In Memoriam A. H. H., Section 5 -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem submitted by Mark Penney :

(Poem #1809) In Memoriam A. H. H., Section 5 I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given outline and no more. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

So _In Memoriam_ is vast, and kind of out of style.  But that doesn't mean
that it doesn't have some great stuff in it.

A. H. H. stands for Arthur Henry Hallam.  Hallam was a close friend of
Tennyson's who was also engaged to Tennyson's sister.  He died before the
wedding; he was 22.  Naturally enough, this caused Tennyson to be catatonic
with grief.  As a way of working through it, Tennyson wrote _In Memoriam,_
which consists of 133 sections; each section is in turn composed of
quatrains of iambic tetrameter rhymed abba.  Since Tennyson invented that
stanza form for this poem, and since you've read several hundred of them by
the time you're done reading the poem, that form is called the "In Memoriam
stanza".

The poem as a whole, as you might expect, is about coming to terms with
grief.  Tennyson assays his grief, expiates it, and finds a way to move on.
That's the arc, anyway.  In the midst of that, you get an idea of who Hallam
was and what he meant to Tennyson.  There are also digressions on a few
other topics.  The In Memoriam stanza is a perfect microcosm of the arc of
the poem as a whole:  abba:  conflict, then resolution.  Does that make any
sense?

I love this section in particular: it's about the inadequacy of words to
express grief; and yet at the same time words are the only tool we have.  So
what can you do?  Wrap yourself in words, like weeds.  Weeds, as in mourning
dress, but also weeds as in the plants that clog an untended garden.  Words,
too, like narcotics, numbing the pain.  And what is this poem, but words?
The grief is literally too large to be contained here, but somehow he has to
find a way to cram it in, so he knows his project will never work: it's
"given outline, and no more".  In short, words must fail, yet _must_
succeed.  There's a lot of punch packed into these twelve lines.

Mark.

Tithonus -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem submitted by Hilary Caws-Elwitt:

(Poem #1697) Tithonus The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms. Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man-- So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God! I asked thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed To dwell in presence of immortal youth, And all I was ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears, To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift. Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth be true? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not forever in thine East; How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rose shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground. Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn, I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

--
[My first submission to Minstrels, which I've been enjoying for several
years now!]

Continuing on the "memorized" theme, this is one of my all-time favorite
poems, which I memorized about ten years ago. I still remember chunks but
need to brush up to be able to recite the whole thing again (the longer the
poem, the more maintenance it needs in my mind!).

_Tithonus_ still gives me shivers to read, and even more so to say aloud.
It's the "after" of the myth in which Eos, goddes of dawn, falling in love
with a young man who asks her for the gift of immortality. He gets eternal
life but not eternal youth.

Tennyson's personalization of Dawn captures the perfectly silent, slow,
spectacular changes of sunrise; to me it evokes both its beauty and its
chill loneliness, the sublime aspect of this enormous dramatic change that
happens every morning yet which we often barely notice. The contrast between
the glamour of the immortals and the small human scale is so clear yet
subtle ("cold my wrinkled feet!"). But what I love most about this poem is
its depiction of death as a natural end, a part of life, rejoining the earth
like the woods that decay and fall.

Hilary Caws-Elwitt.

The Revenge : A Ballad of the Fleet -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem sent in by Ashwin Menon

(Poem #1320) The Revenge : A Ballad of the Fleet At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turned my back upon Don or devil yet." Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and laughed, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delayed By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stayed. And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shattered, and so could fight us no more - God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? For he said "Fight on! fight on!" Though his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said "Fight on! fight on!" And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting, So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maimed for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die -does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner -sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died. And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, And they manned the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sailed with her loss and longed for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruined awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shattered navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Here's another narrative poem. I was a bit surprised that the minstrels have
not run this one before. I came across this poem when I listened to a song
called "Lord Grenville" by Al Stewart, and I was curious whether Grenville was
a historical character. A great song, by the way. For those interested in
comparing the song to the poem, I've added the song lyrics below.

