Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower’d Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote _The Lady of Shalott_.[17]

And down the river’s dim expanse— Like some bold seër in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro’ the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot; And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.[18]

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken’d wholly,[19] Turn’d to tower’d Camelot; For ere she reach’d upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale[20] between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, _The Lady of Shalott_[21]

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross’d themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot[22] mused a little space; He said, “She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott”.[23]

[1] 1833.

To many towered Camelot The yellow leaved water lily, The green sheathed daffodilly, Tremble in the water chilly, Round about Shalott.

[2] 1833.

... shiver, The sunbeam-showers break and quiver In the stream that runneth ever By the island, etc.

[3] 1833.

Underneath the bearded barley, The reaper, reaping late and early, Hears her ever chanting cheerly, Like an angel, singing clearly, O’er the stream of Camelot. Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, Beneath the moon, the reaper weary Listening whispers, “’tis the fairy Lady of Shalott”.

[4] 1833.

The little isle is all inrailed With a rose-fence, and overtrailed With roses: by the marge unhailed The shallop flitteth silkensailed, Skimming down to Camelot. A pearl garland winds her head: She leaneth on a velvet bed, Full royally apparelled, The Lady of Shalott.

[5] 1833.

No time hath she to sport and play: A charmed web she weaves alway. A curse is on her, if she stay Her weaving, either night or day

[6] 1833.

Therefore ... Therefore ... The Lady of Shalott.

[7] 1833.

She lives with little joy or fear Over the water running near, The sheep bell tinkles in her ear, Before her hangs a mirror clear, Reflecting towered Camelot. And, as the mazy web she whirls, She sees the surly village-churls.

[8] 1833. Came from Camelot.

[9] In these lines are to be found, says the present Lord Tennyson, the key to the mystic symbolism of the poem. But it is not easy to see how death could be an advantageous exchange for fancy-haunted solitude. The allegory is clearer in lines 114-115, for love will so break up mere phantasy.

[10] 1833. Hung in the golden galaxy.

[11] 1833. From.

[12] 1833. From Camelot.

[13] 1833. Green Shalott.

[14] 1833. From Camelot.

[15] 1833. “Tirra lirra, tirra lirra.”

[16] 1833. Water flower.

[17] 1833.

Outside the isle a shallow boat Beneath a willow lay afloat, Below the carven stern she wrote, THE LADY OF SHALOTT.

[18] 1833.

A cloud-white crown of pearl she dight, All raimented in snowy white That loosely flew (her zone in sight, Clasped with one blinding diamond bright), Her wide eyes fixed on Camelot, Though the squally eastwind keenly Blew, with folded arms serenely By the water stood the queenly Lady of Shalott.

With a steady, stony glance— Like some bold seer in a trance, Beholding all his own mischance, Mute, with a glassy countenance— She looked down to Camelot. It was the closing of the day, She loosed the chain, and down she lay, The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

As when to sailors while they roam, By creeks and outfalls far from home, Rising and dropping with the foam, From dying swans wild warblings come, Blown shoreward; so to Camelot Still as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her chanting her death song, The Lady of Shalott.

[19] 1833.

A long drawn carol, mournful, holy, She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her eyes were darkened wholly, And her smooth face sharpened slowly.

[20] “A corse” (1853) is a variant for the “Dead-pale” of 1857.

[21] 1833.

A pale, pale corpse she floated by, Dead cold, between the houses high, Dead into towered Camelot. Knight and burgher, lord and dame, To the plankèd wharfage came: Below the stern they read her name, “The Lady of Shalott”.

[22] 1833. Spells it “Launcelot” all through.

[23] 1833.

They crossed themselves, their stars they blest, Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire and guest, There lay a parchment on her breast, That puzzled more than all the rest, The well-fed wits at Camelot. “_The web was woven curiously, The charm is broken utterly, Draw near and fear not—this is I, The Lady of Shalott._”

Mariana in the South

First printed in 1833.

This poem had been written as early as 1831 (see Arthur Hallam’s letter, _Life_, i., 284-5, Appendix), and Lord Tennyson tells us that it “came to my father as he was travelling between Narbonne and Perpignan”; how vividly the characteristic features of Southern France are depicted must be obvious to every one who is familiar with them. It is interesting to compare it with the companion poem; the central position is the same in both, desolate loneliness, and the mood is the same, but the setting is far more picturesque and is therefore more dwelt upon. The poem was very greatly altered when re-published in 1842, that text being practically the final one, there being no important variants afterwards.

In the edition of 1833 the poem opened with the following stanza, which was afterwards excised and the stanza of the present text substituted.

Behind the barren hill upsprung With pointed rocks against the light, The crag sharpshadowed overhung Each glaring creek and inlet bright. Far, far, one light blue ridge was seen, Looming like baseless fairyland; Eastward a slip of burning sand, Dark-rimmed with sea, and bare of green, Down in the dry salt-marshes stood That house dark latticed. Not a breath Swayed the sick vineyard underneath, Or moved the dusty southernwood. “Madonna,” with melodious moan Sang Mariana, night and morn, “Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn.”

With one black shadow at its feet, The house thro’ all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines: A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But “Ave Mary,” made she moan, And “Ave Mary,” night and morn, And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn”.

She, as her carol sadder grew, From brow and bosom slowly down[1] Thro’ rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right,[2] and made appear, Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine,[3] The home of woe without a tear. And “Ave Mary,” was her moan,[4] “Madonna, sad is night and morn”; And “Ah,” she sang, “to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn”.

Till all the crimson changed,[5] and past Into deep orange o’er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur’d she; Complaining, “Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load”. And on the liquid mirror glow’d The clear perfection of her face. “Is this the form,” she made her moan, “That won his praises night and morn?” And “Ah,” she said, “but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn”.[6]

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen. She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, “My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn”.[7]

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: She felt he was and was not there,[8] She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and without the steady glare Shrank one sick willow[9] sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall.[10] She whisper’d, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, “Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten, and die forlorn”.[11]

[12]And rising, from her bosom drew Old letters, breathing of her worth, For “Love,” they said, “must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth”. An image seem’d to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, “But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore”. “O cruel heart,” she changed her tone, “And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn!”

But sometimes in the falling day An image seem’d to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, “But thou shalt be alone no more”. And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. “The day to night,” she made her moan, “The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn.”

At eve a dry cicala sung, There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean’d upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter’d on her tears, And deepening thro’ the silent spheres, Heaven over Heaven rose the night. And weeping then she made her moan, “The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn”.[13]

[1] 1833 From her warm brow and bosom down.

[2] 1833. On either side.

[3] Compare Keats, _Eve of St. Agnes_, “her maiden eyes divine”.

[4] 1833. “Madonna,” with melodious moan Sang Mariana, etc.

[5] 1833. When the dawncrimson changed.

[6] 1833.

Unto our Lady prayed she. She moved her lips, she prayed alone, She praying disarrayed and warm From slumber, deep her wavy form In the dark-lustrous mirror shone. “Madonna,” in a low clear tone Said Mariana, night and morn, Low she mourned, “I am all alone, Love-forgotten, and love-forlorn”.

[7] 1833.

At noon she slumbered. All along The silvery field, the large leaves talked With one another, as among The spikèd maize in dreams she walked. The lizard leapt: the sunlight played: She heard the callow nestling lisp, And brimful meadow-runnels crisp. In the full-leavèd platan-shade. In sleep she breathed in a lower tone, Murmuring as at night and morn, “Madonna! lo! I am all alone. Love-forgotten and love-forlorn”.

[8] 1835. Most false: he was and was not there.

[9] 1833. The sick olive. So the text remained till 1850, when “one” was substituted.

[10] 1833.

From the bald rock the blinding light Beat ever on the sunwhite wall.

[11] 1833.

“Madonna, leave me not all alone, To die forgotten and live forlorn.”

[12] This stanza and the next not in 1833.

[13] 1833.

One dry cicala’s summer song At night filled all the gallery. Ever the low wave seemed to roll Up to the coast: far on, alone In the East, large Hesper overshone The mourning gulf, and on her soul Poured divine solace, or the rise Of moonlight from the margin gleamed, Volcano-like, afar, and streamed On her white arm, and heavenward eyes. Not all alone she made her moan, Yet ever sang she, night and morn, “Madonna! lo! I am all alone, Love-forgotten and love-forlorn”.

Eleänore

First printed in 1833. When reprinted in 1842 the alterations noted were then made, and after that the text remained unchanged.

1

Thy dark eyes open’d not, Nor first reveal’d themselves to English air, For there is nothing here, Which, from the outward to the inward brought, Moulded thy baby thought. Far off from human neighbourhood, Thou wert born, on a summer morn, A mile beneath the cedar-wood. Thy bounteous forehead was not fann’d With breezes from our oaken glades, But thou wert nursed in some delicious land Of lavish lights, and floating shades: And flattering thy childish thought The oriental fairy brought, At the moment of thy birth, From old well-heads of haunted rills, And the hearts of purple hills, And shadow’d coves on a sunny shore, The choicest wealth of all the earth, Jewel or shell, or starry ore, To deck thy cradle, Eleänore.[1]

2

Or the yellow-banded bees,[2] Thro’[3] half-open lattices Coming in the scented breeze, Fed thee, a child, lying alone, With whitest honey in fairy gardens cull’d— A glorious child, dreaming alone, In silk-soft folds, upon yielding down, With the hum of swarming bees Into dreamful slumber lull’d.

3

Who may minister to thee? Summer herself should minister To thee, with fruitage golden-rinded On golden salvers, or it may be, Youngest Autumn, in a bower Grape-thicken’d from the light, and blinded With many a deep-hued bell-like flower Of fragrant trailers, when the air Sleepeth over all the heaven, And the crag that fronts the Even, All along the shadowing shore, Crimsons over an inland[4] mere,[5] Eleänore!

4

How may full-sail’d verse express, How may measured words adore The full-flowing harmony Of thy swan-like stateliness, Eleänore? The luxuriant symmetry Of thy floating gracefulness, Eleänore? Every turn and glance of thine, Every lineament divine, Eleänore, And the steady sunset glow, That stays upon thee? For in thee Is nothing sudden, nothing single; Like two streams of incense free From one censer, in one shrine, Thought and motion mingle, Mingle ever. Motions flow To one another, even as tho’[6] They were modulated so To an unheard melody, Which lives about thee, and a sweep Of richest pauses, evermore Drawn from each other mellow-deep; Who may express thee, Eleänore?

