The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 55

For either they were stoned, or crucified, Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death.

Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my G.o.d.

For not alone this pillar-punishment, [1]

Not this alone I bore: but while I lived In the white convent down the valley there, For many weeks about my loins I wore The rope that haled the buckets from the well, Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose; And spake not of it to a single soul, Until the ulcer, eating thro' my skin, Betray'd my secret penance, so that all My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than this I bore, whereof, O G.o.d, thou knowest all.[2]

Three winters, that my soul might grow to thee, I lived up there on yonder mountain side.

My right leg chain'd into the crag, I lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist, and twice Black'd with thy branding thunder, and sometimes Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not, Except the spare chance-gift of those that came To touch my body and be heal'd, and live: And they say then that I work'd miracles, Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind, Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, O G.o.d, Knowest alone whether this was or no.

Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then, that I might be more alone with thee, [3]

Three years I lived upon a pillar, high Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve; And twice three years I crouch'd on one that rose Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew Twice ten long weary weary years to this, That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this-- Or else I dream--and for so long a time, If I may measure time by yon slow light, And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns-- So much--even so. And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones comes here, and say, "Fall down, O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long For ages and for ages!" then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro', Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, That Heaven, and Earth, and Time are choked. But yet Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the saints Enjoy themselves in Heaven, and men on earth House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome food, And wear warm clothes, and even beasts have stalls, I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the light, Bow down one thousand and two hundred times, To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints; Or in the night, after a little sleep, I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet With drenching dews, or stiff with crackling frost.

I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back; A grazing iron collar grinds my neck; And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross, And strive and wrestle with thee till I die: O mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am; A sinful man, conceived and born in sin: 'Tis their own doing; this is none of mine; Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this, That here come those that wors.h.i.+p me? Ha! ha!

They think that I am somewhat. What am I?

The silly people take me for a saint, And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: And I, in truth (thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more Than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints.

Good people, you do ill to kneel to me.

What is it I can have done to merit this?

I am a sinner viler than you all.

It may be I have wrought some miracles, [4]

And cured some halt and maim'd; but what of that?

It may be, no one, even among the saints, May match his pains with mine; but what of that?

Yet do not rise: for you may look on me, And in your looking you may kneel to G.o.d.

Speak! is there any of you halt or maim'd?

I think you know I have some power with Heaven From my long penance: let him speak his wish.

Yes, I can heal. Power goes forth from me.

They say that they are heal'd. Ah, hark! they shout "St. Simeon Stylites". Why, if so, G.o.d reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, G.o.d reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved?

This is not told of any. They were saints.

It cannot be but that I shall be saved; Yea, crown'd a saint. They shout, "Behold a saint!"

And lower voices saint me from above.

Courage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis Cracks into s.h.i.+ning wings, and hope ere death Spreads more and more and more, that G.o.d hath now Sponged and made blank of crimeful record all My mortal archives. O my sons, my sons, I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname Stylites, among men; I, Simeon, The watcher on the column till the end; I, Simeon, whose brain the suns.h.i.+ne bakes; I, whose bald brows in silent hours become Unnaturally h.o.a.r with rime, do now From my high nest of penance here proclaim That Pontius and Iscariot by my side Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay, A vessel full of sin: all h.e.l.l beneath Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve; [5]

Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.

I smote them with the cross; they swarm'd again.

In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my chest: They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw Their faces grow between me and my book: With colt-like whinny and with hoggish whine They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with thorns; Smite, shrink not, spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow steps, With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding pain, Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that still Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the praise: G.o.d only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind, Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come--yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold stairs Of life--I say, that time is at the doors When you may wors.h.i.+p me without reproach; For I will leave my relics in your land, And you may carve a shrine about my dust, And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones, When I am gather'd to the glorious saints.

While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike change, In pa.s.sing, with a grosser film made thick These heavy, h.o.r.n.y eyes. The end! the end!

Surely the end! What's here? a shape, a shade, A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come, I know thy glittering face. I waited long; My brows are ready. What! deny it now?

Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. Christ!

'Tis gone: 'tis here again; the crown! the crown! [6]

So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me, And from it melt the dews of Paradise, Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankincense.

Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of G.o.d, Among you there, and let him presently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, And climbing up into my airy home, Deliver me the blessed sacrament; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve. [7] But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people; let them take Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.

[Footnote 1: For this incident 'cf. Acta', v., 317:

"Pet.i.t aliquando ab aliquo ad se invisente funem, acceptumque circa corpus convolvit constringitque tarn arete ut, exesa carne, quae istuc mollis admodum ac tenera est, nudae costae exstarent".

The same is told also of the younger Stylites, where the incident of concealing the torture is added, 'Acta', i., 265.]

[Footnote 2: For this retirement to a mountain see 'Acta', i., 270, and it is referred to in the other lives:

"Post haec egressus occulte perrexit in montem non longe a monasterio, ibique sibi clausulam de sicca petra fecit, et stet.i.t sic annos tres."]

[Footnote 3: In accurate accordance with the third life, 'Acta', i., 277:

"Primum quidem columna ad s.e.x erecta cubitos est, deinde ad duodecim, post ad vigenti extensa est";

but for the thirty-six cubits which is a.s.signed as the height of the last column Tennyson's authority, drawing on another account ('Id'., 271), subst.i.tutes forty:

"Fecerunt illi columnam habentem cubitos quadraginta".]

[Footnote 4: For the miracles wrought by him see all the lives.]

[Footnote 5: These details seem taken from the well-known stories about Luther and Bunyan. All that the 'Acta' say about St. Simeon is that he was pestered by devils.]

[Footnote 6: The 'Acta' say nothing about the crown, but dwell on the supernatural fragrance which exhaled from the saint.]

[Footnote 7: Tennyson has given a very poor subst.i.tute for the beautifully pathetic account given of the death of St. Simeon in 'Acta', i., 168, and again in the ninth chapter of the second Life, 'Ibid'., 273. But this is to be explained perhaps by the moral purpose of the poem.]

THE TALKING OAK

First published in 1842, and republished in all subsequent editions with only two slight alterations: in line 113 a mere variant in spelling, and in line 185, where in place of the present reading the editions between 1842 and 1848 read, "For, ah! the Dryad-days were brief".

Tennyson told Mr. Aubrey de Vere that the poem was an experiment meant to test the degree in which it is in the power of poetry to humanise external nature. Tennyson might have remembered that Ovid had made the same experiment nearly two thousand years ago, while Goethe had immediately antic.i.p.ated him in his charming 'Der Junggesett und der Muhlbach'. There was certainly no novelty in such an attempt. The poem is in parts charmingly written, but the oak is certainly "garrulously given," and comes perilously near to tediousness.

Once more the gate behind me falls; Once more before my face I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls, That stand within the chace.

Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak.

For when my pa.s.sion first began, Ere that, which in me burn'd, The love, that makes me thrice a man, Could hope itself return'd;

To yonder oak within the field I spoke without restraint, And with a larger faith appeal'd Than Papist unto Saint.

For oft I talk'd with him apart, And told him of my choice, Until he plagiarised a heart, And answer'd with a voice.

Tho' what he whisper'd, under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land.

But since I heard him make reply Is many a weary hour; 'Twere well to question him, and try If yet he keeps the power.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern, Broad Oak of Sumner-chace, Whose topmost branches can discern The roofs of Sumner-place!

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse, As fair as my Olivia, came To rest beneath thy boughs.--