The song:

Lord Grenville (by Al Stewart)

Go and tell Lord Grenville that the tide is on the turn
It's time to haul the anchor up and leave the land astern
We'll be gone before the dawn returns
Like voices on the wind.

Go and tell Lord Grenville that our dreams have run aground
There's nothing here to keep us in this shanty town
None of us are caring where we're bound
Like voices on the wind

And come the day you'll hear them saying
They're throwing it all away
Nothing more to say
Just throwing it all away

Go and fetch the captain's log and tear the pages out
We're on our way to nowhere now, can't bring the helm about
None of us are left in any doubt
We won't be back again

Send a message to the fleet, they'll search for us in vain
We won't be there among the reaches of the Spanish Main
Tell the ones we left home not to wait
We won't be back again.

Our time is just a point along a line
That runs forever with no end
I never thought that we would come to find
Ourselves upon these rocks again

Here's what www.alstewart.com has to say on the
incident described in the poem:

Sir Richard Grenville (1542-1591)

English Naval commander. He was sent with a fleet of
13 ships to intercept a Spanish treasure ship in the
Azores. On August 31 they received news that 53
Spanish ships were headed out to meet the treasure
ship. Other ships in the fleet weighed anchor and
headed out to sea. Grenville's ship, the Revenge, was
delayed and cut off. The ship was becalmed in the lee
of a large galleon. After a hand to hand battle
lasting 15 hours, involving 15 ships and 5000 men, the
Revenge was captured. Grenville was carried aboard the
Spanish flagship, where he died a few days later. The
exploit is commemorated in a poem by Tennyson titled
"the Revenge"

- Ashwin

Locksley Hall -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #1106) Locksley Hall Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn. 'T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time; When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed: When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see; Saw the Vision of the world and all the wonder that would be.-- In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turn'd--her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs-- All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes-- Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong"; Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fulness of the Spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me--to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought: Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand-- Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand! Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool! Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved-- Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, tho' my heart be at the root. Never, tho' my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home. Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perish'd; sweetly did she speak and move; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No--she never loved me truly; love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whisper'd by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. "They were dangerous guides the feelings--she herself was not exempt-- Truly, she herself had suffer'd"--Perish in thy self-contempt! Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy; what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are roll'd in vapour, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men: Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight dropping down with costly bales; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping thro' me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle-horn, They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn: Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain-- Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain: Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine-- Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat; Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starr'd,-- I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit--there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree-- Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope and breathing space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun; Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books-- Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage--what to me were sun or clime? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time-- I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day; Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not) help me as when life begun: Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Today's poem is finely balanced between controlled narrative and
stream-of-consciousness, a genuinely compelling trip that takes us through
the narrator's several moods and twists of fortune, and one that held me
spellbound throughout. Quite apart from the considerable pleasure the poetry
afforded me, the first time I read it I found myself almost breathlessly
reading on as fast as I could, caught up in the sheer power of the
narrative.

Returning to the poetic aspect, this is typically beautiful Tennyson, vivid
and melodious, highlighting his gift for description and metaphor. It is
also quite possibly the best use of couplets I've ever seen in a long poem
(though, perhaps, helped by the strong break in the middle of each line,
which effectively turns them into the more usual quatrains).

The rhythms are wonderful too - long, metrical lines are a very pleasing
device when done right. Quoting the UTEL site:

  Mr. Hallam said to me that the English people liked verse in trochaics, so
  I wrote the poem in this metre" (Tennyson). (The metre is actually the old
  "fifteener" line of fifteen syllables.)
    -- http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/tennyson11.html

Though the poem *is* technically trochaic, it suffers from the usual tendency
of extended trochaic verse to flip, Necker-cube like, into iambics and back.
Doesn't harm the poem in any way, but it makes it really hard to write
perfect trochaic verse at any level more complex than 'Humpty Dumpty' -
indeed, I sometimes wonder whether it even makes sense to insist on aligning
the foot boundaries to yield trochees rather than iambs.