5

I stand before thee, Eleänore; I see thy beauty gradually unfold, Daily and hourly, more and more. I muse, as in a trance, the while Slowly, as from a cloud of gold, Comes out thy deep ambrosial smile.[7] I muse, as in a trance, whene’er The languors of thy love-deep eyes Float on to me. _I_ would _I_ were So tranced, so rapt in ecstacies, To stand apart, and to adore, Gazing on thee for evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore!

6

Sometimes, with most intensity Gazing, I seem to see Thought folded over thought, smiling asleep, Slowly awaken’d, grow so full and deep In thy large eyes, that, overpower’d quite, I cannot veil, or droop my sight, But am as nothing in its light: As tho’[8] a star, in inmost heaven set, Ev’n while we gaze on it, Should slowly round his orb, and slowly grow To a full face, there like a sun remain Fix’d—then as slowly fade again, And draw itself to what it was before; So full, so deep, so slow, Thought seems to come and go In thy large eyes, imperial Eleänore.

7

As thunder-clouds that, hung on high, Roof’d the world with doubt and fear,[9] Floating thro’ an evening atmosphere, Grow golden all about the sky; In thee all passion becomes passionless, Touch’d by thy spirit’s mellowness, Losing his fire and active might In a silent meditation, Falling into a still delight, And luxury of contemplation: As waves that up a quiet cove Rolling slide, and lying still Shadow forth the banks at will:[10] Or sometimes they swell and move, Pressing up against the land, With motions of the outer sea: And the self-same influence Controlleth all the soul and sense Of Passion gazing upon thee. His bow-string slacken’d, languid Love, Leaning his cheek upon his hand,[11] Droops both his wings, regarding thee, And so would languish evermore, Serene, imperial Eleänore.

8

But when I see thee roam, with tresses unconfined, While the amorous, odorous wind Breathes low between the sunset and the moon; Or, in a shadowy saloon, On silken cushions half reclined; I watch thy grace; and in its place My heart a charmed slumber keeps,[12] While I muse upon thy face; And a languid fire creeps Thro’ my veins to all my frame, Dissolvingly and slowly: soon From thy rose-red lips MY name Floweth; and then, as in a swoon,[13] With dinning sound my ears are rife, My tremulous tongue faltereth, I lose my colour, I lose my breath, I drink the cup of a costly death, Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warmest life. I die with my delight, before I hear what I would hear from thee; Yet tell my name again to me, I _would_[14] be dying evermore, So dying ever, Eleänore.

[1] With the picture of Eleänore may be compared the description which Ibycus gives of Euryalus. See Bergk’s _Anthologia Lyrica_ (Ibycus), p. 396.

[2] With yellow banded bees _cf_. Keats’s “yellow girted bees,” _Endymion_, i. With this may be compared Pindar’s beautiful picture of lamus, who was also fed on honey, _Olympian_, vi., 50-80.

[3] 1833 and 1842. Through.

[4] Till 1857. Island.

[5] 1833. Meer.

[6] 1842 and 1843. Though.

[7] Ambrosial, the Greek sense of ἀμβρόσιος, divine.

[8] 1833 to 1851. Though.

[9] 1833. Did roof noonday with doubt and fear.

[10] 1833.

As waves that from the outer deep Roll into a quiet cove, There fall away, and lying still, Having glorious dreams in sleep, Shadow forth the banks at will.

[11] _Cf_. Horace, _Odes_, iii., xxvii., 66-8:

Aderat querenti Perfidum ridens Venus, et _remisso_ Filius _arcu_.

[12] 1833.

I gaze on thee the cloudless noon Of mortal beauty.

[13] 1833. Then I faint, I swoon. The latter part of the eighth stanza is little more than an adaptation of Sappho’s famous Ode, filtered perhaps through the version of Catullus.

[14] It is curious that a poet so scrupulous as Tennyson should have retained to the last the italics.

The Miller’s Daughter

First published in 1833. It was greatly altered when republished in 1842, and in some respects, so Fitzgerald thought, not for the better. No alterations of much importance were made in it after 1842. The characters as well as the scenery were, it seems, purely imaginary. Tennyson said that if he thought of any mill it was that of Trumpington, near Cambridge, which bears a general resemblance to the picture here given.

In the first edition the poem opened with the following stanza, which the _Quarterly_ ridiculed, and which was afterwards excised. Its omission is surely not to be regretted, whatever Fitzgerald may have thought.

I met in all the close green ways, While walking with my line and rod, The wealthy miller’s mealy face, Like the moon in an ivy-tod. He looked so jolly and so good— While fishing in the milldam-water, I laughed to see him as he stood, And dreamt not of the miller’s daughter.

I see the wealthy miller yet, His double chin, his portly size, And who that knew him could forget The busy wrinkles round his eyes? The slow wise smile that, round about His dusty forehead drily curl’d, Seem’d half-within and half-without, And full of dealings with the world?

In yonder chair I see him sit, Three fingers round the old silver cup— I see his gray eyes twinkle yet At his own jest—gray eyes lit up With summer lightnings of a soul So full of summer warmth, so glad, So healthy, sound, and clear and whole, His memory scarce can make me[1] sad.

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet[2] Alice, we must die. There’s somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There’s somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife,[3] That we may die the self-same day.

Have I not found a happy earth? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I’d almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine— It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine—[4]

To be the long and listless boy Late-left an orphan of the squire, Where this old mansion mounted high Looks down upon the village spire:[5] For even here,[6] where I and you Have lived and loved alone so long, Each morn my sleep was broken thro’ By some wild skylark’s matin song.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan;[7] But ere I saw your eyes, my love, I had no motion of my own. For scarce my life with fancy play’d Before I dream’d that pleasant dream— Still hither thither idly sway’d Like those long mosses[8] in the stream.

