The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 51

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfilled itself, Merged in completion? Would you learn at full How pa.s.sion rose thro' circ.u.mstantial grades Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed I had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, "Be wise: not easily forgiven Are those, who setting wide the doors, that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart.

Let in the day". Here, then, my words have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells-- Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingale--in sighs Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance, Stole from her [10] sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of vows, And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river-sh.o.r.es, And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep.

But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veil'd picture--veil'd, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day.

This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes: the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas!

Now the most blessed memory of mine age.

[Footnote 1: 'Cf. Romeo and Juliet', ii., vi.:--

O so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.]

[Footnote 2: 'Cf.' Keats, 'Ode to Nightingale':--

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.]

[Footnote 3: 'Cf'. Theocritus, 'Id'., vii., 143:--

[Greek: pant' _osden thereos mala pionos.]]

[Footnote 4: Provincial name for the goldfinch. See Tennyson's letter to the Duke of Argyll, 'Life', ii., 221.]

[Footnote 5: This pa.s.sage is imitated from Theocritus, vii., 143 'seqq'.]

[Footnote 6: This pa.s.sage originally ran:--$

Her beauty grew till drawn in narrowing arcs The southing autumn touch'd with sallower gleams The granges on the fallows. At that time, Tir'd of the noisy town I wander'd there.

The bell toll'd four, and by the time I reach'd The wicket-gate I found her by herself.

But Fitzgerald pointing out that the autumn landscape was taken from the background of t.i.tian (Lord Ellesmere's 'Ages of Man') Tennyson struck out the pa.s.sage. If this was the reason he must have been in an unusually scrupulous mood. See his 'Life', i., 232.]

[Footnote 7: So Ma.s.singer, 'City Madam', iii., 3:--

I am sublim'd.

Gross earth Supports me not.

'I walk on air'.]

[Footnote 8: Cf. Dante, 'Inferno', v., 81-83:--

Quali columbe dal desio chiamate, Con 1' ali aperte e ferme, al dolce nido Volan.]

[Footnote 9: 1842-1850. Lisping.]

[Footnote 10: In privately printed volume 1842. His.]

DORA

First published in 1842.

This poem had been written as early as 1835, when it was read to Fitzgerald and Spedding ('Life', i., 182). No alterations were made in the text after 1853. The story in this poem was taken even to the minutest details from a prosestory of Miss Mitford's, namely, 'The Tale of Dora Creswell' ('Our Village', vol. in., 242-53), the only alterations being in the names, Farmer Cresswell, Dora Creswell, Walter Cresswell, and Mary Hay becoming respectively Allan, Dora, William, and Mary Morrison. How carefully the poet has preserved the picturesque touches of the original may be seen by comparing the following two pa.s.sages:--

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

She rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat.

"A beautiful child lay on the ground at some distance, whilst a young girl, resting from the labour of reaping, was twisting a rustic wreath of enamelled cornflowers, brilliant poppies ... round its hat."

The style is evidently modelled closely on that of the 'Odyssey'.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought "I'll make them man and wife".

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answer'd short; "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora". Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again."

But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, And broke away. [1] The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.s'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest, let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pa.s.sed into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, "This is William's child?"

"And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"

And Allan said: "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more."

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To G.o.d, that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more".

Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now, I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.