And finally, I think the "livelier iris" couplet (my favourite from the
poem, incidentally) makes its appearance in Wodehouse, but I can't quite
place it. Anyone?

martin

Links:
  Some notes on the poem:
    http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/tennyson11.html

  Biography of Tennyson:
    http://www.incompetech.com/authors/tennyson/

The Lotos-Eaters -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #989) The Lotos-Eaters "Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; And like a downward smoke, the slender stream Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Was seen far inland, and the yellow down Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale And meadow, set with slender galingale; A land where all things always seem'd the same! And round about the keel with faces pale, Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave To each, but whoso did receive of them, And taste, to him the gushing of the wave Far far away did seem to mourn and rave On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake, And music in his ears his beating heart did make. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, Between the sun and moon upon the shore; And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. Then some one said, "We will return no more"; And all at once they sang, "Our island home Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam." Choric Song I There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm!" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! VI Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change: For surely now our household hearths are cold, Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. VII But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelid still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill-- To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine-- To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. VIII The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Thanks to Frank O'Shea for suggesting today's poem. Frank wrote

  Anyway, you wanted to follow the theme of looking at the sea. Keats's
  tribute to Chapman has been run already although it is good enough to bear
  repetition. But my nomination is my favourite Tennyson poem, The Choric
  Song of the Lotos-Eaters. Hard to credit that it hasn't been run already -
  we're not afraid that it is encouragement to the cultivation of leafy
  substances, are we [lest the list go to pot? - m.] . If you wanted to
  explain onomatopoeia to someone, you would advise them to read this poem.

I fully agree with him, both about Keat's immortal "On First Looking into
Chapman's Homer", and about today's marvellous dream sequence. On the poem
itself, the UToronto site has this to say by way of annotation:

  Based on an incident in the Odyssey, IX, 82 ff.
  moly: the herb with magic protective powers given by Hermes to
    Odysseus to protect him against Circe (Odyssey, X).

Like a lot of Tennyson's poetry (in particular, one of my favourites, 'The
Brook'), today's poem is both intensely musical and highly atmospheric.
Indeed, it approaches Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan' in both respects, carrying the
reader along on a rippling stream of imagery and rhythm that is almost
hypnotic, especially when read aloud. I also admire the way that Tennyson has
varied the metre and line length - in places drastically - without disrupting
the poem's flow. The language is beautifully evocative throughout, both in
the exquisite use (and unobtrusive density) of adjectives, and the constant
appeal to the senses.

Notable, also, is the way the poem immerses us so thoroughly in the world of
the Lotos Eaters; even those unfamiliar with the story can see clearly that
the drug-induced dreams are a trap rather than a paradise, but nowhere is
that fact explicitly mentioned. Apart from the refreshing refusal to
patronise the reader, this mirrors the experience of the sailors themselves,
and thereby stays true to the voice and viewpoint of the poem (which may
sound too obvious to mention, but there is an ever-present temptation for an
author to break into omniscient mode and insert editorial comments, or even
indicate, by a subtle lapse in tone, that his view and that of the narrator
differ).

p.s. Surprisingly, this is not a poem I was too familiar with; indeed, I
hadn't reread it in years. I'd like to thank Frank for prompting me to
rectify this omission; I'd forgotten just how beautiful it was.

Links:

  Tennyson poems on Minstrels:
    Poem #15, 'The Eagle (a fragment)'
    Poem #31, 'Break, break, break'
    Poem #80, 'The Brook (excerpt)'
    Poem #121, 'Ulysses'
    Poem #355, 'Charge of the Light Brigade'
    Poem #653, 'Ring Out, Wild Bells'
    Poem #825, 'Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White'
    Poem #852, 'Mariana in the Moated Grange'
    Poem #896, 'The Kraken'

  Biography: Poem #15

  Some nice companion pieces to today's poem (by no means an exhaustive
  list):
    Poem #30,  Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'Kubla Khan'
    Poem #518, James Elroy Flecker, 'The Gates of Damascus'
    Poem #182, John Keats, 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci'
    Poem #616, James Wright, 'Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in
                Pine Island, Minnesota'

    (It would be interesting to have readers add to this list, with perhaps a
    line or two about the connection).

