we learned, Ere childhood's flaxen rinfjlot turn'd To black and brown on kindred brows." AT CAMBRIDGE. In October, 1828, Tennyson entered Trinity College, Ciimbridge. His two elder brothers, Frederick and Charles, were already there. The tutor under whom Charles and Alfred were placed was the distinguished Whewell, afterwards Master of the College. Alfred Tennyson^s academical career was incomplete, his premature departure from the University being due to the death of his father. In his second year at college, however, he won the Chancellor's medal for English verse, a distinction gained in earlier years by Macaulay and by Lytton. The theme of his prize poem was "Timbuctoo." The poet himself tells a curious story as to the way in which he won this prize. His father, imagining that Alfred was doing little at the University and knowing that he was inclined to poetry, urged him to compete for the Chancellor's riiedal. The young collegian took a poem that he had written two years bf ^ore on the ' ' Battle of Armageddon," supplied it with a new beginning and a new ending and sent it in as "Timbuctoo." ' ' Timbuctoo " received a remarkable notice in the Athenceimi : "We have accustomea ourselves to think, perhaps without any very good reason, that poetry was likely to perish among us for a very considerable period after the great generation of poets which is now passing away. XIV TBNNYSON*S LIFB. • i The age seems determined to contradict us, and that in the most decided manner, for it has put forth poetry by a young man, and that where we should least expect to find it — in a prize poem. These productions have often been ingenious and elegant, but we have never before seen one which indicated really first-rate poetic genius, and which would have done honor to any man that ever wrote." After quoting some forty lines of the poem the reviewer adds, ''How many men have lived for a century that could equal that ? " Tennyson has done honor to Cambridge and to his old College in these lines from ' ' In Memoriam : " " I past beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gem ; I roN'ed at random thro' th(i town, And saw the tumult of the halls ; And heard once more iu college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder -music, rolling, shake The prophets blaznn'd on the panes ; An.l caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows ; paced the shores And 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.— Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art, And labour, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land." This "band of youthful friends" was a literary and debating society that called itself the "Twelve Apostles." Some of these "Apostles" afterwards becam« famous in TENNYROIS'S LIFE. XV the church and in literature, — Henry A 1 ford, Richard Trench, A. W, Kinglake Richard. M. Milues (afterwards Lord Houghton). The two "Apostles" with whom we have to do just now are Alfred Tennyson and Arthur Henry Hallam. Bet^veen these two sprang up a wondrous friendship, one of the most famous and most fruitful in history or in literature. This friendship must receive separate consideration in a subsequent section. THE POEMS OF 1830. In 1830 the ''Two Brothers," w^o three years before had issued their youthful poems conjointly and anony- mously, again appeared, but this time independently of each other and without disguise. In this year Charles Tennyson published " Sonnets and Fugitive Pieces." and Alfred Tennyson, "Poems, Chiefly Lyrical." Wordsworth, then at the height of literary fame, in a letter from Cambridge of this year writes thus of the Tennysons : ' ' We have also a respectable show of blossom in poetry — two brothers of the name of Tennyson ; one in particular not a little promising." Although this little volume of 1830 was mercilessly criticised in Blackwood by Christopher North, it contains some of the poet's very best work. Here w^e find the ' ' Ode to Memory," " Recollections of the Arabiaja Nights," and "The Poet." In the last-named piece the young bard gives us his high ideal of the poet's art and vocation. In the Westminster Review for January, 1831, appeared the following appreciative words which are prophetic in their critical insight : "He has shown, in the lines from which we quote, his own just conception of the grandeur of a poet's destiny ; and we look to him for its fulfilment. It is not for such i xvi TENNYSON'S LIFE. men to sink into mere vers3-m.akers for the amusement of themselves or others. They can influence the associations of unnumbered minds ; tliey can command the sympathies of unnumbered hearts ; they can disseminate principles, they can give those principles power over men's im*»'>-ina- tions ; they can excite in a good cause the l.. uied. enthusiasm that is sure to conquer ; they can blast thfi laurels of the tyrants, and hallow the memories of the martyrs of patriotism ; they can act with a force, the extent of which it is difficult to estimate, upon national feelings and character, and consequently upon national happiness. If our estimate of Mr. Tennyson be correct, he too is a poet ; and many years hence may be read his juvenile description of that character with the proud con- sciousness that it has become the description and history of his own work." THE LAST YEARS AT SOMERSBY. Friendship of Tennyson and Hallam, In March, 1831, Alfred Tennyson left Cambridge on account of his father's death. In his poem "To J. S.'* he refers to this sad event : "Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn 'd ,• Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile— not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Ei/ipty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been." After Dr. Tennyson's death ]\Irs. Tennyson rented the rectory house from her husband's successor and continued to reside there till the autumn of 1835. TENNYSON'S LIFE. XVU These last years at Somersby were the years when the immortal friendship between Alfred Tennyson and Arthur Henry Hallam reached its full maturity. Begun in 1829 at Cambridge, this friendship endured until the fatal autumn of 1833. These four happy years are thus des- cribed in '* In Memoriam : " "The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts which 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 Apill on to Apiil went, And glad at heart from May to May : But where the path we walk'd began To slant the tifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, . _ There sat the Shadow fear'd of man." Many a time during these four years did Arthur Hallam visit Somersby. He took his degree at Cambridge in 1832 and at once entered as a student at one of the Inns of Court. The following lines from "In Memoriam," refer- ring to the Somersby garden, commemorate HaUam's frequent visits to his friend, more especially, it would seem, his last visit in 1833 : " How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, And shook to all the liberal air The dust and din and steam of town : He brought an eye for all he saw ; He mix'd in all our simple sports ; This pleased him, fresh from brawling courts. And dusty purlieus of the law. O joy to him in this retreat, Immantled in ambrosial dark. To drink the cooler air, and mark The landscape winking thro' the heat : , I XVlli TENNYSON'S LIFE. O somirt to V()ut the bro quickly as may be I shall take my readers to the little f^arish among the wolds which Tennyson has made im- lortal, — "The well -beloved jlace Where first he gazed upon tha sky." II' xxvi TBNNYSON*S LIFE. Horncastle. — From Mablethorpe I returned to Lincoln on August 11th, and thence took train for Horncastle, a market town ' ' in the circle of the hills " about 20 miles east. On my arrival in Horncastle I found the place crowded with visitors, and I was greeted with stares and smiles when I acknowledged that I had never heard of the famous Horncastle horse-fau', the largest in Lincolnshire, and at one time the largest in Britain. I soon found, to my cost, that the fair had drawn many dealers from long distances, for the accommodation of every hotel in the town was taxed to the utmost limit, and I was obliged to ask the genial proprietor of "The Bull" to secure me lodgings in a private house. Horncastle is only two leagues distant from Tennyson's early home, and it was the market-town to which some members of the Tennyson family frequently came to replen- ish the domestic larder. Many a time, in the early years of the century, did young Tennyson walk from his home to Horncastle, and it would be impossible even for himself to tell how largely these walks, solitary or not, have affected the thought and tinged the complexion of his poetic descriptions of natural scenery. In another very real way Horncastle has touched the life of Tennyson. After he had become the most noted poet in Britain— in the very year, in fact, in which he was appointed as Poet Laureate— at the age of forty-one, he married Emily Sellwood, the daughter of a Horncastle lawyer, and the niece of Sir John Franklin (born at the neighboring village or Spilsby). EmQy SeUwood, now Lady Tennyson, has had lier memory embalmed in more than one of her husband's poems. She is the ''Edith" of "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After." To her he TENNYSON'S LIFE. XXVU wrote from Edinburgh the poem, ' ' The Daisy, " beginning "O Love, what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm ai: ' southern pine. " She is also honored in that sweet dedication : "Dear, near, and true,— no truer Time himself Can prove you, tho' he make you evermore Dearer and nearer." Somersby. — Tuesday, August 12th, was to me a day of exquisite enjoyment. I set out alone in the morning from Horncastle to make .my way on foot to Somersby, Tenny- son's birthplace, six miles north-east. In the early part of my walk I met many farmers bringing in their fine- looking horses to be sold to foreign buyers and carried to all parts of England and the continent. I caught many a phrase from the passers-by that reminded me of the quaint dialect of "The Northern Farmer." These farmers were all, I take it, animated by the spirit of the farmer of the poem : " Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaay ? Proputty, proputty, proputty— that's what I 'ears 'em saay." Of all the passengers on the Horncastle road that day I alone was intent, not on the value of horses, but on the charms of poetry and of poetic associations. The road to Somersby is extremely rural ; — rural in a thoroughly English sense. It winds and turns and twists ■between the bordering hawthorn hedges, — some trim and neat, some wild and shaggy. At every bend of the road the landscape varies. Here a cosy cottage ; there a pic- turesque windmill ; here a wide stretch of pasture covered with thick-fleeced sheep ; there a distant hill wrapt in *blue-gray mist ; here a group of laborers cutting the ripe corn ; there a quiet woodland slope where grow the poet's [, trees in rich variety, the ash, the elm, the lime, the oak. xxviii TENNYSON'S LIFE. The many curves and turns in the road make it very difficult for a stranger to keep the right course. The finger-posts to be seen at every corner and cross-way are indispensable. I was forcibly struck with the fact that Somersby is a very insignificant place when at one cross- way I found the finger-boards filled with names, but could find no Somersby there. In my perplexity I sat dov^Ti and copied out the curious names on the boards which pointed in four directions : W (0 1 2. Tointon 1 t Salmonby Honicastle Tetford i f r I decided to follow the Tetford road which after a little distance bent almost backwards towards Horncastle, but which ultimately proved to be the right route for Somersby. What a silent land I found as I approached the end of my journey ! In the last three miles I saw only two per- sons. The only creatures in sight were hundreds on hundreds of sheep and cattle. Now Somersby is near at hand. The road turns down a steep incline and passes through a shady arbor. The branches of the trees that skirt the narrow way meet overhead and cast their tremulous shadows at your feet. TENNYSON'S LIFE. XXIX All is qniet but the faint rustling of the leaves, or the dis- tant clamor of the daws and rooks. You feel that you have reached an actual lotus-land — an enchanted realm. No longer does it seem strange that Tennyson composed, while walking along this Lincolnshire road the loveliest of his sea-lyrics, ' ' Break, break, break. " But it is no surge of the sea that is now heard in the distance. There is no mistaking that mus.ical tinkling, afonder is the bridge under which flows the brook with its haunting song of rippling waters that "come fiom haunts of coot and hern." The witchery of the brook's refrain, I hear it still : " I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars, 1 loiter round my cresses. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. " There is not such another brook in the worlCL as " Som- ersby Beck." Had it not found its way into the poetry of words its inimitable voice would still arrest the attention of the traveller, but the magic melody of the poet's words <8? XXX TENNYSON'S LIFE. i if IS '■•' have hallowed the sweet beck and heightened its attrac- tiveness, and though men may come and men may go the melodious brook will go on for ever singing through the sweet meadows of the poet's song. I am afraid to tell how long I sat on the grassy bank listening to the won- derful music of the gleeful rivulet. Nor will I own how often since that August day I have come under the irre- sistible spell of the brook. Almost withm sound of the brook is the hamlet of Som- ersby, inhabited by two-score simple old-world people. And yonder oa the right is the pretty white house where the Poet Lfiureate was born. It is a curious tile-covered house cosily situated in an ideal environment. It nestles among the trees, and before it is a beautiful lawn separ- ated from the public road by the holly hedge planted by Dr. Tennyson when the poet was a child. The house was the Rectory of the parish for nearly a hundred years, but the present rector, Rev. John Soper, has deserted the historic house and dw oils in the neighboring parish. x^nd this is the house where Tennyson spent his youth- ful prime and where he composed many of his chief works. As "In Memoriam " is the record of a soul-struggle fought out on this very ground, we may expect to find in that poem many local references. To this place often came Arthur Hallam "from brawling courts and dusty purlieus of the law" to drink the cooler air and mark " the land- scape winking through the heat." Here often he joined the rector's happy family "in dance and song and game and jest." To this place was brought the cruel news of Hallam's death which felled the poet's sister in a swoon and turned her orange-flowers to cypress. Here for many gloomy years the broken-hearted poet plied the ' ' sad me- TENNYSON'S LIFE. chanic exercise" of writing verse to soothe his restless heart and brain. Adjoining the birthplace of the poet, and partitioned from it by a row of trees is " The Moated Grange," with which all readers of Tennyson have become familiar in the sad lyric of "Mariana." It is a desolate looking place and a fit abode for the forlorn maiden who cried in her despair : " I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead." The Grange is interesting because of its connection with another of Tennyson's poems. The old house is the reputed residence of John Baumber, the Northern Farmer. In the country churchyard opposite I read the names of many Baumbers, that being the commonest name on the tombstones. The only other structure of interest in Somersby is the little church of which Tennyson's father was rector for many years. It is very small and very old. To the right of the porch is an ancient cross of the 14th century, bear- ing figures of the Virgin and the Crucifixion. Over the porch is a dial with the motto, "Time passeth," and the date 1751. The interior of the church is uninviting. The rough pews would seat about forty worshippers ; the pulpit in the corner is small and mean ; the windows that pierce the walls at irregular distances have been made at various times and are of different shapes {t^id sizes. The • ' cold baptismal font " in the rear calls up such dismal memories of the past that the visitor is glad to escape from the clammy, sickly air. In a conspicuous place in front of the church is seen the tombstone erected over the grave of Dr. Tennyson. The epitaph runs as follows : XXxii TENNYSON'S LIFE. TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. GEO. CLAYTON TENNYSON, LL-D., ELDEST SON OF <}KOU(lK TKNNYSON, ESQ., RECTOR OF THIS PARISH, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE ON THE 16th DAY OF MARCH, 18S1, AGED 62 YEAKB. When, a few years after the father'.s death, the Tenny- soTis departed from Somersby "to live within the strang- er's land " we hear a minor chord in the great memorial elegy sounding thus : " Our father's dust is left alone And silent under other snows : There in due time the woodbine blows, The violet comes but we are gone. " About a furlong beyond Somersby Church is one of the prettiest spots this dull old earth can show, — "Holywell Glen " : "Here are cool mosses deep, And through the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. " It is a wild romantic spot, — the favorite haunt, we may be sure, of the poet's boyhood. Trees of marv kinds — larch and spruce and ash and beech and sycanore — clothe the steep sides of a natural terrace that slopes down to the bottom of a gorge through which flows a limpid stream. This beautiful glen takes its name from a natu- ral well over which the stream courses. Long years ago, it is said, visitors came from far and near to taste of this ' ' holy well " and to enjoy its healing virtues. If the TENNYSON'S LIFE. zzxiii water of this well has no supernatviral merits, I can at least attest its superior quality, taking a draught of it, as I did, in my extremity of tliirst on a warm August after- noon. I had always clung to the ancient saying that poets are born, not made. My views are somewhat altered since I have seen the glories of Holywell Glen and all the enchant- ments of rustic Somersby. Here, if anywhere, nature could inspire the most sluggish spirit and put some music into the tamest heart. But I must leave this rustic nook and this quiet hamlet. As I leave Somersby behind and climb the hill on the road to Horncastle I recall those sad stanzas of "In Mem- oriam " in which Tennyson gives voice to his regret at leaving forever the home and the haunts of his young days : *' I climb the hill ; from end to end Of all the lanrtaeaiMj underneath, I find no place that does not breathe Some gvacioua memory of my friend. No gray old grange, or lonely fold, Or low moras8 and whispering reed, Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy wold ; Nor heavy knoll of ash and haw That hears the latest linnet r,rill, Nor quarry trenched along the hill, And haunted by the wrangling daw ; Nor runlet trickling from the rock ; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves To left and right thro' meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock ; But each has pleased a kindred eye. And each reflects a kindlier day ; And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more be s@ems to di^," I GERAINT AND ENID. O PURBLIND race of miserable men, How many among us at this very hour Do forge a life-long trouble for ourselves, By taking true for false, or false for true ; Here, thro' the feeble twilieht of this world Groping, how many, until we pass and reach That other, where we see as we are seen ! So fared it with Geraint, who issuing forth 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 I B GERAINT AND ENID. 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, GERAINT AND ENID, 3 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. And ever in her mind she cast about For that unnoticed failing in herself, Which made him look so cloudy and so cold ; Till the great plover's human whistle amazed Her heart, and glancing round the waste she fear'd In every wavering brake an ambuscade. Then thought again, * If there be such in me, I might amend it by the grace of Her^'en, If he would only speak and tell me of it.* But when the fourth part of the day was gone, Then Enid was aware of three tall knights On horseback, wholly arm'd, behind a rock In shadow, waiting for them, caitiffs all ; And heard one crying to his fellow, ' Look, Here comes a laggard hanging down his head. Who seems no bolder than a beaten hound ; Come, we will slay him and will have his horse And armour, and his damsel shall be ours.' GERAINT AND ENID. Then Enid ponder'd in her heart, and said : * I will go back a little to my lord, And I will tell him all their caitiff talk ; For, be he wroth even to slaying me. Far liefer by his dear hand had I die, Than that my lord should suffer loss or shame.' Then she went back some paces of return. Met his full frown timidly firm, and said ; ' My lord, I saw three bandits by the rock Waiting to fall on you, and heard them boast That they would slay you, and possess your horse And armour, and your damsel should be theirs.' He made a wrathful answer : * Did I wish Your warning or your silence ? one command I laid upon you, not to speak to me, And thus ye keep it ! Well then, look — for now. Whether ye wish me victory or defeat, Long for my life, or hunger for my death, Yourself shall see my vigour is not lost.' Then Enid waited pale and sorrowful. And down upon him bare the bandit three. And at the midmost charging, Prince Geraint Drave the long spear a cubit thro' his breast And out beyond ; and then against his brace GERAINT AND ENID, Of comrades, each of whom had broken on hhn A lance that splinter'd Hke an icicle, Swung from his brand a windy buffet out Once, twice, to right, to left, and stunn'd the twain Or slew them, and dismounting like a man That skins the wild beast after slaying him, Stript from the three dead wolves of woman born The three gay suits of armour which they wore, And let the bodies lie, but bound the suits Of armour on their horses, each on each. And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, * Drive them on Before you ;' and she drove them thro' the waste. 5 He follow'd nearer : ruth began to work Against his anger in him, while he watch'd The being he loved best in all the world. With difficulty in mild obedience Driving them on : he fain had spoken to her, And loosed in words of sudden fire the wrath And smoulder'd wrong that burnt him all within ; But evermore it seem'd an easier thing At once without remorse to strike her dead. Than to cry * Halt,' and to her own bright face Accuse her of the least immodesty : And thus tongue-tied, it made him wroth the more GERAINT AND ENID. That she could speak whom his own ear had heard Call herself false : and suffering thus he made Minutes an age : but in scarce longer time Than at Caerleon the full-tided Usk, Before he turn to fall seaward again, Pauses, did Enid, keeping watch, behold In the first shallow shade of a deep wood, Before a gloom of stubborn-shafted oaks. Three other horsemen waiting, wholly arm'd. Whereof one seem'd far larger than her lord. And shook her pulses, crying, * Look, a prize ! Three horses and three goodly suits of arms. And all in charge of whom ? a girl : set on.' 