Or from the bridge I lean’d to hear The milldam rushing down with noise, And see the minnows everywhere In crystal eddies glance and poise, The tall flag-flowers when[9] they sprung Below the range of stepping-stones, Or those three chestnuts near, that hung In masses thick with milky cones.[10]

But, Alice, what an hour was that, When after roving in the woods (’Twas April then), I came and sat Below the chestnuts, when their buds Were glistening to the breezy blue; And on the slope, an absent fool, I cast me down, nor thought of you, But angled in the higher pool.[11]

A love-song I had somewhere read, An echo from a measured strain, Beat time to nothing in my head From some odd corner of the brain. It haunted me, the morning long, With weary sameness in the rhymes, The phantom of a silent song, That went and came a thousand times.

Then leapt a trout. In lazy mood I watch’d the little circles die; They past into the level flood, And there a vision caught my eye; The reflex of a beauteous form, A glowing arm, a gleaming neck, As when a sunbeam wavers warm Within the dark and dimpled beck.[12]

For you remember, you had set, That morning, on the casement’s edge[13] A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge: And when I raised my eyes, above They met with two so full and bright— Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That these have never lost their light.[14]

I loved, and love dispell’d the fear That I should die an early death: For love possess’d the atmosphere, And filled the breast with purer breath. My mother thought, What ails the boy? For I was alter’d, and began To move about the house with joy, And with the certain step of man.

I loved the brimming wave that swam Thro’ quiet meadows round the mill, The sleepy pool above the dam, The pool beneath it never still, The meal-sacks on the whiten’d floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door Made misty with the floating meal.

And oft in ramblings on the wold, When April nights begin to blow, And April’s crescent glimmer’d cold, I saw the village lights below; I knew your taper far away, And full at heart of trembling hope, From off the wold I came, and lay Upon the freshly-flower’d slope.[15]

The deep brook groan’d beneath the mill; And “by that lamp,” I thought “she sits!” The white chalk-quarry[16] from the hill Gleam’d to the flying moon by fits. “O that I were beside her now! O will she answer if I call? O would she give me vow for vow, Sweet Alice, if I told her all?”[17]

Sometimes I saw you sit and spin; And, in the pauses of the wind, Sometimes I heard you sing within; Sometimes your shadow cross’d the blind. At last you rose and moved the light, And the long shadow of the chair Flitted across into the night, And all the casement darken’d there.

But when at last I dared to speak, The lanes, you know, were white with may, Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flush’d like the coming of the day;[18] And so it was—half-sly, half-shy,[19] You would, and would not, little one! Although I pleaded tenderly, And you and I were all alone.

And slowly was my mother brought To yield consent to my desire: She wish’d me happy, but she thought I might have look’d a little higher; And I was young—too young to wed: “Yet must I love her for your sake; Go fetch your Alice here,” she said: Her eyelid quiver’d as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall’n in tears, I kiss’d away before they fell.[20]

I watch’d the little flutterings, The doubt my mother would not see; She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look’d upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press’d you heart to heart.[21]

Ah, well—but sing the foolish song I gave you, Alice, on the day[22] When, arm in arm, we went along, A pensive pair, and you were gay, With bridal flowers—that I may seem, As in the nights of old, to lie Beside the mill-wheel in the stream, While those full chestnuts whisper by.[23]

It is the miller’s daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles at[24] her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I’d touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I’d clasp it round so close and tight.[25]

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise[26] Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs, And I would lie so light, so light,[27] I scarce should be[28] unclasp’d at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells True love interprets—right alone. His light upon the letter dwells, For all the spirit is his own.[29] So, if I waste words now, in truth You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth And makes me talk too much in age.[30]

And now those vivid hours are gone, Like mine own life to me thou art, Where Past and Present, wound in one, Do make a garland for the heart: So sing[31] that other song I made, Half anger’d with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not.[32]

Love that hath us in the net,[33] Can he pass, and we forget? Many suns arise and set. Many a chance the years beget. Love the gift is Love the debt. Even so. Love is hurt with jar and fret. Love is made a vague regret. Eyes with idle tears are wet. Idle habit links us yet. What is love? for we forget: Ah, no! no![34]

Look thro’ mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look thro’ my very soul with thine! Untouch’d with any shade of years, May those kind eyes for ever dwell! They have not shed a many tears, Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed: they had their part Of sorrow: for when time was ripe, The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss that brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

With farther lookings on. The kiss, The woven arms, seem but to be Weak symbols of the settled bliss, The comfort, I have found in thee: But that God bless thee, dear—who wrought Two spirits to one equal mind— With blessings beyond hope or thought, With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth, To yon old mill across the wolds; For look, the sunset, south and north,[35] Winds all the vale in rosy folds, And fires your narrow casement glass, Touching the sullen pool below: On the chalk-hill the bearded grass Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

[1] 1833. Scarce makes me.

[2] 1833. Darling.

[3] 1833. Own sweet wife.

[4] This stanza was added in 1842.

[5] 1833.

My father’s mansion, mounted high Looked down upon the village spire. I was a long and listless boy, And son and heir unto the squire.

[6] 1833. In these dear walls.

[7] 1833.

I often heard the cooing dove In firry woodlands mourn alone.

[8] 1833. The long mosses.