-martin

The Kraken -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #896) The Kraken Below the thunders of the upper deep; Far far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee About his shadowy sides; above him swell Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; And far away into the sickly light, From many a wondrous grot and secret cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green. There hath he lain for ages, and will lie Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep, Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; Then once by man and angels to be seen, In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Written in 1830.

Tennyson was only 21 years old when he wrote "The Kraken", but he already
possessed the mastery of image and phrase that was to become his trademark.
The fact that the poem remains known and loved to this day (unlike many of
Tennyson's later and, dare I say it, more reactionary pieces) belies its
usual classification under 'juvenilia'; indeed, I can think of few poets
(bar the incomparable Keats) who have achieved similar results at such a
tender age.

The poem itself is a wonderfully ominous one: Tennyson uses dense,
intertwined phrases to create an impression of ponderous weight and immense
size. You can almost feel the barnacles encrusting the middle third of the
poem: "sponges of millennial growth ... sickly light... unnumber'd and
enormous polypi". The finale, too, is most fitting: nothing less than the
last trumpet and judgement day will suffice to wake the monster from its
"ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep"... <shudder>.

thomas.

[More on the Kraken]

kraken ("krA:k@n, "kreIk@n). Also 8 craken, cracken, kraaken. [Norw. kraken,
krakjen (the -n being the suffixed definite article), also called sykraken,
sjokrakjen sea-kraken. The name was first brought into general notice by
Pontoppidan in his Forste Forsog paa Norges naturlige Historie (1752).]
   A mythical sea-monster of enormous size, said to have been seen at times
off the coast of Norway.
   1755 tr. Pontoppidan's Hist. Norway ii. vii. 11. 211 Amongst the many
great things which are in the ocean,..is the Kraken.  This creature is the
largest and most surprizing of all the animal creation. 1770 Douglas in
Phil. Trans. LX. 41 Enquiry..as to the existence of the aquatic animals,
called Kraakens. 1830 Tennyson Kraken 4 Far, far beneath the abysmal
sea,..The Kraken sleepeth. 1848 Lowell Ode to France 30 Ye are mad, ye have
taken A slumbering Kraken For firm land of the Past. 1862 Longfellow The
Cumberland vi, Like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her
iron grasp!
        -- OED

[Minstrels Links]

"The Kraken" is very similar in theme and execution to Herman Melville's
"The Maldive Shark", Poem #775 on the Minstrels: both poems use wonderfully
dense, murky phrases to convey the sheer horror of the creatures they
describe.

Other poems by Tennyson:
Poem #15, The Eagle (a fragment)
Poem #31, Break, break, break
Poem #80, The Brook (excerpt)
Poem #121, Ulysses
Poem #355, Charge of the Light Brigade
Poem #653, Ring Out, Wild Bells
Poem #825, Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White
Poem #852, Mariana in the Moated Grange

Mariana in the Moated Grange -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:

(Poem #852) Mariana in the Moated Grange With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Her tears fell with the dews at even; Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" Upon the middle of the night, Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" About a stone-cast from the wall A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did mark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary I would that I were dead!" And ever when the moon was low, And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" All day within the dreamy house, The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices called her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!" The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loathed the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!" -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Just read "Now sleeps the crimson petal ..." after a long time and
remembered what a favourite Tennyson was when I was just beginning to
discover the magic of poetry. Poetry is meant to be read aloud, and
Tennyson's melody and construction made an immediate impression at that
admittedly impressionable age - who could forget the babbling of The Brook,
or resist the delicious pathos of Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead? As a
special treat, our English teacher read aloud selections from 'Maud' - and
for days on end, the class was hypnotically chanting 'Come into the garden'
at the slightest provocation.

With critical faculties more developed in later years, one began to
understand Tennyson's failings: ultra-conservatism (what else could one
expect of a Victorian Poet Laureate?), the conscious abandonment of reason
for rhyme, and the tendency towards over-dramatisation; but one had to still
admit that his genius was far from commonplace - the perfect word at the
perfect place, the metre and the melody, and his superb creation of
'atmosphere', all add up to a wonderful audio-visual experience. In my
anthology of a hundred great poems to be read aloud, Tennyson and Walter de
la Mare would occupy the first ten slots.