'Nay,' said the second, 'yonder comes a kx.ight' The third, ' A craven ; how he hangs his head.' The giant answer'd merrily, * Yea, but one ? Wait here, and when he passes fall upon him.' And Enid ponder'd in her heart and said, * I will abide the coming of my lord. And I will tell him all their villainy. My lord is weary with the fight before, And they will fall upon him unawares. I needs must disobey him for his good ; How should I dare obey him to his harm ? Needs must I speak, and tho' he kill me for it, I save a life dearer to me than mine.' GERAINT AND ENID, 5 And she abode his coming, and said to him With timid firmness, *Have I leave to speak?' He said, 'Ye take it, speaking,' and she spoke. * There lurk three villains yonder in the wood, And each of them is wholly arm'd, and one Is larger-limb'd than you are, and they say That they will fall upon you while ye pass.' To which he flung a wrathful answer back : * And if there were an hundred in the wood, And every man were larger-limb'd than I, And all at once should sally out upon me, I swear it would not ruffle me so much As you that not obey me. Stand aside, And if I fall, cleave to the better man.' And Enid stood aside to wait the event. Not dare to watch the combat, only breathe Short fits of prayer, at every stroke a breath. And he, she dreaded most, bare down upon him. Aim'd at the helm, his lance err'd ; but Geraint's, A little in the late encounter strain'd, Struck thro' the bulky ba^.dit's corselet home. And then Drake short, and down his enemy roU'd, And there lay still ; as he that tells the tale Saw once a great piece of a promontory, 8 GERAINT AND ENID. That had a sapling growing on it, slide From the long shore-cliff's windy walls to the beach, And there lie still, and yet the sapling grew : So lay the man transfixt. His craven pair Of comrades making slowlier at the Prince, When now they saw their bulwark fallen, stood ; On whom the victor, to confound them more, Spurr'd with his terrible war-cry ; for as one, That listens near a torrent mountain-brook, All thro' the crash of the near cataract hears The drumming thunder of the huger fall At distance, were the soldiers wont to hear His voice in battle, and be kindled by it. And foemen scared, like that false pair who turn'd Flying, but, overtaken, died the death Themselves had wrought on many an innocent. Thereon Geraint, dismounting, pick'd the lance That pleased him best, and drew from those dead wolves Their three gay suits of armour, each from each, And bound them on their horses, each on each, And tied the bridle-reins of all the three Together, and said to her, ' Drive them on Before you,' and she drove them thro' the wood. He follow'd nearer still : the pain she had GERAINT AND ENID. 9 To keep them in the wild ways of the wood, Two sets of three laden with jingling arms, Together, served a little to disedge The sharpness of that pain about her heart : And they themselves, like creatures gently born But into bad hands fall'n, and now so long By bandits groom'd, prick'd their light ears, and felt Her low firm voice and tender government. So thro* the green gloom of the wood they past, And issuing under open heavens beheld ' A little town with towers, upon a rock. And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it : And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers : and Geraint Had ruth again on Enid looking pale : Then, moving downward to the meadow ground. He, when the fair-hair'd youth came by him, said, ' Friend, let her eat ; the damsel is so faint.' 'Ye^, willingly,' replied the youth; 'and thou. My lord, eat also, tho' the fare is coarse. And only meet for mowers ; ' then set down His basket, and dismounting on the sward They let the horses graze, and ate themselves. 10 CERAINT AND ENID. And Enid took a little delicately, Less having stomach for it than desire To close with her lord's pleasure ; but Geraint Ate all the mowers' victual unawares, And when he found all empty, was amazed ; And * Boy,' said he, ' I have eaten all, but take A horse and arms for guerdon ; choose the best.* He, reddening in extremity of delight, 'My lord, you overpay me fifty-fold.' 'Ye will be all the wealthier,' cried the Prince. ' I take it as free gift, then,' said the boy, * Not guerdon ; for myself can easily, - While your good damsel rests, return, and fetch Fresh victual for these mowers of our Earl ; For these are his, and all the field is his. And I myself am his ; and I will tell him How great a man thou art : he loves to know When men of mark are in his territory : And he will have thee to his palace here, And serve thee costlier than with mowers' fare.' Then said Geraint, ' I wish no better fare : 1 never ate with angrier appetite Than when I left your mowers dinnerless. And into no Earl's palace will I go. I know, God knows, too much of palaces ! And if he want me, let him come to me. CERAINT AND ENID, n But hire us some fair chamber for the night, And stalling for the horses, and return With victual for these men, and let us know/ * Yea, my kind lord,' said the glad youth, and went. Held his head high, and thought himself a knight, And up the rocky pathway disappear'd, Leading the horse, and they were left alone. But when the Prince had brought his errant eyes Home from the rock, sideways he let them glance At Enid, where she droopt : his own false doom, That shadow of mistrust should never cross Betwixt them, came upon him, and he sigh'd ; Then with another humorous ruth lemark'd The lusty mowers labouring dinnerless, And watch'd the sun blaze on the turning scythe, And after nodded sleepily in the heat But she, remembering her old ruin'd hall, . And all the windy clamour of the daws About her hollow turret, pluck'd the grass There growing longest by the meadow's edge. And into many a listless annulet. Now over, now beneath her marriage ring. Wove and unwove it, till the boy return'd And told them of a chamber, and they went ; Where, after saying to her, * If ye will. 12 GERAINT AND ENID. Call for the woman of the house,' to which She answer'd, * Thanks, my lord ; * the two remain'd Apart by all the chamber's width, and mute As creatures voiceless thro' the fault of birth, Or two wild men supporters of a shield, Painted, who stare at open space, nor glance The one at other, parted by the shield. On a sudden, many a voice along the street, And heel against the pavement echoing, burst Their drowse ; and either started while the door, Push'd from without, drave backward to the wall. And midmost of a rout of roisterers, Femininely fair and dissolutely pale, Her suitor in old years before Geraint, Enter'd, the wild lord of the place, Limours. He moving up with pliant courtliness, Greeted Geraint full face, but stealthily, In the mid-warmth of welcome and graspt hand, Found Enid with the corner of his eye. And knew her sitting sad and solitary. Then cried Geraint for wine and goodly cheer To feed the sudden guest, and sumptuously According to his fashion, bad the host Call in what men soever were his friends. And feast with these in honour of their Earl ; 'And care not for the cost; the cost is mine.' \ GERAINT AND ENID. U And wine and food were brought, and Earl Limours Drank till he jested with all ease, and told Free tales, and took the word and play'd upon it, And made it of two colours ; for his talk, . When wine and free companions kindled him, Was wont to glance and sparkle like a gem Of fifty facets ; thus he moved the Prince To laughter and his comrades to applause. Then, when the Prince was merry, ask'd Limours, * Your leave, my lord, to cross the room, and speak To your good damsel there who sits apart. And seems so lonely ?' ' My free leave,' he said ; ' Get her to speak : she doth not speak to me.' Then rose Limours, and looking at his feet, Like him who tries the bridge 'le fears may fail, Crost and came near, lifted adoring eyes, Bow'd at her side and utter'd whisperingly : * 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. 14 GERAINT AND ENID. 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 sp ik 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 the vi laughable in all eves. 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. Your beauty is no beauty to him now : A common chance— right vi -11 I know it— pall'd— For I know men : nor will ye win iiim back, For the man's love once gone never leturns. But here is one who loves you as of old ; With more exceeding passion than of old : Good, speak the word : my followers ring him round : He sits unarm'd ; I hold a finger up ; They understand : nay ; I do not mean blood : Nor need ye look so scared at what 1 say : My malice is no deeper than a moat, GERAINT AND ENID. 15 No stronger than a wall : there i? the keep ; He shall not cross us more ; speak but the word : Or speak it not ; but then by Him that made me The one true lover whom you ever own'd, I will make use of all the power I have. O pardon me ! the madnesr of that hour, When first I parted from thee, moves me yet.' At this the tender sound of his own voice And sweet self-pity, or the fancy of it, Made his eye moist ; but Enid fear'd his eyes, Moist as they were, wine-heated from the feast ; And answer'd with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance That breaks upon them perilously, and said : h '• Earl, if you love me as in former years, And do not practise on me, come with morn. And snatch me from him as by violence ; Leave me to-night : I am weary to the death.' Low at leave-taking, with his brandish'd plume Brushing his instep, bow'd the all-amorous Earl, And the stout Prince bad him a loud good-night. He moving homeward babbled to his men, How Enid never loved a man but him, Nor cared a broken egg-shell for her lord. i6 GERAINT AND ENID. But Enid left alone with Prince Geraint, Debating his command of silence given, And that she now perforce must violate it, Held commune with herself, and while she held He fell asleep, and Enid had no heart To wake him, but hung o'er him, wholly pleased To find him yet unwounded after fight, And hear him breathing low and equally. Anon she rose, and stepping lightly, heap'd The pieces of his armour in one place. All to be there against a sudden need ; Then dozed awhile herself, but overtoil'd By that day's grief and travel, evermore Seem'd catching at a rootless thorn, and then Went slipping down horrible precipices, And strongly striking out her lirnbs awoke ; Then thought i>he heard the wild Earl at the door, With all his rout of random followers, Sound on a dreadful trumpet, summoning her ; Which was the red cock shouting to the light. As the gray dawn stole o'er the dewy world, And glimmer'd on his armour in the room. And once again she rose to look at it. But touch'd it unawares : jangling, the casque Fell, and he started up and stared at her. Then breaking his command of silence given, She told him all that Earl Limours had said, X I < GERAINT AND ENID, 17 Except the passage that he loved her not ; Nor left untold the craft herself had used ; ^ But ended with apology so sweet, I.ow-spoken, and of so few words, and seem'd So justified by that necessity. That tho' he thought * was it for him she wept In Devon ?' he but gave a wrathful groan, Saying, * Your sweet faces make good fellows fools And traitors. Call the host and bid him bring Charger and palfrey.' So she glided out Among the heavy breathings of the house, And like a household Spirit at the walls Beat, till she woke the sleepers, and return'd : Then tending her rough lord, tho' all unask'd. In silence, did him service as a squire ; Till issuing arm'd he found the host and cried, *Thy reckoning, friend?' and ere he learnt it, * Take Five horses and their armours ; ' and the host Suddenly honest, answer'd in amaze, * My lord, I scarce have spent the worth of one !' *Ye will be all the wealthier,' said the Prince, And then to Enid, * Forward ! and to-day I charge you, Enid, more especially, What thing soever ye may hear, or see, Or fancy (tho' I count it of small use To charge you) that ye speak not but obey.' I c y>. 1/4 V^, iS GERAIJStT AND ENID. And Enid answer'd, ' Vea, my lord, I know Your wish, and would obey ; but riding first, I hear the violent threats you do not hear, I see the danger which you cannot see : Then not to give you warning, that seems hard ; Almost beyond me : yet I would obey.* * Yea so,' said he, *do it : be not too wise; Seeing that ye are wedded to a m. n. Not all mismated with a yawning clown, But one with arms to guard his head and yours, With eyes to find you out however far, And ears to hear you even in his dreams.' With that he turn'd and look'd as keenly at her As careful robins eye the delver's toil ; And that within her, which a wanton fool. Or hasty judger would have call'd her guilt, Made her cheek burn and either eyelid fall. And Geraint look'd and was not satisfied. Then forward by a way which, beaten broad. Led from the territory of false Limours To the waste earldom of another earl, Doorm, whom his shaking vassals call'd the Bull, Went Enid with her sullen follower on. Once she look'd back, and when she saw him ride I GERAINT AND ENID. '9 . C<^'V-»<"*' / pt-'/»'^-'tXv *, vv» •' - — -» ' / "~ ./,. But at the flash and motion of the man ocvtii - \A. cr. 20 GERAINT AND ENID, m They vanish'd panic-stricken, like a shoal Of darting fish, that on a summer morn ^ -j^i^ Adown the crystal dykes at Camelot ^ -'^^''^f - Come slipping o'er their shadows on the sand, But if a man who stands upon the brink But lift a shining hand against the sun, There is not left the twinkle of a fin ^ Betwixt the cressy islets white in flower ;kc>/^^>'^^'^^;^'^^ So, F'^ared but at the motion of the man. Flea all the boon companions of the Earl, And left him lying in the public way ; So vanish friendships only made in wine. ■( V. -.i Then like a stormy sunlight smiled Geraint, Who saw the chargers of the two that fell Start from their fallen lords, and wildly fly, Mixt with the flyeis. * Horse and man,' he said, * All of one mind and all right-honest friends ! Not a hoof left : and I methinks till now Was honest — paid with horses and with arms ; I cannot steal or plunder, no nor beg : And so what say ye, shall we strip him there Your lover ? has your palfrey heart enough To bear his armour ? shall we fast, or dine ? No ? — then do thou, being right honest, pray That we may meet the horsemen of Earl Doorm, I too would still be honest.' Thus he said : GERAINT AND ENID. And sadly gazing on her bridle-reins, And answering not one word, she led the way. 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. 21 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, 22 GERAINT AND ENID, She rested, and her desolation came Upon her, and she wept beside the way. And many past, but none regarded her, For in that realm of lawless turbulence, A woman weeping for her murder'd mate Was cared as much for as a summer shower : One took him for a victim of Earl Doorm, Nor dared to waste a perilous pity on him : Another hurrying past, a man-at-arms, Rode on a mission to the bandit Earl ; Half whistling and half singing a coarse song, . He drove the dust against her veilless eyes : Another, flying from the wrath of Doorm Before an ever-fancied arrow, made The long vjay smoke beneath him in his fear ; At which her palfrey whinnying lifted heel, And scour'd into the coppices and was lost. While the great charger stood, grieved like a man. But at the point of noon the huge Earl Doorm, Broad-faced with under-fringe of russet beard, Bound on a foray, rolling eyes of prey. Came riding with a hundred lances up ; But ere he came, like one that hails a ship. Cried out with a big voice, 'What, is he dead?' *No, no, not dead !' she answer'd in all haste. GERAINT AND ENID, * Would some of your kind people take him up, And bear him hence out of this cruel sun ? Most sure am I, quite sure, he is not dead.' 23 Then said Earl Doorm : * Well, if he be not dead, Why wail ye for him thus ? ye seem a child. And be he dead, I count you for a fool ; Your wailing will not quicken him : dead or not. Ye mar a comely face with idiot tears. Yet, since the face is comely — some of you, Here, take him up, and bear him to our hall : An if he live, we will have him of our band ; And if he die, why earth has earth enough To hide him. See ye take the charger too, A noble oi\e.' He spake, and past away. But left two brawny spearmen, who advanced, Each growling like a dog, when his good bone Seems to be pluck'd at by the village boys Who love to vex him eating, and he fears To lose his bone, and lays his foot upon it, Gnawing and growling ; £o the ruffians growl'd. Fearing to lose, and all for a dead man. Their chance of booty from the morning's raid, Yet raised and laid him on a liUer-bier, Such as they brought upon their forays out 24 CERAINT AND ENID, For those that might be wounded ; laid him on it All in the hollow of his shield, and took And bore him to the naked hall of Doorm, (His gentle charger following him unled) And cast him and the bier in which he lay Down on an oaken settle in the hall, And then departed, hot in haste to join Their luckier mates, but growling as before, And cursing their lost time, and the dead man. And their own Earl, and their own souls, and her. They might as well have blest her : she was deaf To blessing or to cursing save from one. So for long hou'S 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.' j| But in the falling afternoon return'd The huge Earl Doorm with plunder to the hall. GERAINT AND ENID. 25 His lusty spearmen folio w'd him with noise : Each hurling down a heap of things that rang Against the 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 n.any 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 roU'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 26 GERAINT AND ENID. 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.* He spoke : the brawny spearman let his cheek Bulge with the unswallow'd piece, and turning stared ; While some, whose souls the old serpent long had drawn Down, as the worm draws in the wither'd leaf And makes it CcUth, hiss'd each at other's ear What shall not be recorded — women they, Women, or what had been those gracious things. But now desired the humbling of their best. Yea, would have help'd him to it : and all at once They hated her, who took no thought of them, But answer'd in low voice, her meek head yet Drooping, * I pray you of your courtesy. He being as he is, to let me be.* She spake so low he hardly heard her speak. But like a mighty patron, satisfied GERAINT AND ENID. 27 With what himself had done so graciously, Assumed that she had thank'd him, adding, 'Yea, Eat and be glad, for I account you mine/ She answer'd meekly, * How should I be glad Henceforth in all the 'vorld at anything, Until my lord arise and look upon me ?' Here the huge Earl cried out upon her talk. As all but empty heart and weariness And sickly nothing ; suddenly seized on her, And bare her by main violence to the board, And thrust the dish before her, crying, * Eat.' * No, no,' said Enid, vext, * I will not eat Till yonder man upon the bier arise. And eat with me.' * Drink, then,' he answer'd. ' Here ! ' (And fill'd a horn with wine and held it to her,) * Lo ! I, myself, when flush'd with fight, or hot, God's cur: e, with anger — often I myself. Before I w ^U have drunken, scarce can eat : Drink thereibre and the wine will change your will' * Not so,* she cried, * by Heaven, I will not drink Till my dear lord arise and bid me do it. And drink with me ; and if he rise no more, I will not look at wine until I die.' 28 GERAINT AND ENID. At this he turn'd all red and paced his hall, Now gnaw'd his under, now his upper lip. And coming up close to her, said at last : * Girl, for I see ye scorn my courtesies, Take warning : yonder man is surely dead ; And I compel all creatures to my will. Not eat nor drink ? And wherefore wail for one, Who put your beauty to this flout and scorn By dressing it in rags ? Amazed am I, Beholding how ye butt against my wish, That I forbear you thus : cross me no more. At least put off to please mc this i)oor gown. This silken rag, this beggar-woman's weed : I love that beauty should go beautifully : For see ye not my gentlewomen here, How gay, how suited to the house of one Who loves that beauty should go beautifully ? Rise therefore ; robe yourself in this : obey.* He spoke, and one among his gentlewomen fJisplay'd a splendid silk of foreign loom. Where like a shoaling sea the lovely blue riay'd into green, and thicker down the front With jewels than the sward with drops of dew. When all night long a cloud clings to the hill. And with the dawn ascending lets the day Strike where it clung : so thickly shone the gems. CERAINT AND ENID. But Enid answer'd, harder to be moved Than hardest tyrants in their day of power, With life-long injuries burning unavenged, And now their hour has come \ and Enid said : 29 * In this poor gown my dear lord found me first, And loved me serving in my father's hall : In this poor gown I rode with him to court, And there the Queen array'd me like the sun : In this poor gown he bad me clothe myself, When now we rode upon this fatal quest Of honour, where no honour can be gain'd : And this poor gown I will not cast aside Until himself arise a living man. And bid me cast it. I have griefs enough : Pray you be gentle, pray you let me be : I never loved, can never love but him : Yea, God, I pray you of your gentleness, He being as he is, to let me be/ 1 Then strode the brute Earl up and down his hall. And took his russet beard between his teeth ; Last, coming up quite close, and in his mood Crying, * I count it of no more avail. Dame, to be gentle than ungentle with you ; Take my salute,' unknightly with flat hand. However lightly, smote her on the cheek. 30 GEJiAINT AND ENID. Then Enid, in her utter helplessness, And since she thought, * He had not dared to do it, Except he surely knew my lord was dead,' Sent forth a sudden sharp and bitter cry, As of a wild thing taken in the trap, Which sees the trapper coming thro' the wood. 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 roU'd on the floor. So died Earl Ducrni 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 : m 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 : GERAINT AND ENID, 31 I do believe yourself against yourself, And will henceforward rather die than doubt.' And Enid could not say one tender word, She felt so blunt and stupid at the heart : She only pray'd him, * Fly, they will return And slay you ; fly, your charger is without, My palfrey lost' *Then, Enid, shall you ride Behind me.' 