[9] 1842-1851. Where.

[10] This stanza was added in 1842, taking the place of the following which was excised:—

Sometimes I whistled in the wind, Sometimes I angled, thought and deed Torpid, as swallows left behind That winter ’neath the floating weed: At will to wander every way From brook to brook my sole delight, As lithe eels over meadows gray Oft shift their glimmering pool by night.

In 1833 this stanza ran thus:—

I loved from off the bridge to hear The rushing sound the water made, And see the fish that everywhere In the back-current glanced and played; Low down the tall flag-flower that sprung Beside the noisy stepping-stones, And the massed chestnut boughs that hung Thick-studded over with white cones,

[11] In 1833 the following took the place of the above stanza which was added in 1842:—

How dear to me in youth, my love, Was everything about the mill, The black and silent pool above, The pool beneath that ne’er stood still, The meal sacks on the whitened floor, The dark round of the dripping wheel, The very air about the door— Made misty with the floating meal!

Thus in 1833:—

Remember you that pleasant day When, after roving in the woods, (’Twas April then) I came and lay Beneath those gummy chestnut bud That glistened in the April blue, Upon the slope so smooth and cool, I lay and never thought of _you_, But angled in the deep mill pool.

[12] Thus in 1833:—

A water-rat from off the bank Plunged in the stream. With idle care, Downlooking thro’ the sedges rank, I saw your troubled image there. Upon the dark and dimpled beck It wandered like a floating light, A full fair form, a warm white neck, And two white arms—how rosy white!

[13] 1872. Casement-edge.

[14] Thus in 1833:—

If you remember, you had set Upon the narrow casement-edge A long green box of mignonette, And you were leaning from the ledge. I raised my eyes at once: above They met two eyes so blue and bright, Such eyes! I swear to you, my love, That they have never lost their light.

After this stanza the following was inserted in 1833 but excised in 1842:—

That slope beneath the chestnut tall Is wooed with choicest breaths of air: Methinks that I could tell you all The cowslips and the kingcups there. Each coltsfoot down the grassy bent, Whose round leaves hold the gathered shower, Each quaintly-folded cuckoo pint, And silver-paly cuckoo flower.

[15] Thus in 1833:—

In rambling on the eastern wold, When thro’ the showery April nights Their hueless crescent glimmered cold, From all the other village lights I knew your taper far away. My heart was full of trembling hope, Down from the wold I came and lay Upon the dewy-swarded slope.

[16] Mr. Cuming Walters in his interesting volume _In Tennyson Land_, p. 75, notices that the white chalk quarry at Thetford can be seen from Stockworth Mill, which seems to show that if Tennyson did take the mill from Trumpington he must also have had his mind on Thetford Mill. Tennyson seems to have taken delight in baffling those who wished to localise his scenes. He went out of his way to say that the topographical studies of Messrs. Church and Napier were the only ones which could be relied upon. But Mr. Cuming Walters’ book is far more satisfactory than their thin studies.

[17] Thus in 1833:—

The white chalk quarry from the hill Upon the broken ripple gleamed, I murmured lowly, sitting still, While round my feet the eddy streamed: “Oh! that I were the wreath she wreathes, The mirror where her sight she feeds, The song she sings, the air she breathes, The letters of the books she reads”.

[18] 1833.

I loved, but when I dared to speak My love, the lanes were white with May Your ripe lips moved not, but your cheek Flushed like the coming of the day.

[19] 1833. Rosecheekt, roselipt, half-sly, half-shy.

[20] Cf. Milton, _Paradise Lost_;—

Two other precious drops that ready stood He, ere they fell, kiss’d.

[21] These three stanzas were added in 1842, the following being excised:—

Remember you the clear moonlight, That whitened all the eastern ridge, When o’er the water, dancing white, I stepped upon the old mill-bridge. I heard you whisper from above A lute-toned whisper, “I am here”; I murmured, “Speak again, my love, The stream is loud: I cannot hear”.

I heard, as I have seemed to hear, When all the under-air was still, The low voice of the glad new year Call to the freshly-flowered hill. I heard, as I have often heard The nightingale in leavy woods Call to its mate, when nothing stirred To left or right but falling floods.

[22] 1842. I gave you on the joyful day.

[23] In 1833 the following stanza took the place of the one here substituted in 1842:—

Come, Alice, sing to me the song I made you on our marriage day, When, arm in arm, we went along Half-tearfully, and you were gay With brooch and ring: for I shall seem, The while you sing that song, to hear The mill-wheel turning in the stream, And the green chestnut whisper near.

In 1833 the song began thus, the present stanza taking its place in 1842:—

I wish I were her earring, Ambushed in auburn ringlets sleek, (So might my shadow tremble Over her downy cheek), Hid in her hair, all day and night, Touching her neck so warm and white.

[24] 1872. In.

[25] 1833.

I wish I were the girdle Buckled about her dainty waist, That her heart might beat against me, In sorrow and in rest. I should know well if it beat right, I’d clasp it round so close and tight.

This stanza bears so close a resemblance to a stanza in Joshua Sylvester’s _Woodman’s Bear_ (see Sylvester’s _Works_, ed. 1641, p. 616) that a correspondent asked Tennyson whether Sylvester had suggested it. Tennyson replied that he had never seen Sylvester’s lines (_Life of Tennyson_, iii., 51). The lines are:—

But her slender virgin waste Made mee beare her girdle spight Which the same by day imbrac’t Though it were cast off by night That I wisht, I dare not say, To be girdle night and day.