I feel that Tennyson's gifts were ideal for the creation of fragments of
beauty - a scene, a turn of the kaleidoscope, a moment of wonder. He is
definitely not at his best in longer poems - take Maud, for example, which
taken as a whole is decidedly a feverish poem about an over-dramatic hero.
But there too exists snippets of almost unbearable beauty like the scene
with the flowers in the garden. Creating sustained dramatic tension and
irony was beyond Tennyson - for that one has to turn to Browning, a
contemporary at the other end of the spectrum, both difficult and obscure,
but rich with the subtlety of minute shades of human emotion and passions.

I am attaching two great Tennysons [we'll run the other one some other day -
t.] that were among the first I read at school - and they showcase his
particular talents admirably. The first is an old favourite that alludes to
Mariana in Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure" - and is chiefly remarkable
for the use of language. Take the first few lines (which incidentally were
used by Professor Higgins to improve Eliza's diction) - "With blackest moss
the flower-plots were thickly crusted, one and all:, The rusted nails fell
from the knots that held the pear to the gable-wall...". How skilfully is
the picture of the lonely manor woven, and the lament of Mariana in the
final lines of each stanza provide the perfect counterpoint. It is
wonderfully tactile, you can feel the disused manor in your bones.

Anustup.

[Minstrels Links]

Tennyson:
Poem #15, The Eagle (a fragment)
Poem #31, Break, break, break
Poem #80, The Brook (excerpt)
Poem #121, Ulysses
Poem #355, Charge of the Light Brigade
Poem #653, Ring Out, Wild Bells
Poem #825, Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White

Browning:
Poem #65, Home Thoughts From Abroad
Poem #104, My Last Duchess
Poem #130, The Lost Leader
Poem #133, Song, from Pippa Passes
Poem #242, The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Poem #352, My Star
Poem #364, The Patriot
Poem #425, Memorabilia
Poem #526, A Toccata of Galuppi's
Poem #635, Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
Poem #778, Incident of the French Camp
Poem #814, Parting at Morning

de le Mare:
Poem #2, The Listeners
Poem #272, Napoleon
Poem #483, Brueghel's Winter
Poem #725, Silver

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #825) Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me. Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me. Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me. Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me. Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

As is the case with much of Tennyson's poetry, today's excerpt from 'The
Princess' [1] is notable not so much for its depth of insight or emotion as
for the utter beauty of its language. Tennyson himself put it best when he
commented that other people may have written better poetry than him, but
nobody ever wrote poetry that sounded better [2].

Incidentally, an interesting contrast obtains between this poem and
Shelley's "Indian Serenade" [3]: both poems express roughly the same
(annoyingly vapid) sentiments, but whereas Shelley's work seems strained and
pretentious, Tennyson's is unhurried and charming. Or maybe that's just me.

thomas.

[1] Tennyson's first long poem, published in 1847 and described by
Britannica as "a singular anti-feminist fantasia". I have to confess
ignorance of the poem beyond today's extract, which I came across in that
lovely anthology, "Poems on the Underground".

[2] See Martin's notes to Minstrels Poem #15, "The Eagle".

[3] Minstrels Poem #399: one of my favourite poems - not!

[Minstrels Links]

After an initial flurry, the pace of Tennyson-inclusion in the Minstrels has
slowed somewhat. Still, here are all the poems of his that we've covered:

Poem #15, "The Eagle (a fragment)"
Poem #31, "Break, break, break"
Poem #80, "The Brook (excerpt)"
Poem #121, "Ulysses"
Poem #355, "The Charge of the Light Brigade"
Poem #653 "Ring Out, Wild Bells"

The first of these has a brief biography, as well as some critical notes
describing Tennyson's peculiar mastery of atmosphere, and his position among
the great Romantics. The second has more critical material on Tennyson's
life and works. Both are worth a dekko.

[Notes]

Porphyry: a semi-precious mineral.
Danaë: a character in Greek mythology, who, after being locked up in a tower
by her father, was visited (ahem! euphemism alert!) by Zeus in a shower of
gold.