'Yea,' said Enid, Met us go.' And moving out they found the stately horse. Who now no more a vassal to the thief. But free to stretch his limbs in lawful fight, Neigh'd with all gladness as they came, and stoop'd With a low whinny toward the pair : and she Kiss'd the white star upon his noble front, Glad also ; then Geraint upon the horse Mounted, and reach'd a hand, and on his foot She set her own and climb'd ; he turn'd his face And kiss'd her climbing, and she cast her arms About him, and at once they rode away. And never yet, since high in Paradise O'er the four rivers the first roses blew. Came purer pleasure unto mortal kind Than lived thro' her, who in that perilous hour Put hand to hand beneath her husband's heart. And felt him hers again : she did not weep, 32 GERAINT AND ENID. But o'er her meek eyes came a happy mist Like that which kept the heart of Eden green Before the useful trouble of the rain : Yet not so misty were her meek blue eyes As not to see before them on the path, Right in the gateway of the bandit hold, A knight of Arthur's court, who laid his lance In rest, and made as if to fall upon him. Then, fearing far his hurt and loss of blood. She, with her mind all full of what had chanced, Shriek'd to the stranger * Slay not a dead man ! ' *The voice of Enid,' said the knight; but she. Beholding it was Edyrn son of Nudd, Was moved so much the more, and shriek'd again, *0 cousin, slay not him who gave you life.' And Edyrn moving frankly forward spake : * My lord Geraint, I greet you with all love ; I took you for a bandit knight of Doorm ; And fear not, Enid, I should fall upon him. Who love you, Prince, with something of the love Wherewith we love the Heaven that chastens us. For once, when I was up so high in pride That I was halfway down the slope to Hell, By overthrowing me you threw me higher. Now, made a knight of Arthur's Table Round And since I knew this Earl, when I myself Was half a bandit in my lawless hour. GERAINT AND ENID. 33 I come the mouthpiece of our King to Doorm (The King is close behind me) bidding him Disband himself, and scatter all his powers, Submit, and hear the judgment of the King.' * He hears the judgment of the King of kings,' Cried the wan Prince; 'and lo, the powers of Doorm Are scatter'd,' and he pointed to the field, Where, huddled here and there on mound and knoll, Were men and women staring and aj^'^ast. While some yet fled ; and then he plainlier told How the huge Earl lay slain within his hall. But when the knight besought him, * Follow me, Prince, to the camp, and in the King's own ear Speak what has chanced ; ye surely have endured Strange chances here alone ;' that other flush'd And hung his head, and halted in reply. Fearing the mild face of the blameless King, And after madness acted question ask'd : Till Edyrn crying, ' If ye will not go To Arthur, then will Arthur come to you,' 'Enough,' he said, 'I follow,' and they went. But Enid in their going had two fears, One from the bandit scatter'd in the field, And one from Edyrn. Every now and then, When Edyrn rein'd his charger at her side, I D f!i 'i)t 34 GERAINT AND ENID. She shrank a little. In a hollow land, From which old fires have broken, men may fear Fresh fire and ruin. He, perceiving, said : * Fair and dear cousin, you that most had cause To fear me, fear no longer, I am changed. Yorrself were first the blameless cause to make My nature's prideful sparkle in the blood Break into furious flame j being repulsed By Yniol and yourself, I schemed and wrought Until I overturn'd him ; then set up (With one main purpose ever at my heart) My haughty jousts, and took a paramour ; Did her mock-honour as the fairest fair, And, toppling over all antagonism. So wax'd in pride, that I believed myself Unconquerable, for I was wellnigh mad : And, but for my main purpose in these jousts, I should have slain your father, seized yourself. I lived in hope that sometime you would come To these my lists with him whom best you loved ; And there, poor cousin, with your meek blue eyes, The truest eyes that ever answer'd Heaven, Behold me overturn and trample on him. Then, had you cried, or knelt, or pray'd to me, I should not less have kill'd him. And you came, — But once you came, — and with your own true eyes CERAJNT AND ENID. 35 ar lUSC d; yes, II -> lyes Beheld the man you loved (I speak as one Speaks of a service done him) overthrow My proud self, and my purpose three years old. And set his foot upon me, and give me life. There was I broken down ; there was I saved : Tho' thence I rode all-shamed, hating the life He gave me, meaning to be rid of it. And all the penance the Queen laid upon me Was but to rest awhile within her court ; Where first as sullen as a beast new-caged. And waiting to be treated like a wolf, Because I knew my deeds were known, I found, Instead of scornful pity or pure scorn, Such fine reserve and noble reticence, Manners so kind, yet stately, such a grace Of tenderest courtesy, that I began To glance behind me at my former life, And find that it had been the wolf's indeed : And oft I talk'd with Dubric, the high saint. Who, with mild heat of holy oratory, Subdued me somewhat to that gentleness, Which, when it weds with manhood, makes a maa And you were often there about the Queen, But saw me not, or mark'd not if you saw ; Nor did I care or dare to speak with you. But kept myself aloof till I was changed ; And fear not, cousin ; I am changed indeed.' 36 GERAINT AND ENID. He spoke, and Enid easily believed, Like simple noble natures, credulous Of what they long for, good in friend or foe. There most in those who most have done them ill. And when they reach'd the camp the King himself Advanced to greet them, and beholding her Tho' pale, yet happy, ask'd her nol a word, But went apart with Edyrn, whom he held In c< nverse for a little, a^ \ xr m'd, And, gravely smiling, liftea her f im horse, And kiss'd her with all pureness, bi-Jier-like, And show'd an empty tent allotted her, And glancing for a minute, till he saw her Pass into it, turn'd to the Prince, and said : xy * Prince, when of late ye pray'd me for my leave To move to your own land, and there defend Your marches, I was prick'd with some reproof, As one that let foul wrong stagnate and be. By having look'd too much thro' alien eyes. And wrought too long with delegated hands. Not used mine own : but now behold me come To cleanse this common sewer of all my realm, With Edyrn and with others : have ye look'd At Edyrn ? have ye seen how nobly changed ? This work of his is great and wonderful. His very face with change of heart is changed. ii m ill. mself leave k GERAINT AND EfiW. The_world will not believe a man repents : A nd this w ise world of ours is mainly right. Full seldom doth a man repent, or use Bothj;race and will to pick the vicious quitch Of blood and custom wholly out of him, And make all clean, and plant himself afresh. Edyrn has done it, weeding all his heart As I will weed this land before 1 go. I, therefore, made him of our Table Round, Not rashly, but have proved him everyway One of our noblest, our most valorous. Sanest and most obedient : and indeed This work of Edyrn wrought upon himself After a life of violence, seems to me A thousand-fold more great and wonderful Than if some knight of mine, risking his life. My subject with my subjects under him. Should make an onslaught single on a realm Of robbers, tho' he slew them one by one. And were himself nigh wounded to the death.' 37 e So spake the King ; low bow'd the Prince, and felt His work was neither great nor wonderful, And past to Enid's tent ; and thither came The King's own leech to look into his hurt ; And Enid tended on him there ; and there 38 GERAINT AND ENID. Her constant motion round him, and the breath Of her sweet tendance hovering over him, Fill'd all the genial courses of his blood With deeper and with ever deeper love, As the south-west that blowing Bala lake Fills all the sacred Dee. So past the days. But while Geraint lay healing of his hurt, The blameless King went forth and cast his eyes On each of all whom Uther left in charge Long since, to guard the justice of the King : He look'd and found them wanting ; and as now Men weed the white horse on the Berkshire hills To keep him bright and clean as heretofore, He rooted out the slothful officer Or guilty, which for bribe had wink'd at wrong, And in their chairs set up a stronger race With hearts and hands, and sent a thousand men To till the wastes, and moving everywhere Clear'd the dark places and let in the law, And broke the bandit holds and cleansed the land. \ Then, when Geraint was whole again, they past With Arthur to Caerleon upon Usk. There the great Queen once more embraced her friend, And clothed her in apparel like the day. GERAINT AND ENID. 39 es ow lis len and. past her And tho' Geraint could never take again That comfort from their converse which he took Before the Queen's fair name was breathed upon, He rested well content that all was well. Thence after tarrying for a space they rode, And fifty knights rode with them to the shores Of Severn, and they past to their own land. And there he kept the justice of the King So vigorously yet mildly, that all hearts Applauded, and the spiteful whisper died : And being ever foremost in the chase. And victor at the tilt and tournament. They call'd him the great Prince and man of men. But Enid, whom her ladies loved to call Enid the Fair, a grateful people named Enid the Good ; and in their halls arose The cry of children, Enids and Geraints Of times to be ; nor did he doubt her more, But rested in her fealty, till he crown'd A happy life with a fair death, and fell Against the heathen of the Northern Sea In battle, fighting for the blameless King. THE MAY QUEEN You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow 'ill 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. There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. a I sleep so sound all nighl, mother,, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break : THE MA V QUEEN. 41 But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 9 As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. ■ * \ He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. -er to They say he's dyinf^ all for love, but that can never be : They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? 42 THE MA V QUEEN. There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer (lay, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And 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 hapi7 stars above them seem to brighten as they |>ass; THE MA V QUEEN, 43 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. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'l to bf" Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest merriest day. For 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. To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a merry day ; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May ; NE W- YEAR 'S E VE. 45 And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tali white" chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the pane : I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook '11 caw from t* e windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallov 'ill come back again with summer o er the wave, t But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. >>-a- Upon the chanc ^1-casement, and upon that grave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine. Before the red cock crows from the fiirm upon the hill. When you arc warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. 46 NEW-YEAR'S EVE. When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll neve** vC Ane more in the long gray fields at When froni the dry dark wold the summer airs blow ^^xJ-l^ ■ 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. I have been wild and wayward, but you'll n/ri^ixe me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another chiia. NEW-YEAR'S EVE. CtfTO <'^xXl^ 47 If I : ., » ill come again, mother, from out my resting- place ; Tho' you'll not see mc, mother, 1 shall look upon your face ; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Goodnight, goodnight, when I have said goodnight for evermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green : She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor : Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden more : But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette. Goodnight, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. ^ ^ CONCLUSION. < uwv*^. 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. \ O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise. And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as haiu to stay, and yet His will be done ! But still I think it Cur; t be lon^ before I find release; And that good man, the clcrgy^isan, has told me words of peace. CONCLUSION. 49 O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head' 1 A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in : Nor would I now be well, mother, again if that could be, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. rs I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- watch beat. There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet : But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March -morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; I ■ 5Q CONCLUSION, The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March -morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign d. And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. \ I thought that it was fancy, and I listen 'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And uj) the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; and T said, * It's not for them : it's mine.' And if it come three times, ] thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and dose beside the window- bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. CONCLUSION. 5» So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Efifie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many a worthier than I, would make him hapi^y yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell— I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — 52 . CONCLUSION. 1 For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home — And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. i^ (^ u. e e» 9^ y. \. < <~ ) J. i . (^ u. ' tjc^ cK-^j. L / 'PL * / , ^ \Zi.-^ \) ~^, (. / 1' V I ^'' "^ .. /> u >- / d^- u:icx6^^.-<:^6>c C ccXmLc ^^i,k v^ r' LOCKSLEY HALL i (V. 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 cur- *"ft . lews call, \p>''T)reary gleams about the moorland flying over Locks- ley 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. .%^ ^^'k* ^r^y^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^^ ^/ A > 4^ fl^ n.^^ fe ^ <' ^- 1.0 I.I ^ ^ |2.2 IL25 i 1.4 m — 6' ^% / ^-^ '^' '/ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRKIT WIBSTM.N.Y. MSM (71ft) •73-4S03 ^ iV ^ \ :\ 54 LOCKSLEY HALL. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, - ^t^t^u^" 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 : y 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. 4 I / id. LOCKS LEY HALL. 55 ^ ;^- Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute obser- vance hung. And I said, ' My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me. Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee.' On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour arid alight, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs — • All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes — V Saying, ' I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong ; ' Saying, * Dost thou love me, cousin ? ' weeping, * I have loved thee long.' Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands ; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 56 LOCKSLEY HALL. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might ; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. ^ Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the \J copses ring, ri^^c^l^ <^^ ,,,.n. ;>v. And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring, v^u. i^^s^-^"^ Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. ! O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my Amy, mine no more ! O the dreary, dreary moorland ! O the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung. Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue ! Is it well to wish thee happy ? — having known me — ,v to decline ^nvi?( ciy/..\. ^. ^■' ' On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine 1 7^ / H 7^ Yet it skall be : thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. As the husband is, the wife is : thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of hir nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this ? his eyes are heavy : think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him : it is thy duty : kiss him : take his hand in thine. It may be rny lord is weary, that his brain is over- wrought : Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy I'ghter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to under- stand — Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand ! V VSsS'-' i^ LOCKSLEY HALL. *4 X ^ "^J ^Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, y :ji> "Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! y??^:^/t/ Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest ty Nature's rule ! d be the gc of the fool Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead •'> * '^" ' Well — 'tis well that I should bluster ! — Hadst thou less unworthy proved— Would to G( d — for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit ? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at theroot. tj u^M- Never,!^ tha rny '" nioKal summers to such length of ^ years should come > -^-"ty^- ^^l ^^ Axx^'^i ut ot. of ng Where is comfort ? in division of the records of the mind ? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perish'd : sweetly did she speak and move : Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore ? No — she never loved me truly : love is love for ever- more. jr%/^ 'J -^s-vj 4 Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this is truth the poet sings, ^ - "' '^ That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. V ^ V 60 LOCKSLEY HALL. ^ Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the * Never, never,' whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears ; " ' ^'*^ , And an eye^ shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow : get thee to ^\\^ rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thme ; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down : my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. '/ .t. t. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his : it will be worthy of the two. s it S -- / > '; .«. V. ■J ^f " LOCKSLEY HALL. 6i O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, >A^--^-^^^ With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. j^-\JJ^'~i *c »>. <-*•' ' / « ^.(^ h^ * They were dangerous guides the feelings — she her- self was not exempt — ^'"'- '-''•■ Truly, she herself had suffer'd '—Perish in thy self- u contempt ! 1 A Overlive it — lower yet — be happy ! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these ? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets /'>'»^ ' _ , overflow. '^'^ ^->^^- ^ ,. .^ <>'^ //I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do ? % 1' uAo^' I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, . ', ir^ h/O^ wi <^^^\ ^0^ /j- 'U^m^ ^ When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound, f^ '^<^'-<^ <- > ) 4rr~— I-C .<:.k J i_- 1 ) U' X. /l. ,..- 62 LOCKSLEY HALL. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but r "^live in sadness ? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age ! --^-^ " '^'T^ "' Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life ; A. ^ Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, '" - y Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, * 1 V . .--• And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, f^K^y ^ y%C< o - Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men : ^'1^' t^^'^* > 'r3^ fy ^^ Vi LOCKSLEY HALL. 63 ;: - Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new : i That which they have done but earnest of the things/ that they shall do : ^^ /-'H^ ^^< ^<-^^vtVM>< ^ ■ (c>-' \ li'S t*^ *? For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, I '^^ ^ Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be ; /i V. - 4c*A t ^^yii^ Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; '^/ Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew N; From the nations' airy nTivies grappling in the central blue ; > Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind j^a^JJ^- rushing warm, f t-i( tr^-^-f ^t«<,wf; /- ^*^^ - . With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle- flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. V 64 LOCK'S LEY HALL. ■K There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful 3« ^■^ i ^^» xXy^ realm in awe, C^ f^f^"^ And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. \ -- i. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry. Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye ; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly slowly, creeping on from point to point : Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion creeping nigher. Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly- dying fire, r .^ ^ . . « vj . 'J ' Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. ^ / *"' J ^ ^ i What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youth- ^Ijoys, ^^^. >>^. ,^^^, , > /, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's ? '.pj'\ ■ oUX f'. - > J i if^^..i- i. ;. >f « ■' f'' f-- ^ h^ / u ■■ < k-t^. ■ : ' >y\r{jU.. <^*-^- J'V^rs.^ nJ t I -t ..^t y'y n. Ij LOCKSLEY HALL, ' 65 f Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger ^^:■t/^^>^ 'he shore, - ^^^r ^ ^-f^ --^ -" And the individual withers, an<.^ the world is more .md more. L r t . / vvc^*. ^» ■ k.-- ">-C|st t^ Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and jifi. bears a Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of laden breast. / ' his rest. L;U^ f\ ^•'ul'v ■- U-v^' ')^' Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn : ^ ^^i^.ciAj,y^ Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string ? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's pleasure, woman's pain — ' -^ <- Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain : 'Si, ■ :f- Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine — I F 66 LOCKSLEY HALL. ' ^ A Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. ^Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat ; . A\niere in wild Mahratta- battle fell my father evil- starr'd ; — I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burf=t all links of habit — there to wander far On frm >^'' 1 unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, ^"^ Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster^ knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, * swings the trailer from the crag ; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy- fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. LOCKSLEY HALL, 67 There methinVs would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall '-un, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances ' in the sun; ^^j^'^ ^^ ^'^^ '-'^-^ Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books — Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I knoiv my words are wild, . / ,C/ But 1 count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian ^"^'^' child. / I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains ! 68 LOCKSLEY HALL. Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or clime ? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of tmie- 6 J t \\ J I \i ^o^ -, > /t ^ 7 I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joohua's moon in Ajalon ! '^1^^<^ ^-^ y Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day \ ,> . . ^ d^^y f^- * ^ • » /^ ^■^-- '^-•i ^ '/'^*^' Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. p • *\ t . " ^'' " ' ' Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun : Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. LOCKSLEY HALL, 69 Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley HallL ,. /) Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow ; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. U y". « LOCKSLEY HALL ^).^•**^ I I SIXTY YEARS AFTER. Late, my grandson ! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts, Watch'd again the hollow ridges roaring into cataracts, Wander'd back to living boyhood while I heard the curlews call, I myself so close on death, and death itself in Locksley Hall. So — your happy suit was blasted — she the faultless, the divine ; And you liken — boyish babble — this boy-love of yours V V ^' with minC;; I myself have often babbled doubtless of a foolish past ; Babble, babble; our old England may go down in babble at last. LOCK'SLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 71 * Curse him !' curse your fellow-victim ? call him dotard in your rage ? Eyes that lured a doting boyhood well might fool a dotard's age. Jilted for a wealthier ! wealthier ? yet perhaps she was not wise ; I remember how you kiss'd the miniature with those sweet eyes. In the hall there hangs a painting — Amy's arms about my neck — Happy children in a sunbeam sitting on the ribs of wreck. In my life there was a picture, she that clasp'd my neck had flown ; I was left within the shadow sitting on the wreck alone. Yours ha^ been a slighter ailment, will you sicken for her sake ? You, not you ! your modern amourist is of easier, earthlier make. Amy loved me, Amy fail'd me. Amy was a timid child ; But your Judith — but your worldling — she had never driven me wild. <^^- 72 LOCKSLEY HALL She that holds the diamond necklace dearer tiian the golden ring, She that finds a winter sunset fairer than a morn of Spring. ' i^^rvi-rj^ She that in her heart is brooding on his briefer .'ease of life, While she vows * tiil death shall part us,' she the would- be- widow wife. She the worldling born of worldlings — father, mother — be content, Ev'n the homely larm can teach us there is something in descent. Yonder in that chapel, slowly sinking now into the ground, Lies the warrior, my forefather, with his feet upon the hound. Cross'd ! for once he sail'd the sea to crush the Moslem in his pride ; Dead the warrior, dead his glory, dead the cause in which he died. r Yet how often I and Amy in the mouldering aisle have stood, SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 73 Gazing for one pensive moment on that founder of our blood. There again I stood to-day, and where of old we knelt IP m prayer, Close beneath the casement crimson with the shield of Locksley — there, All in white Italian marble, looking still as if she smiled, Lies my Amy dead in child-birth, dead the mother, ^ dead the child. Ui^-^ \ Dead — and sixty years ago, and dead her aged husband now — I this old white-headed dreamer stoopt and kiss'd her marble brow. v^. Gone the fires of youth, the follies, furies, curses, passionate tears, Is^Gone like fires and floods and earthquakes of the planet's dawning years. Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. 74 LOCKSLEY HALL f ^ v( Gone the tyrant of my youth^ and mute below the chancel stones, All his virtues— I forgive them — black in white above his bones. 1 Gone the comrades of my bivouac, some in fight against the foe. Some thro' age and slow diseases, gone as all on earth will go. Gone with whom for forty years my life in golden sequence ran. She with all the charm of woman, she with all the breadth of man, Strong in will and rich in wisdom, Edith, yet so lowly- sweet, Woman to her inmost heart, and woman to her tender feet, Very woman of very woman, nurse of ailing body and mind, She that link'd again the broken chain that bound me to my kind. Here to day was A.my with me, while I wander'd down the coast, \ n SIXTY YEARS AFTER. n Near us Edith's holy shadow, smiling at the slighter ghost. Gone our sailor son thy father, Leonard early lost at sea ; Thou alone, my boy, of Amy's kin and mine art left to me. Gone thy tender-natured mother, wearying to be left alone, Pining for the stronger heart that once had beat beside her own. Truth, for Truth is Truth, he worshipt, being true as he was brave ; Good, for Good is Good, he foUow'd, yet he look'd beyond the grave, a Wiser there than you, that crowning barren Death as lord of all. Deem this over-tragic drama's closing curtain is the pall! Beautiful was death in him, who saw the death, but kept the deck, Saving women and their babes, and sinking with the sinking wreck, 76 LOCKSLEY HALL Gone for ever ! Ever? no— for since our dying race began, Ever, ever, and for ever was the leading light of man. Those that in barbaria.. .iials kill'd the slave, and slew the wife, Felt within themselves the sacred passion of the second life. Indian warriors dream of ampler hunting grounds beyond the night ; Ev'n the black Australian dying hopes he shall return, a white. Truth for truth, and good for good ! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just — • Take the charm ' For ever ' from them, and they crumble into dust. i Gone the cry of ' Forward, Forward,' lost within a growing gloom ; Lost, or only heard in silence from the silence of a tomb. Half the marvels of my morning, triumphs over time and space. Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace ! SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 77 * Forward ' rang the voices then, and of the many mine was one. Let us hush this cry of * Forward ' till ten thousand years have gone. Far among the vanish'd races, old Assyrian kings would flay Captives whom they caught in battle — iron -hearted victors they. Ages after, while in Asia, he that led the wild Moguls, Timur built his ghastly tower of eighty thousand human skulls, ^^^xji . V Then, and here^in Edward's time, an age of noblest English names. Christian conquerors took and flung the conquer'd Christian into flames. Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; ^ Christian love among the Churches look'd the twin of heathen hate. y^^From the golden alms of Blessing man had coin'd himself a curse : Rome of Csesar, Rome of Peter, which was crueller ? which was worse ? / 8 LOCKS LE Y HALL \ France had shown a light to all men, preach'd a Gospel, all men's good ; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood. Hope was ever on her mountain, watching till the day begun — Crown'd with sunlight — over darkness — from the still unrisen sun. H Have we grown at last beyond the passions of the primal clan ? ' Kill your enemy, for you hate him,' still, * your enemy ^ was a man. Have we sunk below them ? peasants maim the helpless horse, and drive Innocent cattle under thatch, and burn the kindlier brutes alive. Brutes, the brutes are not your wrongers — burnt at midnight, found at morn. Twisted hard in mortal agony with their offspring, born- unborn. Clinging to the silent mother ! Are we devils ? are we men? SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 79 Sweet St. Francis of Assisi, would that he were here again, lie that in his Catholic wholeness used to call the very flowers Sisters, brothers — and the beasts — whose pains are hardly less than ours ! Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! who can tell how all will end ? ^-^ Read the wide world's annals, jou, and take their wisdom for your friend. Hope the best, but hold the Present fatal daughter of the Past, Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last. at Ay, if dynamite and revolver leave you courage to be wise : When was age so cranim'd with menace ? madness ? written, spoken lies ? Envy wears the mask of Love, and, laughing sober fact to scorn, Cries to Weakest as to Strongest, 'Ye are equals, equal-born.' v^.. 8o LOCKSLEY HALL Equal-born ? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat. Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat, Till the Cat thro' that mirage of overheated language loom Larger than the Lion, — Demos end in working its own doom. iv; Russia bursts our Indian barrier, shall we fight her ? shall we yield } Pause ! before you sound the trumpet, hear the voices from the field. Those three hundred millions under one Imperial sceptre now, Shall we hold them ? shall we loose them ? take the suffrage of the plow. Nay, but these would feel and follow Truth if only you and you, Rivals of realm-ruining party, when you speak were wholly true. Plowmen, Shepherds, have I found, and more than once, and still could find, H, SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 8i Sons of God, and kings of men in utter nobleness of mind, Truthful, trustful, looking upward to the practised hustings-liar ; So the Higher wields the Lower, while the Lower is the Higher. Here and there a cotter's babe is royal-born by right divine ; Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. Chaos, Cosmos ! Cosmos, Chaos ! once again the sickening game ; Freedom, free to slay herself, and dying while they shout her name. Step by step we gain'd a freedom known to Europe, known to all ; Step by step we rose to greatness, — thro' the tongue- sters we may fall. j You that woo the Voices — tell them * old experience \^ I is a fool,' Teach your flatter'd kings that only those who cannot read can rule. I o 82 LOCKSLEY HALL Pluck the mighty from theii seat, but set no meek ones in their place ; Pillory Wisdom in your markets, pelt your offal at her face. Tumble Nature heel o'er head, and, yelling with the yelling street, Set the feet above the brain and swear the brain is in the feet. Bring the old dark ages back without the faith, without the hope, Break the State, the Church, the Throne, and roll their ruins down the slope. N Authors — essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part, Painf the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of Art. Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare ; Down with Reticence, down with Reverence — forward — naked — let them stare. Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer ; SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 83 Send the drain into the fountain, lest the stream should issue pure. Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism, — Forward, forward, ay and backward, downward too into the abysm. Do your best to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men ; Have we risen from out the beast, then back into the beast again ? Only ' dust to dust ' for me that sicken at your lawless din, Dust in wholesome old-world dust before the newer world begin. Heated am I ? you — you wonder — well, it scarce be- comes mine age — Patience ! let the dying actor mouth his last upon the stage. Cries of unprogressive dotage, ere the dotard fall asleep ? Noises of a current narrowing, not the music of a deep? 84 LOCKSLEY HALL Ay, for doubtless I am old, and think gray thoughts, for I am gray : After all the stormy changes shall we find a changeless May? After madness, after massacre, Jacobinism and Jac- querie, Some diviner force to guide us thro' the days I shall not see? When the schemes and all the systems. Kingdoms and Republics fall. Something kindlier, higher, holier — all for each and each for all ? All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; All the millions one at length with all the visions of my youth ? All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf or blind ; Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind ? Earth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue — I have seen her far away — for is not Earth as yet so young ? — SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 85 Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kiU'd, Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd. Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. Warless ? when her tens are thousands, and her thou- sands millions, Jhen — All her harvest all too narrow — who can fancy warless men ? Warless? war will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon ? Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon ? Dead the new astronomy calls her. ... On this day and at this hour. In this gap between the sandhills, whence you see the Locksley tower. Here we met, our latest meeting — Amy — sixty years ago— She Tiid I — the moon was falling greenish thro' a rosy glow, 86 LOCKSLEY HALL Just above the gateway tower, and even where you see her now — Here we stood and claspt each other, swore the seem- ing-deathless vow. . . . Dead, but how her living glory lights the hall, the dune, the grass ! Yet the moonlight is the sunlight, and the sun himself will pass. Venus near her ! smiling downward at this earthlier earth of ours. Closer on the Sun, perhaps a world of never fading flowers. ^'' — Hesper, whom the poet call'd the Bringer home of all good things. All good thing? may move in Hesper, perfect peoples, perfect kings. Hesper — Venus — were we native to that splendour or in Mars, We should see the Globe we groan in, fairest of their evening stars. Could we dream of wars and carnage, craft and mad- ness, lust and spite. SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 87 Roaring London, raving Paris, in that point of peaceful light ? Might we not in glancing heavenward on a star so silver-fair, Yearn, and clasp the hands and murmur, ' Would to C\ God that we were there ' ? v| Forward, backward, backward, forward, in the im- measurable sea, *^ ' Sway'd by vaster ebbs and flows than can be known to you or me. ■■■'. ""^ All the suns — are these but symbols of innumerable man, Man or Mind that sees a shadow of the planner or the plan? \ vV'ii I Is there evil but on earth ? or pain in every peopled sphere ? Well be grateful for the sounding watchword, ' Evolu- tion ' here. Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good. And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the V i^V^ mud. 88 LOCKSLEY HALL What are men that He should heed us ? cried the king of sacred song ; Insects of an hour, that hourly work their brother insect wrong, While the silent Heavens roll, and Suns along their fiery way. All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day. -Many an -^on moulded earth before her highest, man, was born. Many an ^on too may pass when earth is manless and forlorn. Earth so huge, and yet so bounded — pools of salt, and plots of land — Shallow skin of green and azure— chains of mountain, grains of sand ! Only That which made us, meant us to be mightier by and by. Set the sphere of all the boundless Heavens within the human eye. Sent the shadow of Himself, the boundless, thro' the human soul ; ' -i , --5 '■K SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 89 \ '\ X Boundless inward, in the atom, boundless outward, in the Whole. Here is Locksley Hall, my grandson, here the lion- guarded gate. Not to-night in Locksley Hall — to-morrow — you, you come so late. Wreck'd — your train — or all but wreck'd ? a shatter'd wheel ? a vicious boy ! Good, this forward, you that preach it, is it well to wish you joy ? Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time, City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime ? There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, -1 90 LOCKSLEY HALL ^ There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward,' yours are hope and youth, but I — Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to follow with the cry, A'-^ Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the, night ; Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light. - Light the fading gleam of Even ? light the glimmer of the dawn ? Aged eyes may take the growing glimmer for the gleam withdrawn. Far away beyond her myriad coming changes earth will be Something other than the wildest modern guess of you and me. SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 91 Earth may reach her earthly-worst, or if she gain her earthly-best, Would she find her human offspring this ideal man at rest? Forward then, but still remember how the course of Time will swerve, Crook and turn upon itself in many a backward streaming curve. Not the Hall to-night, my grandson ! Death and Silence hold their own. Leave the Master in the first dark hour of his last sleep alone. < yjyt>L^t .. k-^-, , Worthier soul was he than I am, sound and honest, rustic Squire, Kindly landlord, boon companion — youthful jealousy is a liar. ^^^^ - ^^< . Cast the poison from your bosom, 0:1st the madness from your brain. Let the trampled serpent show you that you have not lived in vain. Youthful ! youth and age are scholars yet but in the lower school, 92 LOCKS LEY HALL Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool. •f . ► r «. Yonder lies our young sea-village — Art and Grace are less and less : Science grows and Beauty dwindles — roofs of slated hideousness ! There is one old Hostel left us where they swing the I^ocksley shield, Till the peasant cow shall butt the 'Lion passant' from his field. Poor old Heraldry, poor old History, poor old Poetry, passing hence. In the common deluge drowning old political common- sense ! Poor old voice of eighty crying after voices that have fled! All I loved are vanish'd voices, all my steps are on the dead. All the world is ghost to me, and as* the phantom disappears^ Forward far and far from here is all the hope of eighty years. ^- SIXTY YEARS AFTER, 93 In this Hostel — I remember— I repent it o'er his grave — Like a clown — by chance he met me — I refused the hand he gave. P'rom that casement where the trailer mantles all the mouldering bricks — I was then in early boyhood, Edith but a child of six — While I sheltered in this archway from a day of driving showers — Peept the winsome face of Edith like a flower among the flowers. Here to-night ! the Hall to-morrow, when they toll the Chapel bell ! Shall I hear in one dark room a wailing, 'I have loved thee well.' . Then a peal that shakes the portal — one has come to '■' \ claim his bride, Her that shrank, and put me from her, shriek'd, and i started from my side — .1' ' 94 LOCKSLEY HALL Silent echoes ! You, my Leonard, use and not abuse your day, Move among your people, know them, follow him who led the way. Strove for sixty widow'd years to help his homelier brother men, Served the poor, and built the cottage, raised the school, and drain'd the fen. Hears he now the Voice that wrong'd him ? who shall swear it cannot be ? Earth would never touch her worst, were one in fifty such as he. Ere she gain her Heaven) y~best, a God must mingle with the game : Nay, there may be those about us whom we neither see nor name, Felt within us as ourselves, the Powers of Good, the Powers of 111, Strowing balm, or shedding poison in the fountains of the Will. Follow you the Star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine. SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 95 Forward, till you see the highest Human Nature is divine. Follow Light, and do the Right — for man can half- control his doom — Till you find the deathless Angel seated in the vacant tomb. Forward, let the stormy moment fly and mingle with the Past. I that loathed, have come to love him. Love will conquer at the last. W<*^«' V: Gone at eighty, mine own age, and I and you will bear the pall ; Then I leave thee Lord and Master, latest Lord of I-.ocksley Hall. ' /■ ■' . ' / ■.\. 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 a m 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 ; k*^i J^ #^ UL YSSES. 97 ,i,*^t jM And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy, ^i^^ cz>ti'J> 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, i,jj^ To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! x^,, ,i/'K 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, .-^i And this gray spirit yearning in desire - '-f \- 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 labourpby slowj)rudence 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 I ^<-' -s. H 98 UL YSSES. In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. ( L V\^- ^ /v>'. . W-* 7/' > ./ There lies the port j 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 t!ie 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, j^- ght ^>v^ UL YSS£S. 99 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 j X^ 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. A y ii^^h. y^iJW^ i/ Jo u the nds, I.- "; ;-><. L. . cu-u.:t ^^3 ST. AGNES' EVE. Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon : My breath to heaven like vapour goes : May my soul follow soon ! The shr lows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, ' Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 7^' ' ^ \riUJ- To yonder shining, ground ; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round ; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee ; ST. AGNES' EVE. loi \0Z So in mine earthly house I am, ^r- - To that I hope to be. rj ■■ Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, ' Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. KJL h '. ^- \y^ ' '»l' ,jj- ■^' k^^' ail; y/v y^ 'J ^M"^ SIR GALAHAD. I muse on joy that will not cease, Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace, Whose odours haunt my dreams ; And, stricken by an angel's hand. This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes. Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 105 The clouds are broken in the sky, ^ And thro' the mountain-waDs A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod. Wings flutter, voices hover clear : ' O just and faithful knight of God ! Ride on ! the prize is near.' So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; By bridge and ford, by park and^ale, AU-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide. Until I find the holy Grail. u iQ'' W cy^ THE REVENGE. A BALLAD OF THE FLEET. L -■ii 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?' n. Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : ' I know you are no coward ; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. THE REVENGE, 107 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.' III. So Lord Howard [.ast away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; But Sir Rl':hard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Ve'-y carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below ; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. IV. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight. io8 THE REVENGE. With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. * Shall we fight or shall we fly ? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die ! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' And Sir Richard said again : ' We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' v. Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar*d a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the re.-. With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen. And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. VI. Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd. THE REVENGE. 109 ThousanrJs of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain -like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons. And up -shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. VII. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the star- board lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. VIII. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; no THE REVENGE, And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers. And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. : 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 ; ^ i Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shattered, 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 ; ^ THE RE I iNGE. Ill And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, AVith 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 ! ' XI. And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring ; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting. So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife ; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, 112 THE REVENGE. And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent ; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, * We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again ! , We have won great glory, my me ! And a day less or more At sea or ashore. We die — does it matter when ? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!' XII. And the gunner said * Ay, ay,* but the seamen made reply : *■ We have children, we have wives. And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again nd to strike another blow.' And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. THE REVENGE, "3 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. XIV. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true. And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they knew. But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, I I 114 THE REVENGE. , h And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan. And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- quake grew. Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot- shatter' d navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. IN TPIE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. EMMIE. I. Our doctor had call'd in another, I never had seen him before, But he sent a chill to my heart when I saw him come in at the door, Fresh from the surgery-schools of France and of other lands — Harsh red hair, big voice, big chest, big merciless hands! Wonderful cures he had done, O yes, but they said too of him He was happier using the knife than in trying to save the limb, And that I can well believe, for he look'd so coarse and so red, I could think he was one of those who would break their jests on the dead, ii6 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. And mangle the living dog that had loved him and fawn'd at his knee — Drench'd with the hellish oorali — that ever such things should be ! W \\ ! II. Here was a boy — I am sure that some of our children would die But for the voice of Love, and the smile, and the comforting eye — Here was a boy in the ward, every bone seem'd out of its place — - Caught in a mill and crush'd — it was all but a hopeless case : And he handled him gently enough ; but his voice and his face were not kind, And it was but a hopeless case, he had seen it and made up his mind. And he said to me roughly * The lad will need little more of your care.* *A11 the more need,' I told him, *to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer ; They are all his children here, and I pray for them all as my own :' But he turn'd to me,' * Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone ?' IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. U7 Then he mutter'd half to himself, but I know that I heard him say ' All very well — but the good Lord Jesus has had his day.' III. Had ? has it come ? It has only dawn'd. It will come by and by. O how could I serve in the wards if the hope of the world were a lie ? * How could I bear with the sights and the loathsome smells of disease But that He said * Ye do it to me, when ye do it to these '? IV. So he went. And we past to this ward where the younger children are laid : Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little maid ; Empty you see just now ! We have lost her who loved her so much — Patient of pain tho' as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch ; Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears, Hers was the gratefuUest heart I have found in a child of her years — ii8 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, Nay you remember our Emmie ; you used to send her the flowers ; How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em hours after hours ! They that can wander at will wheiw the works of the Lord are reveal'd Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the field ; Flowers to these ' spirits in prison ' are all they can know of the spring. They freshea and sweeten the wards like the waft of an Angel's wing ; And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crost on her breast — Wan, but as pretty as heart can desire, and we thought her at rest. Quietly sleeping — so quiet, our doctor said 'Poor little dear, Nurse, I must do it to-morrow ; she'll never live thro' it, I fear.' V. I walk'd with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair. Then I return'd to the ward ; the child didn't see I was there. JN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 119 VI. Never since I was nurse, had I been so grieved and so vext ! Emmie had heard him. Softly she call'd from her cot to the next, * He says I shall never live thro' it, O Annie, what shall I do?' Annie consider'd. ' If I,' said the wise little Annie, * was you, I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie, you see, It's all in the picture there : " Little children should come to me.'" (Meaning the print that you gave us, I find that, it always can please Our children, the dear Lord Jesus with children about his knees.) * Yes, and I will,' said Emmie, * but then if I call to the Lord, How should he know that it's me ? such a lot of beds in the ward ! ' That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she consider'd and said : * Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed — 120 IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. The Lord has so much to see to ! but, Emmie, you tell it him plain, It's the little girl with her arms lying out on the counterpane.' h VII. I had sat three nights by the child — I could not watch her for four — ■ My brain had begun to reel — I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping- night, but I thought that it never would pass. There was a thunderclap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass. And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tost about, The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness without ; My sleep was broken besides with dreams of the dreadful knife And fears for our delicate Emmie who scarce would escape with her life ; Then in the gray of the morning it seem'd she stood by me and smiled. And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see to the child. IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL, 131 VIII. He had brought his ghastly tools : we believed her asleep again — Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counterpane ; Say that His day is done ! Ah why should we care what they say ? The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had past away. *YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE.' You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I jubsist. Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose, The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will ; A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown. Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent : Where faction seldom gathers head, But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE. 123 Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute ; Tho' Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great — Tho' every channel of the State Should fill and choke with golden sand — Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South. 'OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet : Above her shook the starry lights : She heard the torrents meet. There in her place she did rejoice, ^^y 'w Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind. Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race. And part by part to men reveal'd The fulness of her face — Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down, . Who, God-like, grasps the tjriple forks, ^^^^'^^fljj^^x^'^ And, King-like, wears the crown : f OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 125 Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears ; That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes ! ^^ ^^y ^^^^c-w^ * LOVE THOU THY LAND.' - ] ^ ^ " Love thou thy land, with love far- brought -^^] nA. t From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused Thro' future time by power of thought. '/^X^^^'^' i, \x ^ True love turn'd round on fixed poles. Love, that endures not sordid ends. For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls. But pamper not a hasty time. Nor feed with crude imaginings The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings That every sophistei can lime. .vUv^^^^aX Deliver not the tasks of might v^i , . , • .--tfyv^L^ To weakness, neither hide the ray ,W\n^u ; From those, not blind, who wait for day, \ Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. LOVE THOU THY LAND. Make knowledge circle with the winds ; But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 127 Watch what main-currents draw the years : Cut Prejudice against the grain : But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers : Nor toil for title, place, or touch Of pension, neither count on praise : It grows to guerdon after-days : Nor deal in watch-words overmuch : - • Not clinging to some ancient saw ; Not master'd by some modern term ; Not swift nor slow to change, but firm : And in its season bring the law ; That from Discussion's lip may fall With Life, that, working strongly, binds- Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all. . 'St' 128 ^ LOVE THOU THY LAND. For Nature also, cold and warm, And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that which tlies. And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act ; For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, \^4jJu^' ^^f -v XX- '/} ^ Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. <)^t^ :A , If V> Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloom — The Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. tc l4^ LOFE THOU THY LAND, 129 A slow-develop'd strength awaits - >n i Wrw Completion in a painful school ; ^i,U/vv«><^«^ Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States — v,<^» The warders of the growing hour, '^^^^J^^--' But vague in vapour, hard to mark ; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power. j Of many changes, aptly join'd, ^ ., j '^^ jM^' Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Hj^l^TjIf, \Ljo^u^\ Of Discord race the rising wind ; ^ ..^ . , u Ah A wind to puff your idol-fires, - ^ ^*-''^' And heap their ashes on the head ; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires. Oh yet, if Nature's evil star / Drive meii in manhood, as in youth, p^-^^^^ To follow flying steps of Truth- <^^ 3u.if<.^ Across the brazen bridge of war- ,d ^ r— - -^ K 130 LOVE THOU THY LAND. If New and Old, disastrous feud, Must ever shock, like armed foes. And this be true, till Time shall close, That Principles are rain'd in blood; ^^^ ^"^ tvyy^kxx*^^ Not yet I'le wise of heart would cease To ho^d his hope thro' shame and guilt, Ft with his hand against the hilt, v^ oii'i pace the troubled land, like Peace; Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay. Would serve his kind in deed and word,, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. That knowledge takes the sword away — Would love the gleams of good that broke From either side, nor veil his eyes : And if some dreadful need should rise Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke : 'f ^ To-morrow yet would reap to-day. As we bear blossom of the dead ; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. !l « e^iA^i^^^ nl I son all eng tha fra^ prei foil by: rest witl wit] whi tha diec att of Lac Moi rial Art Agi In: pre Em idy] PeU WW .*l«,«ji»Wi«i» NOTES. GERAINT AND ENID. Growth of the Idylln. — The history of the growth of Tenny- son's Idylls of the King is one of the most remarkable things in all the annals of literatura "That a great poet should be engaged with his largest theme for more than half a century ; that he should touch it first with a lyric ; then with an epical fragment and three more lyrics ; then with a poem which is sup- pressed as soon as it is written ; then with four romantic idylls, followed ten years later by two others, and thirteen years later by yet another idyll, which is to be placed, not before or after the rest, but in the very centre of the cycle ; that he should begin with the end, and continue with the beginning, and end with the middle of the story, and produce at last a poem which certainly has more epical grandeur and completeness than anything that has been made in English since Milton died, is a thing so mai'vellous that no man would credit it save at the sword's point of fact. And yet this is the exact record of Tennyson's dealing with the Arthurian legends." The Lady of Shalott, foreshadoAving Elaine, appeared in 1832. Morte d' Arthur, Tennyson's first poetic version of an Arthu- rian legend, afterwards incorporated into ' ' The Passing of Arthur," appeared in 1812. In the same volume appeared St. Agnes, Sir Galahad, and Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. In 1857 Enid and Nimue was printed and immediately sup- pressed. In 1859 appeared Idylls of the King, containing Enid, Vivien, Eluine, and Guinevere. In 1870 four more idylls were published, The Coming of Arthur, The Holy Grail, Pelleas and Ettarre, and The Passing of Arthur. In 1872 were produced Gareth and Lynette and Tlie Last TournamenL ' 1 1 ) 1 1 ! > I I i 1 i:! 1 : f 1 132 NOTES ON OBBAINT AND ENID. In 1885 there was added to the series another idyll, Balin and Balan, and ' ' Enid " was divided into the two idylls, The Mar- riage of Oeraint and Geraint and Enid. In their present form, then, there are twelve books of the Idylls f and according to the present sequence of these books the following has been the extraordinary order of their publication : the third, the fourth (Geraint and Enid), the sixth, the seventh, the eleventh ; the first, the eighth, the ninth, the twelfth ; the second, the t«nth ; the fifth. Sources of the Legends. — " The material which Tennyson has used for his poeni is the strange, complex, mystical story of King Arthur and his Round Tabla To trace the origin of this story would load ua far afield and entangle us in the thickets of contro- versy which are full of thorns. Whether Arthur was a real kins who ruled in Britain after the departure of the Romans, and founded a new order of chivalry, and defeated the heathen in various more or less bloody battles .... whether the source of the story was among the misty mountains of Wales, or among the castles of Bnttany, are questions not to be decided here. This much is certain : in the twelfth century the name of King Arthur had come to stand for an ideal of royal wisdom, chivalric virtue, and knightly prowess which was recognized alike in England and France and Germanjr: His story was told again and again by Trouv^re and Minne- singer and prose romancer. In camp and court and cloister, on Uie banks of the Loire, the Rhine, the Thames, men and women listened with delight to the description of his character and glorious exploits. A vast undergrowth of legends sprang up about him. Tho older story of Merlin the Enchanter ; the tragic tale of Sir Lancelot and his fatal love ; the adventures of Sir Tristram and Sir Gawaine ; the mystical romance of the Saint Graal, with its twin heroes of purity, Percivale and Galahad, — thase and many other tales of wonder and of woe, of amorous devotion and fierce conflict and celestial vision, were woven into the Arthurian tapestry. .... It was at the close of the age of chivalry, in the middle of the 15th century, that an English knight, Sir Thomas Malory by name, con- c<:ived the idea of re-writing the Arthurian story in his own language, and gathering as many of these tangled legends as he could find into one complete and connected narrativa He not only succeeded in bringing some kind of order out of the confusion ; he infused a new and vigorous life into the ancient tales, and clothed them in fine, simple, sonorous prose, so that his Morte d* Arthur is entitled to rank among the best things -'-..„.M.. "Si NOTES ON OBRAINT AND ENID. V\:\ s, men and lanter ; the irision, were in English literatura .... It was doubtless through the pages of Malory that Tennyson made acquaintance with the story of Arthur, and from these he has drawn most of his materials for the Idylls. One other source must be mentioned : In 18H8 Lady Charlotte Guest published The Mahinorjion, a translation of the ancient Welsh legends contained in the " rrxl book of Hergest," which is in the library of Jesus College at Oxford. From thin book Tennyson has taken the story of Oeraint and £utU"— VAN Dyke. Snvirnary of The Marriage of (ieraint. — A brief summary of The Marriage of Geraint, the idyll preceding Geraint and En id, ia here given. The portion of the naiTative that bears directly upon the present idyll will be given with all necessary fulness. Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court, and a tributary prince of Devon, was one of the great Order of the Round Tabla One day while he was riding in the hunt beside Queen Guine- vere a strange knight, lady, and dwarf passed by. The (jueen sent her maiden to ask the dwarf the name of the knight The vicious dwarf insulted the maiden and struck ct her with his whip. Prince Geraint then rode forward and was treated in like manner, his cheek being gashed by the dwarf's whip. Stung by the insult Geraint promised the queen to track '• this vernun to their earths," to fight with the nameless knight and break his pnde, and to return on the third day. Geraint followed the three for a long way. At last he saw in the distance a fortress white from the mason's hand and opposite to it a castle in decay. Into the fortress rode the three, and Geraint sought for hospitality in the ruined castle. In the castle dwelt the aged Earl Yniol, his wife, and their beautiful daughter Enid. When Geraint rode up the hoary- headed earl invited him to enter and partake of the slender entertainment of the housa While he waited in the castle- court the voice of Enid, Yniol's daughter, rang thi-ough the open casement of the Hall, singing delicately clear. The sweet voice moved Geraint and he exclaimed : " Here, by God's grace, is the one voice for ma " Entering the ' ' dusky-raftered, many-cobwebbed " hall Geraint caught sight of Enid dressed in faded silk. At the fair vision of the l)eautifiil maid at once thought Geraint, "Here, by God's rood, is the one maid for ma" A.fter Enid had prepared and served to Geraint an inviting meal, the Prinze questioned the Earl about the owner of the new fortress across the way, telling him at the same time of 1 134 NOTES ON GERAINT AND BNID. I 0' t If ! H the insult done to the Queen, and of his mission of vengeanca. Geraint learned that the occupant of the fortress and the insulter of the Queen, was Yniol's nephew, who, because the Earl had refused him Enid's hand, had ousted him from the earldom and built the new fortress for greater security. Geraint on learning that the earl's nephew would take part in a tourney to be held next day determined to tilt with him and for this purpose borrowed the old and rusty arms of YnioL As no man could tilt in this tournament unless the lady he loved was there, Geraint asked of his host the privilege of lay- ing lance in rest for Enid, pro;nising that he would make her his true wife if Heaven aided him in the iight. The old earl giudly assented. Next day at the tourney after a terrible conflict Geraint felled Yniol's nephew, and, setting foot upon his breast, extorted from him his name, "Edyrn, son of Nudd ! " Geraint then told his fallen foe that he must do two things to save himself from death, — he must with his lady and tho dwarf ride to Arthur's court and crave pardon for the insult none the Queen, — and he must restore the earldom to the aged EarL These things Edyrn promised to do forth- wii/h. On the third day from the hunting-mom Geriint desired Enid to accompany him ta the court, there to be wedded with all ceremcmy. Enid, casting her eyes on her faded silken dross, longed for a dress all branched and flowered with gold, a costly gift of her mother's, given hor three years ago on the night when Edvrn had sacketl their house and stolen all their valu- ables. Enid was overjoyed when tho long-lost dress was discovered and brought to her by her mother just when she desirwl such a goi'geous gown. While Enid was rejoicing with her mother over the recovered suit of bright apparel, Geraint asked to see Enid. Yniol reported that Enid was being made gay in raiment fitted to her prospective station. Geraint re(|uest i ike the kingdom one. And after these King Arthur for a s])ace, And thn*' the puissance of his Table Round, Drew all their petty ])rincedoms under him, Their king and head, and made a realm, and reigned." (2) The vowH of the Kiili^hts of the Round Table. " To reverence the king, as if he were Their conscience, an(l their consciiuice as their king, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To nde abroad nidressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, m NOTES ON GERAINT AND ENID. r.\9 To lead sweet lives in perfect chastity. To love «^Tie maiden only. ci«;ave to y.er. And worship 1 hf hy years of noble dee8«^ iiinne, ii Kliost, Stvnain.4 like a eloiid,'inun-slia|H>(l, tVoiii inoiiiituiii-iNiak, And cleaves to cairn and croinlccli still : or liini OfGeortrcy's lKX)k. or him of Malleors, tmv. Touched by tlic udultt'roua tinp'r of a tinic That hovcr'd hciwrcn war and wantonness, And erowidnj,-s and dethronements." *' This is a clear disavowal of an historical purpose in the Idylls. But does it an»oiint to the confession that they are an allegory pure and simide?" - Van Dvke. "But the Idylls must not ha taken as pure allegories, for they are rather ))aral)le>, than allegories, and each itlyll has a separate and human interest aside from its spiritual signifi- cance. "—WALSH. (4) Are the Idylls epic ? " Tennyson has not exactly made an o])ic from the Artlni- rian legends, for a true epic is the ex]>ression and enib(>'linient of a national belief in national heroes, but he has tr.r:;e'l tlio half-forgotten and discredited stories of King Arthu • ai'- bin knights into exqtiisite idylls or pictures, connecting ' ■n so as to unfold a single ])urj)ose, and touching them s a the spirit and color of modern life." — Walsh. (6) The iKoderiiness of the Idylls. " The theme and treatment of the Id.f'Ls is essentially mod- ern. Into the dry Imiuc^s of the old legends Tennyson ha^ bi*eathod the spirit and ideals of the nineteentli century : he has ustMi the old-world myths as a IxMly for lunv truths, lie is evidently no Iwliever in ' art for art's sake,' iukI Ims sai «'ili('i>d the unities of time and place to gi\ • his p( em a liighrr spirit- ual significance The (iistingui-^liiMj^^ tiuaiity of *ho Idjjlln is their inte>se modeniiiess : the individMul ch'iiac- ters are foriuB measuring the strength und v iluiuo of tho ^'.t I i iS 'I I I ■ «i f\ 140 rtOTES ON GERAINT AND ENID. forces that are pulsing through our present existence. Living questions and modern conflicts and theories are woven thickly into the warp and woof of the song. Tennyson has been called to task for anachi'«)iiisms, but he would not be the great l)oet he is were he not thoroughly imbued with the spirit of his age, and did he not give that spirit utterance. He has wrought a far greater i)oem, and one frauglit with a nobler meaning and a wider interest to man, by his subjective treatment of his theme, by * shadowing Sense at war with Soul/ than if he had merely attempted to paint pictures of a forgotten age, and lent his jien to the minute relation of the deeds of semi-barbar- ous knights." — Walsh. (6) The place of <^Geraiiit and Enid" amon^ the Idylls. " There has l)ecii as yet no shadow of the storm that is com- ing to disturb Arthur's realm But in Geraint and Enid there is a cloud upon the sky, a trouble in the air. The fatal love of Lancelot and Guinevere has already begun to poison the court with suspicions and scandals. It is in this brotxlinir and electrical atinos])here that jealousy, in the ])er- son of (ileraint, comes into conflict with loyalty, in the person of Enid. The story is the same that Boccaccio has toil so exquisitely in the tale of (iriselda. and Shakespeare so tragic- ally in Ofhe/lo, — the story of a woman, sweet and true and steadfast down to the very lM)ttom of her heart, joined to a man who is exacting an^ suspicious." — Van Dvke. (<) Style of the Idylls. "So far as the outward form of the hlylh is concerned, they belong unqiu'stioiiably in the very first rank of English verse. Tn music of ihythm, in beauty of diction, in richness of illus- tration, they are unsurp!ls^-cfl. Even Mr. Swinburne — himself 0. mast/cr of w«»i"(ls — confesses a cordial admiratitm for their 'exquisite nu^g'.iiflceuce of style.'" (S) Nature in the Idylls. " The llnlh are full of little ]nctures which show that Ten- n"sfin has studied Natiu'o at fii-st hand. " t (\V) '.Vhat is the common acce]»tation of the term "Idyll"? Ji-'^tify Tenn3^son's use of the title. (14>) v'\ h;it unity of ])ur|)ose is sui^gcNteil by the title " Idylls of the King"? Show that the Idylls do " revolve about him (King Arthur) as stars about a central suu." A MOTBS ON THE MAY QUEEN. Itl THE MAY QUEEN. The first and second divisions of this pooni were printed in 1882 ; the ' ' Conclusion " -was i)r( )])ably written in 1833, al- though it was not published till 1812. You must wake and call me early. — Notice how the change in the girl's condition and mocxl is reflectcMl in hor subsefiuout mode of addressing her mother, "If you're waking call nie early." The glad New-year. — The earlier reading was ' ' the bly the New-year. " Black black eye. — Such repetitions are ooninion in the old ballads. Compare "in the early early morning,'' etc.. l)elow. How natural are these re])etiti()ns in the mouth of a child. Whom think ye should I see. — As 'ye' is i)hoiietically weaker and less emphatic than ' you ' it has Ijeen retained liere. In the 1832 odition ' ye' was emph)ye(l throughout for 'you.' Robin. — It is curious that this was c.hangfKl to "TtoT^ert" in the (Mlition oi 1842, and then restored to ••Robin" in later editions. The blossom on the blackthorn. — The original reading was "the may upon.'' meaning the white blossoms of the blackthorn. Charles's Wain. — This is the consti'llatioTi of the Great Bear, known in ])opuiar language as " Tho Di])per.'' (Jharleti* is probably a corrupticm of i'hiiri\s; so ('harfcu^a Wain is the ' countryman's plough. ' Chancel-casement. — The window in tho chancel of the ])arish church. Dry dark wold. — 'Wold' is a favorite word of Tennyson's. His native bomersby is among the wolds or low hilis of Lin- colnshire. And forgive me ere I fro. — Compare with the original reading "uix)n my cheek and brow." Before the day is born. - How is this Ix^tter than the early reading "when it begi)is to dawn'"? But still I think it can't be long. — How much sui)erior to the original reading : '•But still it can't he lonti-, m»T«hfr. Iicfnre I Hiid rcl(>a«e ; And that good uuui, the clerg^inan, he pi-caches words of jK-oca* ■ *^ 142 NOTES ON THE MAY QUEEN. He taug^ht me, etc. — In the original line 'taught' and ' show'd ' were transposed. Try the effect of the changa My lamp was lighted late. — See Matt. XXV. The dog howl. — There is an old superstition that the howl- ing cl a dog by night prognosticates death to sick persons in the vicinity. The death-watch. — This is a small beetle whose 'ticking' noise is supposed by the superstitious to presage death. If it come three times. — Why has the poet changed the earlier ' comes ' to ' come ' ? "And the wicked cease," etc.