The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 79

APPENDIX

The Poems published in MDCCCx.x.x and in MDCCCx.x.xIII which were temporarily or finally suppressed.

POEMS PUBLISHED IN MDCCCx.x.x

ELEGIACS

Reprinted in Collected Works among 'Juvenilia', with t.i.tle altered to 'Leonine Elegiacs'. The only alterations made in the text were "wood-dove" for "turtle," and the subst.i.tution of "or" for "and" in the last line but one.

Lowflowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming: Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river s.h.i.+nes.

Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes, Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall.

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerily; the gra.s.shopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep; dews fell chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly: Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn.

Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth: Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.

Lowthroned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.

The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.

Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even.

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?

THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY"

I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast: In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.

We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die, Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_?

The bulrush nods unto its brother, The wheatears whisper to each other: What is it they say? What do they there?

Why two and two make four? Why round is not square?

Why the rocks stand still, and the light clouds fly?

Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh?

Why deep is not high, and high is not deep?

Whether we wake, or whether we sleep?

Whether we sleep, or whether we die?

How you are you? Why I am I?

Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_?

The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow; But what is the meaning of _then_ and _now_?

I feel there is something; but how and what?

I know there is somewhat; but what and why?

I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.

The little bird pipeth, "why? why?"

In the summerwoods when the sun falls low And the great bird sits on the opposite bough, And stares in his face and shouts, "how? how?"

And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight, And chaunts, "how? how?" the whole of the night.

Why the life goes when the blood is spilt?

What the life is? where the soul may lie?

Why a church is with a steeple built; And a house with a chimneypot?

Who will riddle me the how and the what?

Who will riddle me the what and the why?

SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS

OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT IN UNITY WITH ITSELF

There has been only one important alteration made in this poem, when it was reprinted among the 'Juvenilia' in 1871, and that was the suppression of the verses beginning "A grief not uninformed and dull" to "Indued with immortality" inclusive, and the subst.i.tution of "rosy" for "waxen". Capitals are in all cases inserted in the reprint where the Deity is referred to, "through" is altered into "thro'" all through the poem, and hyphens are inserted in the double epithets. No further alterations were made in the edition of 1830.

Oh G.o.d! my G.o.d! have mercy now.

I faint, I fall. Men say that thou Didst die for me, for such as _me_, Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt thy brow, Wounding thy soul.--That even now, In this extremest misery Of ignorance, I should require A sign! and if a bolt of fire Would rive the slumbrous summernoon While I do pray to thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow!

Is not my human pride brought low?

The boastings of my spirit still?

The joy I had in my freewill All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown?

And what is left to me, but thou, And faith in thee? Men pa.s.s me by; Christians with happy countenances-- And children all seem full of thee!

And women smile with saint-like glances Like thine own mother's when she bow'd Above thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And thou and peace to earth were born.

Goodwill to me as well as all-- I one of them: my brothers they: Brothers in Christ--a world of peace And confidence, day after day; And trust and hope till things should cease, And then one Heaven receive us all.

How sweet to have a common faith!

To hold a common scorn of death!

And at a burial to hear The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear, With hopeful grief, were pa.s.sing sweet!

A grief not uninformed, and dull Hearted with hope, of hope as full As is the blood with life, or night And a dark cloud with rich moonlight.

To stand beside a grave, and see The red small atoms wherewith we Are built, and smile in calm, and say-- "These little moles and graves shall be Clothed on with immortality More glorious than the noon of day-- All that is pa.s.s'd into the flowers And into beasts and other men, And all the Norland whirlwind showers From open vaults, and all the sea O'er washes with sharp salts, again Shall fleet together all, and be Indued with immortality."

Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee!

Who lets his waxen fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes.

They comfort him by night and day; They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes; He hath no care of life or death, Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose dullness would make visible Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Fullfills him with beat.i.tude.

Oh! sure it is a special care Of G.o.d, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triple-mailed trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year.

Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listen'd to thy vows, For me outpour'd in holiest prayer-- For me unworthy!--and beheld Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit s.h.i.+ning through.

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To th' earth--until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?

What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear'd--to brush the dew From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay?

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circ.u.mstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Thro' utter dark a fullsailed skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong, That thou, if thou were yet alive, In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy G.o.d.

Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still-- "Bring this lamb back into thy fold, My Lord, if so it be thy will".

Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, And chastis.e.m.e.nt of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of G.o.d!