Ring Out, Wild Bells -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The old millennium changeth, yielding place to the new...

(Poem #653) Ring Out, Wild Bells Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more, Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkenss of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

One of Tennyson's most famous poems - partly due to its association with
New Year's Eve, which ensures it a sort of recurrent popularity - but mostly
because it's a good poem in its own right.

Like most of Tennyson's poetry - indeed, as some people would argue, like
*all* poetry - today's poem is meant to be read aloud. And not just read
aloud, but declaimed - there is a fine dramatic quality to the lines that is
diminished if read silently.

'Ring Out, Wild Bells' was another childhood favourite, though I must
confess to being slightly less impressed by it of late. The problem with
poems like this is that there not only is there a fine line between noble
and sententious, but the placement of that line is highly subjective, and
the poem has a slightly preachy feel to it today that it lacked when I was
younger. Nonetheless, I do like it for its poetic virtues, and yes, because
the world needs more New Year's poems :)

Links:

Tennyson biography: poem #15

Compare Tagore's 'Where the Mind is Without Fear': poem #177

and Wordsworth's 'London, 1802': poem #128

And finally, happy new year, century, millennium or what-have-you.

-martin

Charge of the Light Brigade -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Another old favourite...

(Poem #355) Charge of the Light Brigade Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. `Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. `Forward, the Light Brigade!' Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wonder'd. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

To call 'Charge of the Light Brigade' an old favourite is perhaps to
understate its popularity - few poems before or since have caught the public
imagination to the extent Tennyson's account of heroism against all odds has.

To quote the French Marshall in the Crimea, Pierre Bosquet's famous remark
on the Charge, "It is magnificent but it is not war"; and Tennyson has
captured both aspects beautifully. While lauding the heroism of the noble
six hundred, he makes no attempt to downplay the pointlessness of the charge
itself -  "Not tho' the soldier knew/ Some one had blunder'd: / Their's not
to make reply, / Their's not to reason why, / Their's but to do and die:".
The above verse is easily the best known, and oftenest quoted, for its vivid
portrayal of bravery in the face of stupidity - the poem has become a sort
of anthem of futility.

Formwise, the series of dactylics not only echoes the insistent rhythm of a
cavalry charge, it is sufficiently unusual that it is seen as
'characteristic' of the poem (compare Longfellow's 'Hiawatha').

m.

Author's note: "This poem (written at Farringford, and published in The
Examiner, Dec. 9, 1854) was written after reading the first report of the
Times correspondent, where only 607 sabres are mentioned as having taken
part in this charge (Oct. 25, 1854). Drayton's Agincourt was not in my mind;
my poem is dactylic[1], and founded on the phrase, "Some one had blundered."

At the request of Lady Franklin I distributed copies among our soldiers in
the Crimea and the hospital at Scutari. The charge lasted only twenty-five
minutes. I have heard that one of the men, with the blood streaming from his
leg, as he was riding by his officer, said, `Those d--d heavies will never
chaff us again,' and fell down dead.".

    -- http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/tennyson1c.html

[1] A dactyl is a three syllable foot, following the pattern / x x
       /   x   x   / x x    /  x  x    /    x      x
    Though it was obvious Someone had blundered (pause)

Links:

An interesting interspersal of the poem with scans of the original
manuscript: http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/britpo/tennyson/TenChar.html

A nice overview (and then some) of all things Tennyson:
http://landow.stg.brown.edu/victorian/tennyson/tennyov.html

An essay based around a parody in Punch:
http://landow.stg.brown.edu/victorian/punch/lim.html

An overview of the Crimean War:
[broken link] http://ds.dial.pipex.com/town/avenue/aca01/obsinfo/events.htm

And of the charge itself (recommended - contains a passage from the Times of
London war correspondent):
[broken link] http://chomsky.arts.adelaide.edu.au/person/DHart/Films/ChargeOfLightBrigade.html

A good essay on Victorian poetry, and the Modern attitudes towards it:
[broken link] http://www.thenewrepublic.com/magazines/tnr/archive/1199/110199/kirsch110199.html

And finally, for an interesting sequel, see poem #357

Ulysses -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #121) Ulysses It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,--- Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me --- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads --- you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

I actually spent some time writing criticism, commentary and the like...
but then I stopped and erased it all. For this is one poem that deserves
to stand on its own. I have nothing further to say, except for the fact
that I think it's utterly utterly beautiful.

thomas.

