Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

For Eustace, when I heard his deep "I will,"
Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold
From thence thro' all the worlds: but I rose up
Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes
Felt earth as air beneath me,1 till I reach'd
The wicket-gate, and found her standing there.
There sat we down upon a garden mound,
Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third,
Between us, in the circle of his arms
Enwound us both; and over many a range
Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers,
Across a hazy glimmer of the west,

Reveal'd their shining windows: from them clash'd
The bells; we listen'd; with the time we play'd;
We spoke of other things; we coursed about
The subject most at heart, more near and near,
Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round
The central wish, until we settled there.2

Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her,
Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own,
Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear,
Requiring at her hand the greatest gift,
A woman's heart, the heart of her I loved;
And in that time and place she answer'd me,
And in the compass of three little words,
More musical than ever came in one,
The silver fragments of a broken voice,
Made me most happy, faltering 8 "I am thine".
Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say

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 Titian (Lord Ellesmere's Ages of Man) Tennyson struck out the passage. If this was the reason he must have been in an unusually scrupulous mood. See his Lift, i., 332.

1 So Massinger, City Madam, Hii., 3:— I am sublim'd.

Gross earth

Supports me not. / walk on air.

2 Cf. Dante, Inferno, v., 81-83:—

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

31842-1850. Lisping.

That my desire, like all strongest hopes,
By its own energy fulfilled itself,

Merged in completion? Would you learn at full
How passion rose thro' circumstantial 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 1 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-shores,
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.

1 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 (Lift, 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 Milford's, namely, The Tale of Dora Creswell (Our Village, vol. iii., 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 passages:—

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

[ocr errors]

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.

And often thought

He often look'd at them,

"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

[ocr errors]

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 pass'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:

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 answer'd something madly; bit his lips.
And broke away.

All editions previous to 1853 have

44

Look to't.

"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 former 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 passed 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

"

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »