The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 52

Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.

O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: 'G.o.d bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd His face and pa.s.s'd--unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs: "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.

I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.

May G.o.d forgive me!--I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.

And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

[Footnote 1: In 1842 thus:--

"Look to't, Consider: take a month to think, and give An answer to my wish; or by the Lord That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore Darken my doors again." And William heard, And answered something madly; bit his lips, And broke away.

All editions previous to 1853 have

"Look to't.]

AUDLEY COURT

First published in 1842.

Only four alterations were made in the text after 1842, all of which are duly noted. Tennyson told his son that the poem was partially suggested by Abbey Park at Torquay where it was written, and that the last lines described the scene from the hill looking over the bay. He saw he said "a star of phosph.o.r.escence made by the buoy appearing and disappearing in the dark sea," but it is curious that the line describing that was not inserted till long after the poem had been published. The poem, though a trifle, is a triumph of felicitous description and expression, whether we regard the pie or the moonlit bay.

"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room For love or money. Let us picnic there At Audley Court." I spoke, while Audley feast Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay, To Francis, with a basket on his arm, To Francis just alighted from the boat, And breathing of the sea. "With all my heart,"

Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' [1] the swarm, And rounded by the stillness of the beach To where the bay runs up its latest horn.

We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd The flat red granite; so by many a sweep Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd The griffin-guarded gates and pa.s.s'd thro' all The pillar'd dusk [2] of sounding sycamores And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge, With all its cas.e.m.e.nts bedded, and its walls And chimneys m.u.f.fled in the leafy vine.

There, on a slope of orchard, Francis laid A damask napkin wrought with horse and hound, Brought out a dusky loaf that smelt of home, And, half-cut-down, a pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks [3]

Imbedded and injellied; last with these, A flask of cider from his father's vats, Prime, which I knew; and so we sat and eat And talk'd old matters over; who was dead, Who married, who was like to be, and how The races went, and who would rent the hall: Then touch'd upon the game, how scarce it was This season; glancing thence, discuss'd the farm, The fourfield system, and the price of grain; [4]

And struck upon the corn-laws, where we split, And came again together on the king With heated faces; till he laugh'd aloud; And, while the blackbird on the pippin hung To hear him, clapt his hand in mine and sang-- "Oh! who would fight and march and counter-march, Be shot for sixpence in a battle-field, And shovell'd up into a [5] b.l.o.o.d.y trench Where no one knows? but let me live my life.

"Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my life.

"Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life.

"Oh! who would love? I wooed a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea: but let me live my life."

He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, His books--the more the pity, so I said-- Came to the hammer here in March--and this-- I set the words, and added names I knew.

"Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep and dream of me: Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine.

"Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; Emilia, fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is.

"Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.

"I go, but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream.

Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me."

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life A rolling stone of here and everywhere, [6]

Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And saunter'd home beneath a moon that, just In crescent, dimly rain'd about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the gloomy quay, The town was hush'd beneath us: lower down The bay was oily-calm: the harbour buoy With one green sparkle ever and anon [7]

Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart. [8]

[Footnote 1: 1842 to 1850. Through.]

[Footnote 2: 'cf'. Milton, 'Paradise Lost', ix., 1106-7:--

A pillar'd shade High overarch'd.]

[Footnote 3: 1842. Golden yokes.]

[Footnote 4: That is planting turnips, barley, clover and wheat, by which land is kept constantly fresh and vigorous.]

[Footnote 5: 1872. Some.]

[Footnote 6: Inserted in 1857.]

[Footnote 7: Here was inserted, in 1872, the line--Sole star of phosph.o.r.escence in the calm.]

[Footnote 8: Like the shepherd in Homer at the moonlit landscape, 'gegaethe de te phrena poimaen', 'Il'., viii., 559.]

WALKING TO THE MAIL

First published in 1842. Not altered in any respect after 1853.

'John'. I'm glad I walk'd.

How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.

Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike? [1]

'James'. Yes.

'John'. And when does this come by?

'James'. The mail? At one o'clock.

'John'. What is it now?

James'. A quarter to.

'John'. Whose house is that I see? [2]

No, not the County Member's with the vane: Up higher with the yewtree by it, and half A score of gables.

'James'. That? Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad: the place is to be sold.

'John'. Oh, his. He was not broken?