The Brook (excerpt) -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #80) The Brook (excerpt) `O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, `Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. `Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy; there the river; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. `But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; Old Philip; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.] I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

        Full poem at
        <[broken link] http://www.hti.umich.edu/bin/epd/epd-idx.pl?type=HTML&rgn=POEM&byte=>
        Reproduced from the English Poetry Full-Text Database Copyright (c)
        [1992-1995] Chadwyck-Healey Ltd.

This is a wonderfully lyrical poem, even for Tennyson - in places it verges
on pure music. In fact, it is hardly necessary to 'understand' it - just let
the images and beautifully patterned rhythms flow past, evoking the babbling
brook. I could go through this excerpt line by line, saying exactly what I
like about each one, but if this isn't a poem that should speak for itself,
I don't know what is. In passing, though - it has immortalized the phrase
'babbling brook', enshrining it so thoroughly into the language that even
those who have never heard of Tennyson would apply no other adjective.

m. (Happy Star Wars day! [1])

[1] May the 4th...

Break, break, break -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #31) Break, break, break Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Another nice poem by Tennyson, in which the moods, images and rhythms blend
perfectly. Note the heavy, melancholy feel of 'break, break, break',
contrasted with the lighter 'that he sings in his boat on the bay', and in
general the way the various moods of the sea are evoked, from dancing,
rippling waves and gentle swells, to the mealncholy, insistent breaking upon
a cold and lonely shore.

Criticism:

  Great ages are fortunate which find the one voice that can turn to music
  their otherwise mute beliefs and endeavors, their joy and pain. Such was
  Chaucer for his time; such were Shakespeare and Spenser for theirs, Pope for
  his, and preeminently Alfred, Lord Tennyson, for the time of Victoria. Our
  present disparagement of Tennyson is only our impatience with everything
  Victorian; for his poetry peculiarly expresses the ideas and the enthusiasms
  of the vast reading middle class of his day. He reasons like the middle-
  -class liberal who keeps to the Christian faith and forms, at least in the
  via media or middle course, with a mind open to the new difficulties rising
  from the new science, and the prevailing evolutionary enthusiasm for
  progress and some good time coming.
  [..]
  His poetry sings the virtues and enthusiasms of his day, domestic and
  social, the patriotism, the humanitarian impulses, the utilitarian
  prosperity, the fascination of death, the sombre religion or scepticism, and
  the New Empire. At the same time he is nourishing and refining his age with
  the beauty which it had lost, and which he shapes for its needs out of many
  a corner of "the antique world." If he seems at times to be an aristocrat,
  he is such with the middle-class conservatism and faith in the old English
  order. He has as much of the body and fibre of English life in him as
  Dickens--perhaps more--not its lusty humors so much as its peculiar and
  irresistible charm mellowed by time.
  [..]
  He was first of all a careful, patient workman, and no man ever toiled
  harder or more soberly to perfect himself in his craft. He kept it up all
  his long life, revising and editing early poems, reading, observing,
  travelling, scrutinizing the work of his many masters, inventing short
  snatches and cadences which he saved for later use. With his minute care he
  joined extraordinary range and variety--of metre, subject and material, and
  final effect.
  [..]
  Like that otber great Alexandrian, Theocritus, Tennyson was essentially an
  idyllist, a fashioner of small and highly finished pictures. Hundreds of
  them are strewn from end to end of his work, from his Lady of Shalott, one
  of the most idyllic, through his classical poems, his pageants of the Palace
  of Art, and The Dream of Fair Women, his poems of English life, his
  Princess, Maud, In Memoriam. Of this he seems to have been aware in his very
  fondness for the word, "idyll"--"a small, sweet idyll," "English Idylls,"
  and Idylls of the King.
  [..]
  But he has far greater gifts than fine minute craftsmanship. One is the
  poet's supreme gift of making the language sing a new song, verse set to its
  own indigenous tune, the gift of Burns, or Byron, and the Elizabethans. And
  though it is usually peculiar to the youthful poet, it never wholly left
  Tennyson from "Break, break, break" to Crossing the Bar.