— Of the last line of this XX)em Van Dyke in his '* Poetry of Tennyson " remarks : " The May Queen is a poem which has sung itself into the hearts of the people everywhere. The tenderness of its senti- ment and the ex(|nisite cadence of its music have made it l)eloved in spite of its many faults. Yet I suppose that the majority of readers have read it again and again without recog- nizing tliat one of its most melo(tious verses is a direct quota- tion from the third chapter of Job : And the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are.at rest. "This is one of the instances — by no means rare— in which the translators of our English Bible have fallen unconsciously into the rhythm of the most perfect poetry ; and it is perhaps the best illustration of Tennyson's felicitous use of the very words of Scripture. " The Maif Queen breathes throughout of Lincolnshire. May- pole dancing took y)lace at Horncastle up to fifty years ago. The very flowers declare to what ))'^rt of the country the p(jem belongs, — "the honeysuckle round the porch,"— "the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers by the meadow-trenches," — ."the wild marsh-marigold," — "the cowslip and the crowfoot over all the hill." Many a "dry dark wold," too, the traveller passes on the highway leading to Somersby. (1) (2) (8) Show the suitability of the term "home-ppun drama, ** applied to this tripartite poem. State the artistic reasons for tlui clioice of May-day, New- year, and Si)ringtide, as the occasions of the three parts. Trace the changes in the girVs spirit through the three parts and show how the stylo has been alteretl to harmon- ize therewith. il. NOTES ON LOCKSLBY HALL. 143 (4) What effect is gained by the use of sucli ahhroviatioiis as 'ill, o', i', '11, 'em? why are there none in the third part? (5) What is the use of the refrain in the first part ? (6) Point out lines in which the normal metre is departed from for special purposes. (7) Comment on the poet's art in the choice of environment and time for the girl's departure. Does the i)oetry mount to the occasion ? What lends dignity to the girl's last dying words ? LOCKSLBY HALL. With the excepticm of a v(*rbal alteration or two this poem appears as it was originally ^tiiblisliod in IHI2. It is said to have been the result of six weeks' continuous liilM»r. Many attempts have been niu witirdear account remarks T!i(> ehbinir of his frlass, When all it-, sands are diamond sparks That dazzle as they pass ? " Smote the chord of Self. — Bayne's comment is valuable: "This line concentrates into itself a large i)art of Tennyson's noble conception of love, or conception of the nobleness of love. Love annihilates Self, even while exalting it, and crowns life in a two-fold ecstasy of renunciation and attainment A life of unselfish beneficent occupation — of sympathy in mental culture — of co-operation in Iwnevolent effort — would have been the natural sequel. But Mammon and conventional respect- ability tore the stiings from the harp of life, and shattered the glass of time with its golden sands." Falser than all fancy fathoms.— One feels that the allitera- tion of the letter " f " is indicative of contempt Compare the interjections "fie!" "faugh!" "fudge!" It may be my lord is weary, etc. —What withering scorn ! Easy things to understand. — His conversation will be shallow, in striking contrast with thy "finer fancies." ! 148 »OTBS ON LOCKSLEY HALL. That I should bluster. — Bayne remarks: "Exception has been taken to the tone which the discarded lover assumes toward her who has forsaken him, as if its harshness were im- possible for a generous and magnanimous nature, which Tennyson, without question, intends his lover to be. But I think this is to bring the air of Rosa Matilda romance over the world of reality. It would have been very pretty for the poet to represent his lover as breathing nothing but admiration and broken-hearted forgiveness. Schiller might perhaps have told the story so ; but Goethe or Shakespeare would not. Heroes that are too angelic cease to be men. The high-flown magnanimity is the sign-manual of the false sublime. Tenny- son makes it plain also that it is only what is degrading in Amy's life that the lover blames and hates. Beneath all his angry words, his love for her remains ineradicable, and he would wish her happy if he could do so and at the same time save her from his contempt " Rookery. — Flock of rooks. In division of the records of the mind.— Can I divide my memories of her into two parts ? I remember one. — Suppose for the moment that she died be- fore she deserted me. This is truth the poet singes, etc. — This is from Dante. Inferno y V. 121: i " No fjreater ^ricf than to remember days \ Of joy, when misery is at hand " (Gary's Translation.) This sentiment has been imitated by Chaucer : "For of Fortunis sharp adversite The worste kind of infortnne is this, A man to have been in prosperite And it remember when it passid is." Trotlua and Creaeide, b. III. Phantom years. — G-hosts of coming years Overlive it. — Outlive it Every door is barred with gold. — There is a mercenary taint upon the aga Angry fancy. — ' Tumultuous, ' ' raging. ' But the jinglJng, etc. — Modem nations temper, but their threats ouirun their deeds keeps nations from fighting for their honor. Heavens fill, etc — A visi(m of an aerial navy. Argosies are the larger merchant ships of oldjn days. have a vaunting The love of gold , ' V - ' NOTES ON LOCKSLBY HAL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 149 ■' Heavens fill with shouting;. — The shouting of the combatants during- a naval battle in the air. Of most. — That is, of the majority. Slowly comes, etc. — Bayne remarks on this passage: "What a picture is this of Feudalism settling to its last sleep, with Freedom advancing upon it ! Or of aristocracies that nod and wink in the waning light of their heraldic honors, with the grand roar of tt.e democracy beginning to be heard ! " The process of the suns. — The lapse of years. Like Joshua's moon. — See Joshua, X. 12. Let the great world spin, etc. — Gladstone says : " The line may well make a nervous man giddy as he reads it. " Tennyson told an Australian visitor a few years ago that this lino was suggested by the first railway journey he ever made. "lie had been on a continental tour with Arthur Hallam and when the two friends arri\ed in Liverpool they travelled to Manchester on the new line after nightfall. Tenny- son could not exactly see the form of the railway as he was moved along, but the novel experience brought the idea into his mind which is embodied in the well-known phrasa " A cycle of Cathay. — A ' cycle ' is an indefinitely long period. Cathay is an old name for China. The roof-tree. — The main beam in the root LOCKSLBY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. This poem was published late in 1886. In the Nineteenth Century for January, 1887, Gladstone wrote as follows : ' ' The nation will observe with warm satisfaction that althoujjh the new Locksley Hall is, as told by the calendar, a work of Lord Tennyson's old age, yet is his poetic ' eye not dim, nor his natural force abated.' ... It was in 1842 that the g-enius of Lord Tennyson blazed in full orb upon the world. But he had long" before worn the livery of the muse, and braved the ordeal of the press, so that it is hardly an exag-jreration to treat the whole period of three score years as already included within 150 NOTES ON LOGKSLBY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTEB. a literary life. And now that he gives us another LocTcsley Hall 'after sixty years,' the very last criticism that -will be hazarded, or if liazarded will be accepted, on his work will be that it betrays a want of tone and lii)re. For my own part I have been not less impressed with the form, than with the sub- stance. Limbs will grow stiff with apfe, but minds not always ; we find here all undiminished that suppleness of the poet which enables him to conform without loss of freedom to the stringent laws of measured verse. Lord Tennyson retains his conspicu- ous mastery over the trochaic metre. " **In the work that is now before the world, Lord Tennyson neither claims the authority, nor cliarg-es himself with the responsibility, of one who solemnly delivers, under the weight - of years, and with a shortened sj)an before him, a confession of political or social faith. The poem is strictly a dramatic nionologue. In its pages we liave before us, though without the formal divisions of the drama, a group of personages, and the strain changes from the color of thought appropriate for one to that which befits another. . . . The method in the old Locksley Hally and in the new, is the same. In each the maker is outside his work ; and in each we have to deal with it as strictly impersonal. Were it otherwise, were we to seek political knowledge at the lips of our author, we should not be in difficulty ; for this is he who in his official verses of 1851, addressed to the Queen, and in the ])oem 'Love thou thy Land,' , has supplied us witli a code of politics as sound, as com])rehen- sive, and as exactly balanced, as either verse or prose could desire. " A portion of an article in the Spectator of Dec. 18th, 1886, is here added : ♦*The difference between the Loclcsley Hall of Tennyson's early poems and the Locksley Hall of his latest ip this — that in the former all the melancholy is attributed to personal grief, while all the sanguine visionariness which really springs out of overflowing vitality justifies itself by dwelling on the cumulative resources of science and the arts ; — in the latter, the melancholy in the man, a result of ebbing vitality, justifies itself by the failure of knowledge and science to cope with the moral horrors which experience has brought to light, while the set-off against that melancholy is to be found in a real ] ersonal experience of true nobility in man and woman. Hence those who call the new Locksley Hall i)essimist seem to us to do injiLstice to that fine poem. " NOTES ON LOCKSLEY HALL SIXTY YEARS AFTER. 151 •* On the whole, we have here the natural vessimism of ape in all its melancholy, alternating- with that hijrhest mood like 'old experience ' which, in Milton's phrase, ' doth attain to something like prophetic strain.' The various eddies caused by these ])Ositive and negative currents seem to us delineated v/ith at least as firm a hand as that which painted the tunmltuous ebb and flow of angry despair and angrier hope in the bosom of the deceived and resentful lover of sixty years since. The later Lockshy Hall is in the highest sense worthy of its predecessor. " In the hall, etc. — These two couplets were originally written for the first Locksley Hall. They were inserted after line 38, ' and our spirits rushed together, ' etc. His feet upon the hound. — Such recumbent figures are common on old English monuments, the crossing of the feet signifying that the Knight had been a Crusader. The shield of Locksley. — ^This was represented in the crimson or painted glass of the window. Gone the cry of * Forward, Forward.' — Compare Locksley Hall J p. 68, — "Forward, forward let us range." France had shown a light. — A reference to the French Revolution. Demos is the Greek word for the common people. The original inhabitants of France were Celtic. Peasants maim, etc. — This may refer to recent events in Ireland. Some refer it to the atrocities of 1830-33 in the agricultural districts of England, when the emissaries of "Cap- tain Swing " burned corn-stacks, farm-buildings, and live-stock. Saint Francis. — Tradition says that he was a lover of all lower animals, and even of plants and flowers. Cosmos. — This word meaning * order ' is opposed to chaos. Voices from the field.— The votes of the farmers. Zolaism. — An allusion to the 'realistic' French novelist, Zola. Jacobinism. — Violent opposition to legitimate government, from the Jacobins, — a club of wild Republicans in the French Revolution of 1789. Jacquerie, originally meaning a revolt of the peasants of Picardy against the nobles in 1358, then applied to any insurrection of the lower classes. Moonlight is the sunlight.— Reflected light it: -! ' . I" 152 NOTES ON ULYSSES. Hesper, etc. — Byron has paraphrased Sappho; **0 Hesperus J thou bringest all good things. " With the cry. — A.long vith the rest of the hounds. Roofs of slated hideousness. — The new "model houses " without any antique picturesqueness. The Lion passant. — On the Locksley coat-of-arnu:, ULYSSES. A writer in the Cornhill Magazine (July, 1880) has pointed out that the germ, the spirit, and the sentiment of this poem are from the 26th canto of Dante's Inferno. Gary's translation of the passage from Dante may here be given : " Nor fondness for my son, nor reverence Of my old father, nor return c^ love, That should have crown 'd Penelope with joy, Could overcome in me the zeal I had To explore the world, and search the wavs of life, , Man's evil and his virtue. Forth I sail 'a Into the deep illimitable main, "With but one barque, and the small faithful band That yet cleaved to me Tardy with age Were I and my companions, when we came To the strai pass, where Hercules ordam'd The boundaries not to be o'erstepp'd bj man. ' Oh, brothers ! ' I began, ' who to the y> est Through perils without number now ha '^e reach'd; To this the short remaining watch, that yet Our senses have to wake, refuse not proof Of the unpeopled world, following the track Of Phoebus. Call to mind from whence ye sprang ; Ye were not form'd to live the life of brutes. But virtue to pursue, and knowledge high.' " An idle King. — Ulysses, King of Itlmca, a rocky island oflF the entrance to the Corinthian Gulf. He was distinguished among the Greek heroes of the Trojan war for his courage, eloquence, and sagacity. After the fall of Troy the most interesting part of Ulysses' career begins. The adventures of his return voyage form the subject of Homer's Odyssey. After an absence of 20 years the hero reached Ithaca in safety, where he was welcomed by his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus. NOTES ON UIYSSES. 153 Mete and dole. — Measure and deal out. The words seem to imply contempt. Unequal laws.— Imperfect laws that fail to secure their end. Know not me. — Cannot appreciate my lofty and adventurous sjurit. Drink life to the lees. — I will drain the wine of life to the very drej^s. Suffer' d greatly. — Readers of Homer will reco}?nize here the conventional ejnthot of Ulysses, ' much — enduring.' Scudding drifts. — Broken clouds flyin«:f before tlie wind. Rainy Hyadcs. — A well-known fj^roup of seven stars in the head of Taurus, These stars were called llijades — the Rainers — because their rising- and setting were believed to be attended with much rain. I am become a name. — I am become famous. Delight of battle. — A fine translation of the \jSiX\n certaminia gaudia. For the sentiment compare Scott, Lord of the Ides, IV. 20 : "O war ! thou hast thy fierce delight, Thy gleams of joy hitensely bright." Ringing plains. — Ringing with the din of war. I am a part, etc. — My present character is made up of my past experiences. Yet all experience, etc. — My past. ex| eriences (instead of satisfying me) suggest alluring visions of the unexplored regions >Yhose bounds seem continually to flee before me as I a}iproach them. To rust unburnish'd. — Compare the old proverb: '*It is better to wear out than to rust out. " Of one to me little remains. — Of the single life which I can call ray own. Every hour is saved, etc. — Every hour of active life is some- thing saved from the silence of the grave ; nay, it is more than that, since it brings new experiences with it. Some three suns. — The three years or so of life remaining. i' ■■'n ■I • % 154 NOTES ON ULYSSES. ^.w ■^k. t>. This gray spirit yearning. — Is 'spirit' the object of 'store and hoard ' ; or the uominjitive absokite, equivalent to ' while tiiis gray spirit yearns ? ' ■ Discerning to fulfil. — Sajracious cnoug'yi to carry out. Slo"W prudence. — Wise measures p^radually introduced. Decent not to fail, etc. — Becomingly careful not to fail in kind attentions (to his mother). Gloom the dark seas. — Look gloomy on account of the haze in the distance. My mariners. — ^^"We need not quarrel with Tennyson for having bestowed those mariners on Ulysses in his old age. Tliere were, indeed, none such. They all lay fathom-deep in brine; no Homer, no Athene, li.id paid regard to t' the liaze NOTES ON ULYSSES. 155 I? (1) "Mr. Tennvsdii luis indeed done little but fill in the sketch of the fire.'it FIdiT-ntine. As is usiijil with him in all o.'isos where he borrows, the details and minuter ]»ortions of the work are his own ; he has added fi:race, elaboration, and symmetry ; he has called in the assistance of other |)oets. A roufji-h crayon drauf^ht has been metamorphosed into a perfect picture." — Carr. ('2) "The mild dif];'nity and placid resolve — the steady wisdom after the storms of life, and with the jtrosjiect of future fitorms — the melancholy fortitude, yet kindly resifrnation to liis destiny which ^'ives him a restless )»assion for wanderinjjf — the unaffected and imostentatious modesty and self-conscious power — the lonf*' softened shadows of memory cast from the remote vistas of ])ractical knowledfre and exjerience, with a suifusinji- tone of ideality broathinfi;' over the whole, and ffivin^ a saddened charm even to the sufrftestion of a watery p^rave — all this, and much more, inde| endent of the beautiful picturesqueness of the scenery, render the }!oem of TJIysNeH one of the most exquisite in the lang"uage. " — Home. (8) "Antithetically and g^randly opposed to the nerveless senti- ment of The Lotos Eaters is the masculine spirit of the lines '^n Ulysses, one of the healthiest as v. ell as most masterly of all Tennyson's poems. " — Bayne. (4) "In style and lang'ua!]ce this lioem may be contrasted with //_ >i € «. 6^ -K^ (Enone ; the latter beinf2: bathed in a ^low of color and rich in poetic imag-ery, while Ulysses is severe in style and unadorned in lang ige, " (5) ^^ Ulysses, like Tlt^" 's and (Enone, is in some sense a dramatic poem : ' spoken by another mouth than the poet's; the occasit . ts utterance is one that illustrates and emphasises the ciiaracter of the speaker ; and this kind of dramatic vividness is worked not merely into the thoup^hts but into the style. The terse, laconic, almost epig-rammatic vig"or of lanpfuajT^e put into the mouth of Ulysses marks the man of action and resource in time of danger, the man accustomed to rule and to be obeyed." (6) " For virile grandeur and astonishingly compact expression, there is no blank-verse poem, equally restricted as to length, that approaches the Ulysses : conception, imagery, and thought are royally imaginative, and the assured hand is Tsnnyson's throughout " — Stedman. bi t u «: f J :/ 166 I I I / NOTES ON ST. AGNES' EVB. ST. AGNES' EVE. This poom Wtas first published in The Keepsake for 1887. It was reprinted with slif^lit alterations in 1842, The earlier title of "St. Agnes" was changed in the edition of 1855 to "St. Agnes' Eve." The snows are sparkling. — St. Agnes' Day is the 21st. of January. Keats' |>oem on "The Eve of St. Agnes " begins similarly with a reference to midwinter : ■' St. A^iifts' Eve-Ah, bittor chill It was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold." St. Agnes may be supposed to bo standing at a cloister window, clad in white robes and with taper in hand. She gazes out upon the convent-roof, on the slanting shadows over the snowy sward, and then, in ecstatic longing, towards the moon and stars of the frosty skies. Argent round. — The moon. 2 Cor. 5: 1, Mine earthly house. — See house of this tabernacle," etc. "If our earthly Break up. — Break open. Compare Matt. XXIV, 43, — "If the goodman of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would have watched, and would not have suifered his house to be broken up.'''' The Heavenly Bridegroom waits. — See Is. 62 : 5, — " As the bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so shall thy God rejoice over thee." The Sabbaths of Eternity. — See Heb. 4 : 9. The shining sea. — See Eev. 15: 2, — "And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire. " SIR GALAHAD. Sir Galahad was the purest and saintliest of all King Arthur's knights : •' And one there was among us, ever moved Among us in white armour, Galahad. ' God made thee good as thou art beautiful,' Said Arthur, Mhen he dubb'd him knight ; and none, In so voung youth, was ever made a knight Till Galahad." NOTES ON SIR GALAHAD. 157 In the Arthurian leg-finds the numo of Gnlnhad sliines inost conspicuously in conuoctidu with tho scjirch for the Holy (Jriiil. The Sancfjreal or ffo/?