The Works of Tennyson The Eversley Edition: Annotated by Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Edited by Hallam, Lord Tennyson |
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The Works of Tennyson | ||
THE PALACE OF ART.
Trench (afterwards Archbishop of Dublin) said, when we were at Trinity (Cambridge) together, “Tennyson, we cannot live in Art.” This poem is the embodiment of my own belief that the Godlike life is with man and for man.
That never can be sunder'd without tears.
And he that shuts out Love, in turn shall be
Shut out from Love, and on her threshold lie,
Howling in outer darkness.
When I first conceived the plan of The Palace of Art, I intended to have introduced both sculptures and paintings into it, but I only finished two sculptures.
As when he stood on Carmel-steeps,
With one arm stretch'd out bare, and mock'd and said,
“Come, cry aloud—he sleeps.”
Behind, his forehead heavenly bright
From the clear marble pouring glorious scorn,
Lit as with inner light.
Olympias was the mother of Alexander the Great, and devoted to the Orphic rites. She was wont in the dances proper to these ceremonies to have great tame serpents about her.
One was Olympias: the floating snakeRoll'd round her ankles, round her waist
Knotted, and folded once about her neck,
Her perfect lips to taste,
Down from the shoulder moved; she seeming blithe
Declined her head: on every side
The dragon's curves melted, and mingled with
The woman's youthful pride
Of rounded limbs.
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, ‘O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well.’
I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.
‘Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade
Sleeps on his luminous ring.’
‘Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
So royal-rich and wide.’
In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth
A flood of fountain-foam.
Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.
That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.
Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.
My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
And that sweet incense rise?’
And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
Well-pleased, from room to room.
All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
And change of my still soul.
Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.
And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves
Beneath the windy wall.
By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.
In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep—all things in order stored,
A haunt of ancient Peace.
As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there
Not less than truth design'd.
In tracts of pasture sunny-warm,
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
Sat smiling, babe in arm.
Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily;
An angel look'd at her.
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
That said, We wait for thee.
In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
And watch'd by weeping queens.
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.
And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
A summer fann'd with spice.
From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
The mild bull's golden horn.
Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.
Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself, was there,
Not less than life, design'd.
Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
The royal dais round.
Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
And somewhat grimly smiled.
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought, they will not fail.
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings;
All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
And trusted any cure.
Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels,
To sing her songs alone.
Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,
The first of those who know.
“Il maestro di color chi sanno,”
Shudder'd with silent stars, she clomb,
And as with optic glasses her keen eyes
Pierced thro' the mystic dome,
Regions of lucid matter taking forms,
Brushes of fire, hazy gleams,
Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like swarms
Of suns, and starry streams.
She saw the snowy poles and moons of Mars,
That mystic field of drifted light
In mid Orion and the married stars.
“Moons of Mars” is the only modern reading here. All the rest are more than half a century old.
Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
In diverse raiment strange:
Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
Rivers of melodies.
Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
Throb thro' the ribbed stone;
Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
Lord of the senses five;
And let the world have peace or wars,
'Tis one to me.’ She—when young night divine
Crown'd dying day with stars,
Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
In hollow'd moons of gems,
‘I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
Be flatter'd to the height.
O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whom I dwell!
After line 20 used to come these verses:
The brain is moulded,” she began,
“And thro' all phases of all thought I come
Unto the perfect man.
The simpler essence lower lies,
More complex is more perfect, owning more
Discourse, more widely wise.”
I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
That range on yonder plain.
They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
And drives them to the deep.’
And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;
And at the last she said:
I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
But contemplating all.’
Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,
And intellectual throne.
She prosper'd: on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
Struck thro' with pangs of hell.
God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
Arthur Hallam once pointed out to me, or I to him, a quotation in some review from J. P. Richter where he talks of an “abysmal Ich.” “I believe that redemption is universal in so far as it left no obstacle between man and God but man's own will; that indeed is in the power of God's election, with whom alone rest the abysmal secrets of personality” (A. H. Hallam's Remains, p. 132).
Plagued her with sore despair.
The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, ‘Mene, mene,’ and divided quite
The kingdom of her thought.
Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself, again, from out that mood
Laughter at her self-scorn.
‘My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
Since my first memory?’
Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
And horrible nightmares,
And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
That stood against the wall.
Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
Making for one sure goal.
Left on the shore; that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
Their moon-led waters white.
Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance
Roll'd round by one fix'd law.
‘No voice,’ she shriek'd in that lone hall,
‘No voice breaks thro’ the stillness of this world:
One deep, deep silence all!’
Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
Lost to her place and name;
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere;
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime:
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.
In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
Moan of an unknown sea;
Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, ‘I have found
A new land, but I die.’
There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
And save me lest I die?’
She threw her royal robes away.
‘Make me a cottage in the vale,’ she said,
‘Where I may mourn and pray.
So lightly, beautifully built:
Perchance I may return with others there
When I have purged my guilt.’
The Works of Tennyson | ||