The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 33

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.

In front they bound the sheaves.

Behind Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, And h.o.a.ry to the wind. [11]

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. [12]

And one, an English home--gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep--all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. [13]

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd. [14]

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. [15]

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look'd at her.

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, A group of Houris bow'd to see The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes That said, We wait for thee. [16]

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair s.p.a.ce of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. [17]

Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a foot-fall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. [18]

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama [19] slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's [20] mantle blew unclasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borne: From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. [21]

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Half-buried in the Eagle's down, Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky Above [22] the pillar'd town.

Nor [23] these alone: but every [24] legend fair Which the supreme Caucasian mind [25]

Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd. [26]

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. [27]

And there the Ionian father of the rest; [28]

A million wrinkles carved his skin; A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, From cheek and throat and chin. [29]

Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately set Many an arch high up did lift, And angels rising and descending met With interchange of gift. [29]

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd With cycles of the human tale Of this wide world, the times of every land So wrought, they will not fail. [29]

The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, p.r.i.c.k'd with goads and stings; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings; [29]

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined, And trusted any cure. [29]

But over these she trod: and those great bells Began to chime. She took her throne: She sat betwixt the s.h.i.+ning Oriels, To sing her songs alone. [29]

And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame Two G.o.dlike faces gazed below; Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, The first of those who know. [29]

And all those names, that in their motion were Full-welling fountain-heads of change, Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair In diverse raiment strange: [30]

Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, [31] drew Rivers of melodies.

No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Throb thro' the ribbed stone;

Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Joying to feel herself alive, Lord over Nature, Lord of [32] the visible earth, Lord of the senses five;

Communing with herself: "All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, Tis one to me". She--when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars,

Making sweet close of his delicious toils-- Lit light in wreaths and anadems, And pure quintessences of precious oils In hollow'd moons of gems,

To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, "I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. [33]

"O all things fair to sate my various eyes!

O shapes and hues that please me well!

O silent faces of the Great and Wise, My G.o.ds, with whom I dwell! [34]

"O G.o.d-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. [34]

"In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep." [34]

Then of the moral instinct would she prate, And of the rising from the dead, As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate; And at the last she said:

"I take possession of man's mind and deed.

I care not what the sects may brawl, I sit as G.o.d holding no form of creed, But contemplating all." [35]

Full oft [36] the riddle of the painful earth Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, And intellectual throne.

And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell, [37]

Like Herod, [38] when the shout was in his ears, Struck thro' with pangs of h.e.l.l.

Lest she should fail and perish utterly, G.o.d, before whom ever lie bare The abysmal deeps of Personality, [39]

Plagued her with sore despair.

When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight, The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote "Mene, mene," and divided quite The kingdom of her thought. [40]

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood Laughter at her self-scorn. [41]

"What! is not this my place of strength," she said, "My s.p.a.cious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?"

But in dark corners of her palace stood Uncertain shapes; and unawares On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And horrible nightmares,

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came, That stood against the wall.