/ Grail was, as tlie lejronds say, \h holy vessel from v.hich our Saviour ate the j)»"chal lanih at tlit Last Supier, or tho vessel out of which ho dis|ious(!d the wine. This cup was hroufjht to Britain hy Joseph of Aritnathea. Tennyson's Idyll of "The Holy Grail " tells the story of tho mystic cup : "The cup, the cup itself, from whlckour Lord Drank at the last sad supper witli \\\? own. This, from tlie l)leHScd land of Aroniat - After the day of darkness, when tlie dead Went wanderinf? o'er Moriah— tlie fjfood saint Arimatliaean Joseph, journeyinfr Imnijiht To Glastonhnry, where the winter thorn Blossoms at Ciiristmas, mindful of our Lord. And there awhile it bode ; and if a man Could touch or see it, he was heal'd at once, By faith, of all his ills. But then the times Grew to such evil that the holy cup Was caught away to Heaven, 'and disappeared." After the sacred cup had been lost for a lonj^ time it was seen by a holy maid, a sister of Sir Percivale, one of Arthur noblest knights. Knowing- that Sir Galahad was the ]iurest of Arthur's knights she insyured him with the belief tliat he should see the Holy Grail. His purity of life and earnestness of purjiose were rewarded with a glimpse of the vessel. The miraculous occasion is thus described by Sir Percivale t " Then on a summer night it came to pass. While the great banquet lay along the hall, That Galahad would sit down in Merlin's chair. And all at once, a.-^ there we sat, we heard A cracking and a riving of the roofs. And rending, and a blast, and over head Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. And in the blast there smote along the hall A beam of light seven times more clear than day I And down the long beam stole the Holv Grail All over cover'd with a luminous cloud. And none might see who bare it, and it past. But every knight beheld his fellow's face As in a glory." Many of the knights then swore a vow that they would ride * a twelvemonth and a day ' in quest of it till they found it and saw it clearly. When King Arthur was informed of their })ur] ose he asked the knights if any of them had really seen the Holy Thing. They all answered ' Nay ' but Galahad : V ' S'l k 168 NOTES ON SIR GALAHAD. " Then Galahad on the sudden, and in a voice Shrlllinp: alonj? the hall to Arthur, call'd, * But I, Sir Arthur, saw the Holy Grail, I saw the Holy Grail and heard a cry— O Galahad, and O Galahad, follow me.' " After a long and anxious quest Galahad has a clear view of the Grail, and goes forth in the spiritual strength derived therefrom to fight evil in all lands : " I, Galahad, saw the Grail, The Holy Grail, descend upon the shi'ine : I saw the tiery face as of a child That smote itself into the bread, and went ; And hither am I come ; and ne\ '>r yet come Fainter by day, but always in the ni^ht Blood-red, and sliding down the blacken'd marsh Blood red, and on the naked mountain top B''>od-red, and in the sleeping mere below I ' i-red. And In the strength of this I rode, S V . ^ring all evil customs everywhere, ^J't! \i 9t thro'Pagan realms, and made them mine, \m} < ash'd with Pagan hordes, and bore them down, . : roke thro* all, and in the strength of this Cv.- victor." Jo,rves the casques. — Cuts through the helmets. Shattering. — An expressive use of the word. The successive blasts rend the air. On whom. — That is, on those on whom. 8uch ellipses are common in Shakespeare and Elizabethan Englisli. For them I battle. — It was the main office of the true knight to rescue and fight for distressed ladies. More bounteous aspects. — Grander and more satisfying visions. The next three stanzas expand this verse. Virgin. — Pure. Stormy crescent. — The crescent moon sotting amid storm- clouds. Stalls. — Seats for the clergy in the chancel of a church. Silver vessels. — The vessels containing the bread and wine of the Eucharist. The shrill bell. — The bell is rung during mass at the elevii' tion of the Host NOTES ON SIR GALAHAD. 159 Maggie bark. — Enchanted boats are common in early poetry. My spirit beats, etc.— My spirit is ea^er to follow the heavenly vision. As down dark tides, etc. — The glorious vision glides away into the dar^ moss. On the leads. - covered with lead. -The hail beats on the rooh of the houses Blessed forms. — Angels I muse on joy, etc. — The joys of heaven and the realms of heav^enly glory. Pure lilies. — In Christian art the lily is the emblem of purity and innocence. Stricken with an angel's hand, etc. — Under spiritual influences iiiy whole being at times becomes etherwUised. The Prize.— The Holy GraiL Hostel. — Inn. Grange. — Farmhouse. ,dU vf :i-^ C^^^^- , .A (2) (1) *'Thi« poem belongs to the quasi-dramatic group ; it contains implicitly the story of a life and the exhibition of a well- marked type of character — the whole being put into the mouth of the hero of the poem himself." "This poem and tSt. Af/nes' Eve are the two purest and highest of Tennyson's lyrical jtieces, lull of white light, and each a stainless idealization of its thouie. Sir (ialahad is rich in sounding melody, and has the true, knightly, heroic ring. The poet has never clumted a more ennobling strain. " — Stedman. " Sir OaJahad is a noble picture of a religious knight. He is almost as much a mystic as a soldier ; both a monk and a warrior of the ideal iy\Q>. He foregoes the world as much as ii he lived within the monastery walls, ,'uul esteems his sword as sacred to the service of (Jod as if it were a cross. His rajjture is altogether that of the mystic. Ho is almost a St. Agnes, exchanging only the rai)turc of j assivitj for the transport of exult.uit ettbit He is just tlio eiubo) Fronde's "Short Studies on Great Subjects," vol. I., pp. 493-501, (7) Knight's History of England, chap. LXXVII. It is somewhat strange that this "naval Thermopylae" of England was not celebrated in worthy English song for nearly three hundred years. Strange too it is that this virile ballad is not the product of Tennyson's vigorous manhood, but of his declining years. The poem is well up to high-water mark in ballad literature, and no one will dis]iute the characteristic comment of Carlyle on the occasion of Tennyson's reading the poem to him : "Eh ! he has got the grip of it ! " A bc^Uad of The Fleet. — The word ballad is now applied to a species of minor epic, — a versified narrative, in a simjile, popular style, of some heroic deed, or of some striking event. The ballad is usually short, as it is confined to a single incident or to a brief series of (connected events. It ftartakes of the lyric nature as well as of the epic, and is thus adajited for singing. Floras — Azores. — Flores is a dissyllable and Azores a trisyllable here. Flores is one of the islands of the Azores group. ■ Follow quick. — That is, do you follow me. Ships of the line. — The largest vessels are called 'hners' or ♦ ships of the line ' because in an engagement they form in line of battle, while the lighter frigates are employed as scouts and cruisers. Inquisition dogs, — When Eliicabeth wiis kindling the s}»irit of her peopl* against the Armada she took care that the cruellies of the Spanish impiisition should be set impressively before men's eyes. "A list and description was published, and pictures "n 162 NOTES ON THE REVENGE. dispersed, of the several instruments of torture with wliich, K was yn-etended, the Armada was loaded." Tennyson has .well described the intense horror and hate with wliich the British sailors reg'arded the "devildoms of Spain." The Spanish Imjuisition was established in 1480 to inquire into and deal with offences against the established relipfion. Down to 1809 it is said to liave caused the burning- at the stiike of 31,912 people in Spain alone. Past away. — This arcliaic forni of ' passed ' is quite in keej)- in^ with the ballad style. Bideford. — Pronounce Bld-e-ford. In Elizabethan times this was one of the chief jiorts qi England. "It was the men of Devon ... to whom England owes her commerce, her colonies, her very existence " (Kingsley's Wetitioard Ho I) For the glory of the Lord. — This is an ironical sneer at the notion of the Spaniards resyiecting the torture and burning- of heretics. Sea-castles. — Some of the Sy)anish j:^alleons were four- deckers. Their g-reat size put them at a disadvantage in a cannona 'e, for their lofty tiers of g-uns proved almost useless in a close conflict with a smaller vessel. Weather bow. — The quarter from which the wind was blowin*]^. Observe the modern ])ronuuciation of 'bow,' rhyming- with ' now ; ' compare with the older sound as in ' bowsprit, ' ' bowline. ' Again. — The reader must observe the varying^ pronunciation of this word, rhymiuj^ in v. 9 with 'Spain,' and in v. 29 with ' men. ' •\^e be, — This archaic form suits the ballad style. Seville. — Accent on the first syllable. Seville was once the political and commercial capital of Spain. Here was the seat of the supreme court of the Inquisition. Don. — Formerly a Spanish nobleman, but now long- used by the English speaking- races as a synonym for ' Spaniard.' The conjunction with 'devil' g-ives a special force here to ' Don.' We roar'd. — We learn from this that the ballad is supposed to be recited by a survivt)r of the sea-tig-lit. Up-shadowing. — What other poetic compounds in the poem? What is their aesthetic value '? MQTB8 OK THB RBVBNOB. 168 And we stay' d. — The epiprrammatio crLspness of this abrupt conchision is in hannony with the situation described. The little 'Kovenjje' is runnin{2: on when the San Philip comes between her and the wind and all at once — 'we stay'd.' Like a cloud. — A similitude very different from that in v. 14. Galleons. — These were large four-decked, armed merchant- men. Larboard. — The left side of the ship as one faces the bow. This side of the ship is now called 'port,' as the calls 'larboard' and ' starboard ' in stormy weather are easily confounded. Anon . . . ill-content. — Raleigh in his account of the fight says : "The 8nn I*hilip shifted herself with all diligence from the side of the ]\'o\ on <>o, "utterly misliking her first enter- tainment." She had irol>nltly received a shot in her hull. Notice the (piaiut humor in Kaleigh's account which Tennyson has reja-oduced in "she bethought herself" and "left her ill- content. " Shook 'em off. — 'em is not a contraction of them, but represents the M.E. hem, the old objective plur. of he. As a dog. — Notice the superb contempt in the simile. Ship after ship. — During the night fifteen Spanish ships attem[ited, one after another, to board the Revenge. Two were sunk, and the rest battered and beaten off with great slaughter. God of battles.— Compare Psalm XXIV., 8, "The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle.'' Grisly.— Frightful, ghastly. And he s .id. — Is this better than '■hut he said'? Night went down. — What would be the meaning of "the night came down " '? Sun smiled. — Is this in harmony with the scene? Stark.—' Stiff ; ' diat is, ' dead.' Sink me the ship. — Me is the 'dative of interest,' — sink the ship at my bidding. The lion. — Sir Richard, the lion-hearted, could not now enforce his terrible order. - cm i^jU-^f- 164 KOTflS OK THE RBVByGa. Flagship.— This is the ship that carries the admiral*s flag", and in which ho sails. Queen and Faith. — Queen Elizabeth an'^ the Protestant religion. Holden. — Another archaism appropriate to a bt^liad containing a story of olden days. Devil or man. — Linschoten says that tb S]:)aniards declared that Sir Richard ' ' had a devilish faith and Jigion, and there- fore the devils loved him, " and raised the subsequent storm to . revenge his death. Swarthier alien crew. — The Spaniards ?ire of darker complexion t'lan the English. With her loss. — Carrying with her her sorrow for the loss of her English crew. By a fine touch of poetic imagination the little ship is represented as mourning and longing for her lost captain and crew. The lands they had ruin'd. — ^The West Ind'es had been ravaged and plundered by the Spaniards. There s fine j^oetic justice in destroying these Spaniards with a wind from these ruin'd lands. Or ever. — For or e'e^, which arose by mistake from the earlier or ere, in which er '■ is a mere reduplication and explana- tion of the oVy A.S. oer = Grtt=: before. By the island crags. — According to Raleigh '* The Revenge, and in her 200 passengers, were cast away upon the isle of St. Michaels " — one of the Azores. When a wind . . . main. — This is one of the finest attempts ever made at imitative harmony. By diction, by metre, and by rhythm, tha poet makes his descrijition gradually swell and gather like the storm with which he is dealing. The roaring and plunging of the verse reaches its climax in the antej enulti- mate line, and then gradually dies away into a calm. (1) Compare Tennyson's story of this famous sea-fight with the historical account. Where the joetic narrative diverges from history discover the artistic reason for the difierence. (S) What is the standard metre of this ballad, if it have such? Are the many varieties in the metrical pace of the linea 8tudied and artistic V HOTBS ON IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. 165 (8) Examine the following linos with a view to discover whether there is imitative harmony in the length or the lines and the movement of the verse : — (a) Very carefully and slow,— m) Running? on, etc.— (c) Long and loud,— (d) When he leiips, etc.— (e) For he said ' Fight on ! ficht on ! ' (f) So they watched, etc.— (g) We have fought does it matter when ?— (h) We have children, etc.— (i) And he fell, etc.— (4) Point out instances in the poem where the order and recurrence of the rhymes produce marked effects. Make a special study of section XIV with its five sets of rhymes. (5) Discuss the propriety of calling the sections of this poem * stanzas. ' (6) Examine the artistic devices of section IX. under these heads : — (a) Length of lines, (b) Nature of the rhymes, (cj Quality of the metre, (d) Use of rhetorical figures, (e) Employment of nature. (7) What in the form and the spirit of this poem are character- istic features of the ballad style ? (8) Show the value of oral reading- in the interpretation and appreciation of poetry in general, and of this poem in particular. I IN THE CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. This poem was first published in the Ballads and other Poems of 1880. The poem, it has been said, is "marred a little by the need- lessly harsh attack on the practice of modern surgerj', as exhil)ited by one of the hospital staff." lint surely the I'oem is a little drama in which the Hos];ital Nurse is the sieaker tliroughout. Her prejudices against modern innovations in medicine and 11 166 NOTES ON THE REVENGE. surgery are as mucli her own as is her goody-goody style of moralizing. The two children of the }.oem are from actual life, the poet having read their story in a Parish Magazine. He was happier using the knife. — He was more skilful in amputation. Mangle the living dog. — The reference is to the practice of vivisection for purj oses of physiological investigation. Drench' d with the hellish oorali. — A drench is a draught of medicine for a beast. The drug oorali or woorali ticts by paralyzing the nerves of motion while the sensitiveness is left unimpaired. Regulations iiave been enacted in England restricting the use of this drug and preventing its abuse. That ever etc. — Give the full value of this abbreviated expression. It was all but a hopeless case. — Why is the phraseology altered below to "it was but a hoj eless case. " Has had his day. — What important bearing has this line on the whole poem ? It has only dawn'd. — This is the poet's own view : '* Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. Ye do it to me.— See Matt. XXV, 40. Where the works etc. — That is, in the fields and the woods. Spirits in prison.— I Peter, III, 19. Do it. — Perform the necessary surgical operation. A phantom cry. — What purpose is served by introducing this, and the apparition below, — "it seem'd she stood by me and smiled " ? (1) Mr. Palgrave asserts that this is the most absolutely pathetic poem known to him. What do you think of his estimate ? (2) What is the poet's justification for using *■ Emmie ' as a sub- title ? NOTES ON YOU ASK ME WHY. 167 (8) Account for the remarkable brevity of the sixth section of the i^oem. (4) Remark on the employmemt of such ex^jressions as — "If I was you," '-it's me," "Such a lot of beds," "tell it him plain. " (5) Why do poets use such forms as : (a) 'Call'd,' 'fawn'd,' 'drench'd,' for 'called,' 'fawned,' ' drenched ' ? (b) 'past,' 'crost,' 'vext,' 'tost,' for 'passed,' 'crossed,' ' vexed, ' ' tossed ' ? (c) ' tho', ' ' thro', ' for ' though, ' ' through ' ? l}\ i YOU ASK MB WHY. 11 This poem and the two following, on England and her institu- tions, were written in 1833, though not published till 1842. In these three short pieces political philosophy, never a promising theme for verse, has been thrown into the poetic mould with wonderful skill. A writer in the British Quarterly Review for October, 1880, says : "We have been told that when the Laureate was at Cambridge, a friend of his own age and set, himself well known in literature since those days, delivered a speech at the Cambridge Union which made at the time a profound impression. But few of the enthusiastic boys who heard it could have supposed even in the wildest flights of admiration, that their orator's thoughts, and many of his words, would live as long as the English language, in the form of the tine stanzas, ' You ask me why, though ill at ease,' 'Of old sat Freedom on the heights,' and ' Love thou thy land.' " The orator referred to in the foregoing extract was probably James Spedding.— to whom Tennyson's lines "To J.S." are addressed. The mist — of England : the purple seas — of the South. Sober-suited. — ^What is the force of tho epithet? She is called in the next poem ' Grave mother of majestic works. " The land that Freedom chose.— So in the next ])oem, ' Then stept she down thro' town and field to mingle with the human race.' 168 NOTES ON OP OLD SAT FREEDOM. Freedom slowly broadens down. — Freedom becomes broader and stabler down the progress of the ag-es. Com])are the present form with the original reading ' broadens slowly. ' Should fill and choke. — Compare with the original reading, 'should almost choke.' (1) "You ask me. introduction ? ,i hat is the special value of this form of (2) Is there any reason why this and the two following poems have no titles ? Try to make a title for each. (3) (4) "Tho' ill at ease." Is there anything in the poet's own nature or special circumstances to account for this ? "Freedom broadens." Compare with * sober-suited Free- dom.' Is Freedom personified in botli cases'? With these compare also ' individual freedom ' in the fifth stanza. (5) *' Single thought is civil crime." Does the poet intend a contrast between ' single ' and * civil ' ? (6) Show how the style has been heightened by figures in the sixth and seventh stanzas. (7) Show the aptness of the choice oif 'jmrple seas' and 'palms and temples ' in s^ eakiug of the south. OP OLD SAT FREEDOM. Of old sat Freedom on the heights. — Compare Milton's L'Allegro, 26: "The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty." Shook the starry lights. — This is a fresher form of the commoner expression, * the trembling stars. ' Self-gathered in her prophet-mind. — ^Belf-collected and confident as she looks into the future. Fragments. — Freedom came slowly to man. Grave mother. — She is represented on coins as the matron Britannia, crowned and holding Neptune's trident, thus signify- ing her claim to be " Mistress of the Sea. " Isle-altar. — Britain. NOTES ON LOVE THOU THY LAND. 169 God-like.— Like the God Neptune. The wisdom of a thousand years. — The wisdom of aga Turning to scorn. — Scornfully denouncing. The falsehood of extremes. — Tennyson is always a preacher of ' the golden mean. ' The following stanzas from another poem on "Freedom" published in 1884 may be read with profit in connection with these verses of a half-century before : "O thou 80 fair in summers ^one, While vet thy fresh and virf^in soul , InformVt the p'illar'd Parthenon, The glittering Capitol ; So fair in Southern sunshine bathed, But scarce of such majestic mion As here with forehead vapor-swathed In meadows ever green ; For thou— when Athens reign'd and Rome, Thy glorious eyes were dimm'd with pain — To m'ark in many a freeman's home The slave, the scourge, the chain ;— follower of the Vision, still In motion to the distant gleam, HoAve'er blind force and brainless will May jar thy golden dream Of knowledge fusing class with class, Of civic bate no more to be. Of love to leaven all the mass Till every soul be free ;— (1) Account for the associations and feelings of Freedom in the first six lines of the poem, * Of old sat Freedom. ' (2) Compare this form of stanza with that of the preceding and the following poem. Is there anything in the subject and the treatment of this poem that makes the present stanza preferable to the stanza of the other two poems ? Which is the stanza of "In Memoriam ? " LOVE THOU THY LAND. This poem was probably written in 1833, at the very beginning of a period of unrest and revolution in almost every department of human activity and thought. " Science was awat;e on every 170 NOTES ON LOVE THOU THY LAND. hand, pathorinpf materials for the bold simculations on man and nature which within a few years have antiquated all that science had done before. Philoso]ihical and theolopcical speculation had received a now impulse from Germany." In the church this was the period of the famous 'Tracts for the Times.' In politics it was the period of the Reform Hill. John Morley has described this remarkable ejwch thus: "A p^reat wave of humanity, of benevolence, of desire for improvement, — a great wave of social sentiment, in short, — poured itself among all who had the faculty of large and disinterested thinking. " Love thou thy land. — The true patriot's love will include within its view not only the Present and the storied Past, but also, through the imagination, the possibilities of the future. True love etc. — It must be a constant love with fixed principles and having in it no elements of selfishness. The herd etc. — The populace are easily deceived by the sophistry of the demagogue. Deliver not etc. — Entrust not the power of governing the country to those too weak for the task, nor keep political power from those who are worthy of it. Make knowledge etc. — Educate the masses, but let them not be seized with the iconoclastic spirit. The bane of educated f'^^mocracies is the absence of reverence. The theme is handled more fully in "In Memoriam," CXIV : " Who loves not knowledgrc ? Who shall rail Agrainst her beauty ? May she mix With men and prosper ! Who sliall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire : ^ She sets her forward countenance And leaps into the future cliance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain- She cannot fight the fear of dfath. What is she, cut from love and faitli. But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery -hot to burst All barriers in "her onward race For power. Let her know her place She is tne second, not the first." In the Prologue to the same poem occurs the thought t NOTKS ON LOVE THOU THY LAND. •' Let knowledffo prrow from more to more, But more of reverence in ii.s dwell '" - 171 Watch what main-currents etc. — Wutcli the trend of the times. Cut prejudice etc. — Thin is one's own |irojn(lice. Regard the weakness etc.