      -- Excerpts from Charles Grosvenor Osgood, 'The Voice of England',
      read the whole essay at
      <http://www.britishliterature.com/era/victoria-tennyson.html>

m.

The Eagle (a fragment) -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

(Poem #15) The Eagle (a fragment) He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

For sheer concentrated imagery this poem is hard to beat - I especially like
lines 2 and 3. Tennyson is reported to have said that while people have
written better poetry than he has, no one has written poetry that *sounds*
better, and I'm inclined to agree with him - for other lovely examples, read
'The Brook', 'Break, break, break' and 'The Lady of Shallott'. (The latter
two may be found online at
<http://library.utoronto.ca/www/utel/rp/authors/tennyson.html#poems> ; if
anyone knows where to find an online copy of the former do let me know.)

I have, incidentally, seen at least one version in which line 1 reads
'hooked hands', suggesting that Tennyson revised the poem at some time.
'Crooked' is by far the more accepted version, though.

Biographical Notes:

 Relevant extracts from
 <[broken link] http://mirrors.org.sg/victorian/tennyson/tennybio.html>

  Since Tennyson was always sensitive to criticism, the mixed reception of his
  1832 Poems hurt him greatly. Critics in those days delighted in the
  harshness of their reviews: the Quarterly Review was known as the "Hang,
  draw, and quarterly." John Wilson Croker's harsh criticisms of some of the
  poems in our anthology kept Tennyson from publishing again for another nine
  years.
  [...]
  The success of his 1842 Poems made Tennyson a popular poet, and in 1845 he
  received a Civil List (government) pension of £200 a year, which helped
  relieve his financial difficulties; the success of "The Princess" and In
  Memoriam and his appointment in 1850 as Poet Laureate finally established
  him as the most popular poet of the Victorian era.

  By now Tennyson, only 41, had written some of his greatest poetry, but he
  continued to write and to gain in popularity.

  [Prince Albert's] admiration for Tennyson's poetry helped solidify his
  position as the national poet, and Tennyson returned the favor by dedicating
  "The Idylls of the King" to his memory. Queen Victoria later summoned him to
  court several times, and at her insistence he accepted his title, having
  declined it when offered by both Disraeli and Gladstone.
  [...]
  Tennyson suffered from extreme short-sightedness--without a monocle he could
  not even see to eat--which gave him considerable difficulty writing and
  reading, and this disability in part accounts for his manner of creating
  poetry: Tennyson composed much of his poetry in his head, occasionally
  working on individual poems for many years. During his undergraduate days at
  Cambridge he often did not bother to write down his compositions, although
  the Apostles continually prodded him to do so. (We owe the first version of
  "The Lotos-Eaters" to Arthur Hallam, who transcribed it while Tennyson
  declaimed it at a meeting of the Apostles.)

Criticism:

   We still look to the earlier masters for supreme excellence in particular
   directions: to Wordsworth for sublime philosophy, to Coleridge for ethereal
   magic, to Byron for passion, to Shelley for lyric intensity, to Keats for
   richness. Tennyson does not excel each of these in his own special field,
   but he is often nearer to the particular man in his particular mastery than
   anyone else can be said to be, and he has in addition his own special field
   of supremacy. What this is cannot be easily defined; it consists, perhaps,
   in the beauty of the atmosphere which Tennyson contrives to cast around his
   work, molding it in the blue mystery of twilight, in the opaline haze of
   sunset: this atmosphere, suffused over his poetry with inestimable skill
   and with a tact rarely at fault, produces an almost unfailing illusion or
   mirage of loveliness.

   -- Edmond Gosse, "Tennyson," in the 11th edition of the Encyclopedia
   Britannica

Martin