For other parallels see the present Editor’s _Illustrations of Tennyson_, p. 39.

[26] 1833.

I wish I were her necklace, So might I ever fall and rise.

[27] 1833. So warm and light.

[28] 1833. I would not be.

[29] 1833.

For o’er each letter broods and dwells, (Like light from running waters thrown On flowery swaths) the blissful flame Of his sweet eyes, that, day and night, With pulses thrilling thro’ his frame Do inly tremble, starry bright.

[30] Thus in 1833:—

How I waste language—yet in truth You must blame love, whose early rage Made me a rhymster in my youth, And over-garrulous in age.

[31] 1833. Sing me.

[32] 1833.

When in the breezy limewood-shade. I found the blue forget-me-not.

[33] In 1833 the following song took the place of the song in the text:—

All yesternight you met me not, My ladylove, forget me not. When I am gone, regret me not. But, here or there, forget me not. With your arched eyebrow threat me not, And tremulous eyes, like April skies, That seem to say, “forget me not,” I pray you, love, forget me not.

In idle sorrow set me not; Regret me not; forget me not; Oh! leave me not: oh, let me not Wear quite away;—forget me not. With roguish laughter fret me not. From dewy eyes, like April skies, That ever _look_, “forget me not”. Blue as the blue forget-me-not.

[34] These two stanzas were added in 1842.

[35] 1833.

I’ve half a mind to walk, my love, To the old mill across the wolds For look! the sunset from above,

Fatima

First printed in 1833.

The 1833 edition has no title but this quotation from Sappho prefixed:—

φαίνεταί μοι κῆνος ἴσος θεοῖσιν Ἔμμεν ἀνήρ.—SAPPHO.

The title was prefixed in 1842; it is a name taken from _The Arabian Nights_ or from the Moallâkat. The poem was evidently inspired by Sappho’s great ode. _Cf._ also Fragment I. of Ibycus. In the intensity of the passion it stands alone among Tennyson’s poems.

O Love, Love, Love! O withering might! O sun, that from[1] thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch’d and wither’d, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours Below the city’s eastern towers: I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I roll’d among the tender flowers: I crush’d them on my breast, my mouth: I look’d athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south.[2]

Last night, when some one spoke his name,[3] From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame. Were shiver’d in my narrow frame O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss, my whole soul thro’ My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.[4]>

Before he mounts the hill, I know He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.

The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour’d upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro’ with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

My whole soul waiting silently, All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I _will_ possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.

[1] 1833. At.

[2] This stanza was added in 1842.

[3] _Cf._ Byron, _Occasional Pieces_:—

They name thee before me A knell to mine ear, A shudder comes o’er me, Why wert thou so dear?

[4] _Cf,_ Achilles Tatius, _Clitophon and Leucippe_, bk. i., I: ἡδε (ψυχή) ταραχθεῖσα τῷ φιλήματι πάλλεται, εἰ δὲ μὴ τοῖς σπλάγχνοις ἦν δεδεμένη ἠκολούθησεν ἄν ἑλκυθεῖσα ἄνω τοῖς φιλήμασιν

(Her soul, distracted by the kiss, throbs, and had it not been close bound by the flesh would have followed, drawn upward by the kisses.)

Œnone

First published in 1833, On being republished in 1842 this poem was practically rewritten, the alterations and additions so transforming the poem as to make it almost a new work. I have therefore printed a complete transcript of the edition of 1833, which the reader can compare. The final text is, with the exception of one alteration which will be noticed, precisely that of 1842, so there is no trouble with variants. _Œnone_ is the first of Tennyson’s fine classical studies. The poem is modelled partly on the Alexandrian Idyll, such an Idyll for instance as the second Idyll of Theocritus or the _Megara_ or _Europa_ of Moschus, and partly perhaps on the narratives in the _Metamorphoses_ of Ovid, to which the opening bears a typical resemblance. It is possible that the poem may have been suggested by Beattie’s _Judgment of Paris_ which tells the same story, and tells it on the same lines on which it is told here, though it is not placed in the mouth of Œnone. Beattie’s poem opens with an elaborate description of Ida and of Troy in the distance. Paris, the husband of Œnone, is one afternoon confronted with the three goddesses who are, as in Tennyson’s Idyll, elaborately delineated as symbolising what they here symbolise. Each makes her speech and each offers what she has to offer, worldly dominion, wisdom, sensual pleasure. There is, of course, no comparison in point of merit between the two poems, Beattie’s being in truth perfectly commonplace. In its symbolic aspect the poem may be compared with the temptations to which Christ is submitted in _Paradise Regained_. See books iii. and iv.

There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier[1] Than all the valleys of Ionian hills. The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro’ the clov’n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus[2]> Stands up and takes the morning: but in front The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Troas and Ilion’s column’d citadel, The crown of Troas.

Hither came at noon Mournful Œnone, wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck Floated her hair or seem’d to float in rest. She, leaning on a fragment twined with vine, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shade Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d[3] Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. For now the noonday quiet holds the hill:[4] The grasshopper is silent in the grass; The lizard, with his shadow on the stone,[5] Rests like a shadow, and the cicala sleeps.[6] The purple flowers droop: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,[7] And I am all aweary of my life.

“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crown’d snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God,[8] Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed,[9] A cloud that gather’d shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat white-horn’d, white-hooved, Came up from reedy Simois[10] all alone.

“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Far-off the torrent call’d me from the cleft: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With down-dropt eyes I sat alone: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he moved; a leopard skin Droop’d from his shoulder, but his sunny hair Cluster’d about his temples like a God’s; And his cheek brighten’d as the foam-bow brightens When the wind blows the foam, and all my heart Went forth to embrace him coming ere he came.

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled, and opening out his milk-white palm Disclosed a fruit of pure Hesperian gold, That smelt ambrosially, and while I look’d And listen’d, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

“‘My own Œnone, Beautiful-brow’d Œnone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n “For the most fair,” would seem to award it thine, As lovelier than whatever Oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.’[11]

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added ‘This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom ’twere due: But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Herè comes to-day, Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came, Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower, And at their feet the crocus brake like fire,[12] Violet, amaracus, and asphodel, Lotos and lilies: and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’.

“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o’er him flow’d a golden cloud, and lean’d Upon him, slowing dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro’ Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion’d, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale And river-sunder’d champaign clothed with corn, Or labour’d mines undrainable of ore. Honour,’ she said, ‘and homage, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-throng’d beneath her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.’

“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power, ‘Which in all action is the end of all; Power fitted to the season; wisdom-bred And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand Fail from the sceptre staff. Such boon from me, From me, Heaven’s Queen, Paris to thee king-born, A shepherd all thy life but yet king-born, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in power Only, are likest gods, who have attain’d Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy.’

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm’s-length, so much the thought of power Flatter’d his spirit; but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and bared limbs O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, The while, above, her full and earnesteye Over her snow-cold breast and angry cheek[13] Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

“‘Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall’d for) but to live by law,

## Acting the law we live by without fear;

And, because right is right, to follow right[14] Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.’

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Again she said: ‘I woo thee not with gifts. Sequel of guerdon could not alter me To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, So shalt thou find me fairest.

Yet indeed, If gazing on divinity disrobed Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of fair, Unbiass’d by self-profit, oh! rest thee sure That I shall love thee well and cleave to thee, So that my vigour, wedded to thy blood,[15] Shall strike within thy pulses, like a God’s, To push thee forward thro’ a life of shocks, Dangers, and deeds, until endurance grow Sinew’d with action, and the full-grown will. Circled thro’ all experiences, pure law, Commeasure perfect freedom.’

“Here she ceased, And Paris ponder’d, and I cried, ‘O Paris, Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

“O mother Ida, many-fountain’d Ida. Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite, beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian[16] wells, With rosy slender fingers backward drew From her warm brows and bosom[17] her deep hair Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat And shoulder: from the violets her light foot Shone rosy-white, and o’er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whisper’d in his ear, ‘I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece’. She spoke and laugh’d: I shut my sight for fear: But when I look’d, Paris had raised his arm, And I beheld great Herè’s angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone, And I shall be alone until I die.

“Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I past by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouch’d fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close, close to thine in that quick-falling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

“O mother, hear me yet before I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines, My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, and all between The snowy peak and snow-white cataract Foster’d the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark morn The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, never more Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist Sweep thro’ them; never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

“O mother, here me yet before I die. I wish that somewhere in the ruin’d folds, Among the fragments tumbled from the glens, Or the dry thickets, I could meet with her, The Abominable,[18] that uninvited came Into the fair Peleïan banquet-hall, And cast the golden fruit upon the board, And bred this change; that I might speak my mind, And tell her to her face how much I hate Her presence, hated both of Gods and men.

“O mother, here me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal’d it with kisses? water’d it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die.

“O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father’s eyes!

“O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman.[19] I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra,[20] for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe’er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire.”

1833

There is a dale in Ida, lovelier Than any in old Ionia, beautiful With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn A path thro’ steepdown granite walls below Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall And many a snowycolumned range divine, Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, The work of Gods—bright on the dark-blue sky The windy citadel of Ilion Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came Mournful Œnone wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a vine-entwinèd stone, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. The grasshopper is silent in the grass, The lizard with his shadow on the stone Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged[21] Cicala in the noonday leapeth not Along the water-rounded granite-rock. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lilycradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe.

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, And dewydark aloft the mountain pine; Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone.

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I sate alone: the goldensandalled morn Rosehued the scornful hills: I sate alone With downdropt eyes: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he came: a leopard skin From his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God’s: And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens When the wind blows the foam; and I called out, ‘Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo, Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo’.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He, mildly smiling, in his milk-white palm Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven Ambrosially smelling. From his lip, Curved crimson, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart.

“‘My own Œnone, Beautifulbrowed Œnone, mine own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n “For the most fair,” in aftertime may breed Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sore Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion; And all the colour of my afterlife Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day Herè and Pallas and the floating grace Of laughter-loving Aphrodite meet In manyfolded Ida to receive This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand Award the palm. Within the green hillside, Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein Thou unbeholden may’st behold, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney hills. They came—all three—the Olympian goddesses. Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower, Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, Shadowed with singing-pine; and all the while, Above, the overwandering ivy and vine This way and that in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. On the treetops a golden glorious cloud Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. How beautiful they were, too beautiful To look upon! but Paris was to me More lovelier than all the world beside.

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. First spake the imperial Olympian With archèd eyebrow smiling sovranly, Fulleyèd here. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestioned, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale And river-sundered champaign clothed with corn, Or upland glebe wealthy in oil and wine— Honour and homage, tribute, tax and toll, From many an inland town and haven large, Mast-thronged below her shadowing citadel In glassy bays among her tallest towers.’