— In dcalinp: with your fellow- men if you feel tlioy are wrong have consideration for their weakness. It grows to guerdon after-days. — Do not couut on any immediate return for }iatriotic endeavors. The praise will coine in good time to reward (to guerdon) the future. Watch-words. — Such as ** Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," *'The Classes and the Masses," etc. In its season etc. — When the times are rijo for any particular legislation, then legislate, but not bcfttre. Life, that, working strongly, binds. — After a measure has been fully discussed and then made law it will have a living force that will give it effect. *To close. — To inclttde. For nature also. — Show how nature in maturing the indi- vidual life is to be a model for men in their legislative enact- ments. Be free to ingroove itself. — Let the old (that which flies) and the new join interests and with united purpose (a joint of state) perform their common functions. Work, a joint of state. —And let them work as a joint of state, etc. Hard to shape in act — Peaceful revolutions are rare, Ev'n now. — At the time of writing show that England was in an unquiet condition. Phantoms. — Indications that monarchies and even existing forms of republics might be superseded. New majesties of mighty states. —These are the "other forms of rule " which are to come, and iis ideals the poet calls them " the warders of the growing hour." Lest the soul of Discord, etc.— As in the times of the French Revolution. 172 NOTES ON LOVE THOU THY LAND. A ivind to puff etc. — ^To increase the blaze that burns your idols. Ashes on the head. — A suggestion of mourning and humil- iation. To follow flying steps of Truth. — In the pursuit of Truth to engage in war. Thro' shame and g^ilt. — ^Through the shameful conduct and guilt of the nation. Like peace. — With all the calmness and confidence of peace. From either side. — From either party. To-morrow yet etc. — The future would reap the results of the present as we are reaping the results of the past. (1) What constitutes this piece aj)oem? How much does it contain of the elements and quaiitifes of poetry ? Examine under the heads, [a] diction, [b] figures, [c] melody and harmony, [d] fancy and imagination. (2) Can you trace a thread of sequence running through the poem, or are the ideas strung loosely together ? APPENDIX. THE TWO LOCKSLEY HALLS. To a lar^e portion of the En^lish-speMkin^ race, } erhaps to tlie larger portion of it, Tennyson is i)re-eniinently the poet of " Locks- ley HalL" There are others of his productions which commend themselves with far more effectiveness to minds of a certain order. There are others of them which will be conceded to display more varied if rot g'reater power. But there is no other that has appealed to so wide a circle of sympathies, and, as a result, there is no other that has been so generally read and admired and quoted. Its jKjpularity has never been fitful. The rank which it took at the very outset it has held since with not the slig^litest abatement. Comparatively few are living- now who can remember how sudden was its leap into fame. We have no means of ascertaining when it was written, still less when it was conceived. But it made its first appearance in print in the two- volume edition of 1842, with which the poet broke at last what had practically been a silence of ten years. That edition came out in the latter part of the month of May. In the review of it that was published in the London Athenceum, early in the follow- ing August, nothing was quoted from "Locksley Hall," for the avowed reason that it was one in particular of two or three pieces that had already become common jiroj erty. The poet himself may be thought to share to some extent in the sentiments of the larger number of his readers. It is, at any rate, to this production of his youth that he has gone back in his old age. Forty-four years after its publication, and i)erhaps fifty years after its conception, he took up the same theme and brought once more upon the stage the same characters. Late in 1886 was published "Locksley Hall Sixty Years After." No such welcome awaited it as that with which the original poem had been greeted. Respectful mention was made of it in some quarters, and there were a few in which it met with enthusiastic praise. On the other hand, a gowl deal of the criticism expressed of it was depreciatory where it was not openly hostile. Tliis is a 174 THE TWO LOCKSLEY HALLS. condition of things by no means unexampled in the case of several of Tennyson's productions, upon which at their first appearance reviewers have solemnly frowned or have bestowed at best a grudging- commendation. Some of them, which are now reckoned among the masterpieces of his genius, made their way with the least possible aid from the favorable verdicts of the majority of professional judges. He who wishes to gain a vivid conception of the value or valuelessness of contemporary criticism, its self- appreciation and its lack of appreciation, can hardly do better than consult certain of the articles which appeared upon several of Tennyson's greatest works at the time of their original publi- cation. But in the case of the second Locksley Hall — as for the sake of convenience it may be called — there has been something more than lack of appreciation in much of the criticism with which it has been received. The literary judgments pronounced upon it have frequently been modified, and in some instances have been influenced throughout, by reasons that were in no sense literary. The poem was looked at not as a work of art but as a contribution to the discussion of the social and political phenomena of the day. On this account it met with favor from some ; from a much larger number it met with disfavor. One man would be tempted to depreciate it because its author had been created a lord. Another would go further, and insinuate that the poet had been bribed by a peerage to turn his back upon the more generous convictions of his earlier time. All the mean motives which spawn with profusion in mean minds were advanced to account for the writer's real or supposed change of view. No doubt, indeed, can well be entertained that much of the adverse criticism to which the piece was subjected was due not to the character of the poetry it contained but to the character of the politics it was thought to represent. It ought not to be necessary to say that criticism which is based, consciously or unconsciously, upon grounds of this sort has hardly reason for its existence, still less excuse for its utter- ance. The views expressed in the second Locksley Hall may be the views of Tennyson himself, or they may not be. In neither - case have they anything to do with the estimate we form of the work. To the literary critic the fact of the revelation or non- revelation in the poem of the author's opinions is a matter of even , less concern than the justness or the falsity of the opinions them- selves. To him there are but two questions that present themselves for consideration. In the first place, is the poem, as regards its import, true to life — does it fairly represent the character in • ({ THE TWO LOCKSLBT HALLS. 176 whose mouth its sentiments are put? Again, as regards the form, does it express with fitness and force the thoughts and feelings which it was intended to convey ? Tried by these, the only proper standards, the new Locksley Hall will abide the severest test. Unlike most continuations, while it shows departure, it shows no falling off from the original. There are causes that will always tend to make the one poem less widely popular than the other. But the motives of the two are essentially the same, and both will go down to future times as representative companion pictures of two strongly marked phases of individual and of national life. The instantaneous and universal popularity which the first •* Locksley Hall " gained was due in part to caiLses indejiendent of its form. It mirrored as did no other work the hojies and aspirations of its time. The period in which it was produced was a period of exaltation which reflected in faint outlines the mood of men in the earlier months of the French Revolution. It is hard for us now to conceive the state of mind that prevailed at the opening of the half-century that has just closed. The opti- mistic view of the future wiis everywhere predominant. The race was at last emerging from the social and political thraldom which had cramjed its etffoits and crushed its spirit. Class distinctions were on the point of overthrow, ancient abuses of all sorts were about to be uprooted. On another side there was a prospect full as glorious. Man was speedily to assert his full mastery over the blind but mighty elemental forces of which he had hitherto been the piavihing or the victim. His career of conquest over nature Iwid already opened triumphantly. Steam applied to locomotion was annihilating space. Electricity, though not yet made fully captive, was revealing the possibility of the annihilation of time. An abstract j ersonification called Science, with miracles already performed, and with the promise of greater miracles to be performed, was the new deity to which we were to look fcH* the regeneration of the race. There was no limit to" its beneficence, no limit to its power, no limit therefore to what it could and would accomplish. To all the future looked bright, for there was intoxication in the air. It was at such a time as this that the poet came forward in the original * ' Locksley Hall " to put into majestic words the majestic but vague ideas which had fired the imaginations of men. To their shadowy conceptions he gave distinctness and grandeur. He pictured for them the full glory of the coming day which had already begun to dawn. The hero of the piece was suited to the part he was called upon to i erform. He is in the vigor of early 176 THE TWO LOOKSLBT HALLS. manhood, hut his life has already been saddened by a great personal calamity which makes him willing to fling it away. From the benumbing eifects of this sorrow he is rescued by the vision that unfolds itself before his eyes, of the progress of humanity through the wonder-working agencies of science and the development of man as man. The individual, it is true, may fail, but the race itself is moving on through struggle and storm to a higher civilization and a loftier destiny. In the gorgeous picture of the future which presents itself before him, the noble, even if delusive, dream of human brotherhood revives. Strife and battle there nuist be before the result is reached. But these are nothing more than the preliminary tumults with which all great changes are ushered in. They in turn will give place to the reign of universal peace, nsade permanent aud secure by the obedience of all to that universal law which has been established by the parliament of man and is upheld by the federation of the world. It is little wonder that a great poem, which by its combination of lofty sentiment and lofty diction gave dignity to the acts and lives of common men, should have been greeted with the warmest of welcomes. In its glowing lines the early Victorian era read the reality of the future of which it dreamed. But there is another side to the shield. It is this which the new LocksJey Hall sets out to show us. A half-century has gone by, and the hero of the poem once more appears. This time, however, it is not the man with his life before him who speaks, but the man who has lived his life. He stands almost alone. Gone are the enemies he hated, the friends he loved, the comrades of the bivouac and the battle-field. Gone^ above all, are the feelings which furnished the inspiration of the original poem. The vision of his early life, however, is not gone. He recalls it half-satiri- cally to point tiie contrast between the pretension and promise of the time and the pitiful performance tkat has followed. Yet there is also a half-mournful tone in these very verses in which he asks, incredulously, if some diviner force will guide men in the days he himself shall not see to the realization of his youthful ideal : When the schemes and all the systems, Kinprdoms and Republics fall, Something kindlier, higher, holier— all for each and each for all ? All the full-brain, half-brain races, led by Justice, Love, and Truth ; All the millions one at length, with all the visions of my youth V All diseases quench'd by Science, no man halt, or deaf, or blind; Stronger ever born of weaker, lustier body, larger mind V THE TWO LOCKSLBY HALLS. 177 ^ruth ; Carth at last a warless world, a single race, a single tongue, I have seen her far away— for is not Earth as yet so young ?— Every tiger madness muzzled, every serpent passion kill'd, Every grim ravine a garden, every blazing desert till'd, Robed in universal harvest up to either pole she smiles, Universal ocean softly washing all her warless Isles. This is the picture he saw in his youth. How does it correspond with the picture he now sees ? He had dreamed then of universal peace and universal brotherhood. Miglity and bloody wars have marked the interval. These, indeed, he had forecast as an inevitable accompaniment of the period of transition. But, as a result, is the world any nearer the g:oaI of universal brotherhocxl, does the reign of universal peace exJiibit any clearer signs of its approach ? Is, in truth, such a hope any longer cherished not as a remote probability but even as a remote possibility ? Tlie situation that presents itself before his eyes is the all-sufficient comment upon the expectation. The civilized world is eager for peace but seems driven by a dreadful necessity to devote all its energies to preparation for war. The whole Euro} ean continent is an intrenchtd camp. America is saved by the mere accident of position from the need of raising mighty armament and it is to her watery wall alone that his own country owes its freedom from the burden of maintaining a gigantic land-force. If we turn, on the other hand, to Science we find the same failure of the present to realize the dream of the past. Even on the purely material side the new deity men were called upon to worship has not done everything which was anticipated. The navies of the world do not as yet fight in the mid-air, as the poet saw them in his earlier vision. Still, though Science has not fulfilled all the expebtations of its worshippers it has fulfilled them partially, and in some cases has gone beyond their most extrava- gant hopes. Yet its very success in certain ways makes more pronounced its futility in others. The panaceas which it was to bring with it have turned out incapable of healing a single one of the sorrows that are the sad inheritance of the race. It shifts the load of human care, but it does not lighten it. It has shown itself absolutely helpless to satisfy the cravings of the spirit. Science may add to man's physical well-being, but it adds nothing to his real hai)piness. It may give him longer life, but it will not teach him to live it any better. It mny make him more satisfied -with himself, but it contributes little or nothing to his intoUectud stature. He is no greater now, whirled fifty miles an iiour by tiif banks of the Thames, than he was two thousand years ago, 178 THE TWO LOOKSLEY BALLS. wandering slowly along- the Ilissus. Even the material comforts which it furnishes on a much broader scale do not a])] arently remove his sullen discontent with his lot, which, if not deeper- seated than ever, is certainly far more vocal. Equally futile has been the remedial legislation which has set out to elevate the race by strikin*^ off the fetters that have held its mental and spirit- ual activities in clieck. The fierce comj etition between man and man which unshackled freedom has broug"ht in its ti*ain presses upon the weaker or more luckless combatants in the strug-f^le as heavily as did ever the tyranny of the most rejiressive legislation. It is by the expression of these sentiments tliat the second Locksley Hall represents, as accurately as in its turn did the first, the feeling's both of the time of life and of the time. As the latter poem painted the confident attitude of the one jeriod, so does the former the critical attitude of the other. The words are put appropriately into the mouth of an old man who, by the very fact of age, is a praiser of the jiast, and by the fact of experience has learned to see the vanity of the illusions which he had mistaken for realities. But its principal claim to consideration is the picture it presents of the feelings that are prevalent, if not dominant, at the close of the Victorian era. The ho| efulness of its beginning has been replaced by dismal apprehensions. The future is doubtful if not gloomy. We seem to be mere help- less atoms floating on a stream of tendency the current of which we cannot control, and borne onward to a catastrophe we cannot foresee. Everything that is dark in the time, everything that is unlovely, everything that is forbiddmg, is therefore brought out with added emjthasis in this poem that concerns itself with the phenomena of the time. In art, in literature, and in life, we seem steadily sinking to lower levels. The love of country has been lost in love of self, and devotion to ennobling national ideas has given way to unworthy attempts to gain the favor of the multitude by pandering to its passions or by flattering its vanity. The brutal and savage instincts inherent in human nature, which we fancied we had outgrown, reappear in meaner and more cowardly forms, and seek the gratification of revenge for political wrongs by the infliction of pain upon innocent and hel})less animals. A literature which proclaims itself realistic vies with the brothel in ap]iealing to the baser passions, and adds hypocrisy to vice by the pretence that it is doing it in the interests of a purer and loftier art. Whether these denunciatory utterances ex])ress or not the actual views of the poet does not concern the reader. It is THE TWO LOCKSLEY HALLS. 179 e, we [y has ideas if the [anity. hich more llitical >l}iless with )crisy of a )t the It is enough for him if they depict fairly sentiments that are widely held. This they certainly do. For at the present time a gi-eat pessimistic wave is sweepinpc over the world, at least over that portion of it which thinks. Individuals may he, and doubtless are, exempt from its influence. But even he who does not feel it in his own consciousness car. hardly fail to see its existence on every side. The literature is iargely one of doubt where it is not one of dread. We may deplore the prevalence of the sentimeni or we may scoif at it. For the manifestation of the latter feelins^ there is doubtless this excuse, that to some extent it has become a mere fashion. Just as in Shakespeare's time men were sad only for wantonness, so it is not unusual now to see them pessi- mistic for the same reason. Still this does not vitiate the fact that the educated mind of the race is now larj^ely disturbed everywhere by fear of the future, and is sometimes mastered by despair. It is, of course, very possible that all the j^loomy misfj^ivings of the second Locksley Hall may turn out as baseless as the glowing anticipations of the first. As, indeed, in the earlier ]ioem itself the confidence in the future was shaken at intervals by feeling's of doubt, so in the later the doubt is relieved in turn by occasional feelings of hope. Accordingly, the children of this world, who are not troubled because they do not think, may possibly be wiser in their generation than the children of light, who stagger under the burden of prospective calamities that are never to arrive. Democracy in particular has had, ir time past, a peculiar fashion, which it may repeat in time to come, of reveng- ing itself upon its adversaries — in confounding by its course their predictions as to its conduct, and of falsifying by the event their prognostics of disaster. However these things may turn out, the second Locksley Hall must always have attached to it a special interest for the exact and vivid representation it furnishes of the feelings of the time. This, independent of literary form, would establish its claim to being one of the most memorable works of its author. But its literary form, moreover, raises it to a dis- tinction which jJaces it fully alonapside of the similar work accomplished by him mthe first vigor of manhood. There are certain characteristics belonging to the earlier poem which the latter does not and cannot have. The subject itself forbids it. The literature of denunciation and gloom can never be invested with the charm that is inherent by nature in the literature of hope and aspiration. A work, in particular, that embodies the doubts and fears of a class, no matter if intellectually the highest, can never attain to the general popularity of one that give* at 180 THE TWO LOCKSLBY HALLS. least the semblance of reality to the dreams of alt. There are, besides, in the second poem a few passages which approach dangerously near to the prosatc. There are one or two verses in which the thought is too commonplace for the language with / which it has been clothed. But when these shortcomings have been pointed out, very little is left for the devil's advocate to urge in the way of objection. All of these defects, when taken together, detract but little from the perfection of the piece as. a whole. It is little to say of ''Locksley Hall Sixty Years After" that English literature presents no similar instance of a work of any- thing like the same grade of intellectual achievement produced by a poet at the same period of life. No allowance has to be made for it on account of the age of its author. If it lack at times the gorgeousness of diction which characterized to so marked a degree the original creation it equals it in sustained power, and in energy of expression it occasionally leaves it behind. There is exhibited throughout it that same felicitous capacity of producing great effects by the use of single words or phrases. What a weight of meaning, for instance, is added to the verse, what a picture is presented to the mind by the employ- ment of the word flash in the following passage instead of an ordinary verb of motion : What are men that He should heed us ? cried the king of sacred song ; Insects of an hour, that hourly work then* brother insect wrong, While the silent Heavens roil, and Suns along their fiery way. All their planets whirling round them, flash a million miles a day. Passages like this, which are scattered throughout the poem, display conspicuously the difference in workmanship between the mere man of talent and the man of genius. Nor is the philosophy of the production unworthy of its literary form. The stormy utterances that constitute the principal portion of it pre- pare fittingly the way for the lesson it sets out to enforce. Science has failed us, legislation has failed us, the great political changes from which so much was anticipated have proved barren of results. In what quarter are we to look for help ? It is inthe conduct of the man whom the hero of the earlier poem had wronged that the same hero of the later one finds the solution of the problem that has perplexed his spirit. Not upon remedial legis- lation, good and even necessary as it may be, not upon the achieve- ments of science, grand as they doubtless are, rests the hope for the future of the race. It is in the life of his successful rival, who strove for sixty years to help in all ways his homelier fellow- THE TWO LOCKSLEY HALLS. 181 men, that he recognizes the force wliich is to prevent the earth from touching her earthly worst if it does not lift her to her heavenly best. Not in mighty movements which fascinate tiie minds of all, though in them few can directly share, but in the performance of services to those who are nigh us or dependent upon us, in the discharge of the humbler duties of life to which power is never lacking but only will, lies the secret of man's gradual regeneration and elevation. Is the lesson taught by the second Locksley Hall any less noble or any less true than that taught by the first ? — Lounsbury.