“O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Still she spake on and still she spake of power ‘Which in all action is the end of all. Power fitted to the season, measured by The height of the general feeling, wisdomborn And throned of wisdom—from all neighbour crowns Alliance and allegiance evermore. Such boon from me Heaven’s Queen to thee kingborn, A shepherd all thy life and yet kingborn, Should come most welcome, seeing men, in this Only are likest gods, who have attained Rest in a happy place and quiet seats Above the thunder, with undying bliss In knowledge of their own supremacy; The changeless calm of undisputed right, The highest height and topmost strength of power.’

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit Out at arm’s length, so much the thought of power Flattered his heart: but Pallas where she stood Somewhat apart, her clear and barèd limbs O’erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold; The while, above, her full and earnest eye Over her snowcold breast and angry cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.

“‘Selfreverence, selfknowledge, selfcontrol Are the three hinges of the gates of Life, That open into power, everyway Without horizon, bound or shadow or cloud. Yet not for power (power of herself Will come uncalled-for) but to live by law

## Acting the law we live by without fear,

And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

(Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die.) Not as men value gold because it tricks And blazons outward Life with ornament, But rather as the miser, for itself. Good for selfgood doth half destroy selfgood. The means and end, like two coiled snakes, infect Each other, bound in one with hateful love. So both into the fountain and the stream A drop of poison falls. Come hearken to me, And look upon me and consider me, So shall thou find me fairest, so endurance, Like to an athlete’s arm, shall still become Sinewed with motion, till thine active will (As the dark body of the Sun robed round With his own ever-emanating lights) Be flooded o’er with her own effluences, And thereby grow to freedom.’

“Here she ceased And Paris pondered. I cried out, ‘Oh, Paris, Give it to Pallas!’ but he heard me not, Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!

“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite oceanborn, Fresh as the foam, newbathed in Paphian wells, With rosy slender fingers upward drew From her warm brow and bosom her dark hair Fragrant and thick, and on her head upbound In a purple band: below her lucid neck Shone ivorylike, and from the ground her foot Gleamed rosywhite, and o’er her rounded form Between the shadows of the vine-bunches Floated the glowing sunlights, as she moved.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. She with a subtle smile in her mild eyes, The herald of her triumph, drawing nigh Half-whispered in his ear, ‘I promise thee The fairest and most loving wife in Greece’. I only saw my Paris raise his arm: I only saw great Herè’s angry eyes, As she withdrew into the golden cloud, And I was left alone within the bower; And from that time to this I am alone. And I shall be alone until I die.

“Yet, mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Fairest—why fairest wife? am I not fair? My love hath told me so a thousand times. Methinks I must be fair, for yesterday, When I passed by, a wild and wanton pard, Eyed like the evening star, with playful tail Crouched fawning in the weed. Most loving is she? Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my arms Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest Close-close to thine in that quickfalling dew Of fruitful kisses, thick as Autumn rains Flash in the pools of whirling Simois.

“Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. They came, they cut away my tallest pines— My dark tall pines, that plumed the craggy ledge High over the blue gorge, or lower down Filling greengulphèd Ida, all between The snowy peak and snowwhite cataract Fostered the callow eaglet—from beneath Whose thick mysterious boughs in the dark The panther’s roar came muffled, while I sat Low in the valley. Never, nevermore Shall lone Œnone see the morning mist Sweep thro’ them—never see them overlaid With narrow moon-lit slips of silver cloud, Between the loud stream and the trembling stars.

“Oh! mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears? Oh happy tears, and how unlike to these! Oh happy Heaven, how can’st thou see my face? Oh happy earth, how can’st thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life. And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids—let me die.

“Yet, mother Ida, hear me ere I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born. I will not die alone. “Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill, happy laughter, etc. (Same as last stanza of subsequent editions.)

[1] Tennyson, as we learn from his _Life_ (vol. i., p. 83), began _Œnone_ while he and Arthur Hallam were in Spain, whither they went with money for the insurgent allies of Torrigos in the summer of 1830. He wrote part of it in the valley of Cauteretz in the Pyrenees, the picturesque beauty of which fascinated him and not only suggested the scenery of this Idyll, but inspired many years afterwards the poem _All along the valley_. The exquisite scene with which the Idyll opens bears no resemblance at all to Mount Ida and the Troad.

[2] Gargarus or Gargaron is the highest peak of the Ida range, rising about 4650 feet above the level of the sea.

[3] The epithet many-fountain’d πλπῖδαοξ is Homer’s stock epithet for Ida. _Cf. Iliad_, viii., 47; xiv., 283, etc., etc.

[4] A literal translation from a line in Callimachus, _Lavacrum Palladis_, 72: μεσαμβρινὴ δ’ ἔιχ’ ὅρος ἡσυχία (noonday quiet held the hill).

[5] So Theocritus, _Idyll_, vii., 22:— Ανίκα δὴ καὶ σαῦρος ἐφ’ αἱμασιᾶισι καθεύδει. (When indeed the very lizard is sleeping on the loose stones of the wall.)

[6] This extraordinary mistake in natural history (the cicala being of course loudest in mid noonday when the heat is greatest) Tennyson allowed to stand, till securing accuracy at the heavy price of a pointless pleonasm, he substituted in 1884 “and the winds are dead”.

[7] An echo from _Henry VI._,