Love and DutyPublished first in 1842.Whether this beautiful poem is autobiographical and has reference to the compulsory separation of Tennyson and Miss Emily Sellwood, afterwards his wife, in 1840, it is impossible for this editor to say, as Lord Tennyson in hisLifeof his father is silent on the subject.Of love that never found his earthly close,What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?Or all the same as if he had not been?Not so. Shall Error in the round of timeStill father Truth? O shall the braggart shout[1]For some blind glimpse of freedom work itselfThro’ madness, hated by the wise, to lawSystem and empire? Sin itself be foundThe cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun?And only he, this wonder, dead, becomeMere highway dust? or year by year aloneSit brooding in the ruins of a life,Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself!If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,The staring eye glazed o’er with sapless days,The long mechanic pacings to and fro,The set gray life, and apathetic end.But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love?O three times less unworthy! likewise thouArt more thro’ Love, and greater than thy years.The Sun will run his orbit, and the MoonHer circle. Wait, and Love himself will bringThe drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruitOf wisdom.[2]Wait: my faith is large in Time,And that which shapes it to some perfect end.Will some one say, then why not ill for good?Why took ye not your pastime? To that manMy work shall answer, since I knew the rightAnd did it; for a man is not as God,But then most Godlike being most a man.—So let me think ’tis well for thee and me—Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mineWhose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slowTo feel it! For how hard it seem’d to me,When eyes, love-languid thro’ half-tears, would dwellOne earnest, earnest moment upon mine,Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,Faltering, would break its syllables, to keepMy own full-tuned,—hold passion in a leash,And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!)Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh’dUpon my brain, my senses, and my soul!For love himself took part against himselfTo warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—O this world’s curse—beloved but hated—cameLike Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,And crying, “Who is this? behold thy bride,”She push’d me from thee.If the sense is hardTo alien ears, I did not speak to these—No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak,To have spoken once? It could not but be well.The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,[3]The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,And all good things from evil, brought the nightIn which we sat together and alone,And to the want, that hollow’d all the heart,Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,That burn’d upon its object thro’ such tearsAs flow but once a life.The trance gave wayTo those caresses, when a hundred timesIn that last kiss, which never was the last,Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.Then follow’d counsel, comfort and the wordsThat make a man feel strong in speaking truth;Till now the dark was worn, and overheadThe lights of sunset and of sunrise mix’dIn that brief night; the summer night, that pausedAmong her stars to hear us; stars that hungLove-charm’d to listen: all the wheels of TimeSpun round in station, but the end had come.O then like those, who clench[4]their nerves to rushUpon their dissolution, we two rose,There-closing like an individual life—In one blind cry of passion and of pain,Like bitter accusation ev’n to death,Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it,And bade adieu for ever.Live—yet live—Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing allLife needs for life is possible to will—Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended byMy blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughtsToo sadly for their peace, remand it thouFor calmer hours to Memory’s darkest hold,[5]If not to be forgotten—not at once—Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams,O might it come like one that looks content,With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth,And point thee forward to a distant light,Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heartAnd leave thee frëer, till thou wake refresh’d,Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grownFull quire, and morning driv’n her plow of pearl[6]Far furrowing into light the mounded rack,Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.[1]As this passage is a little obscure, it may not be superfluous to point out that “shout” is a substantive.[2]The distinction between “knowledge” and “wisdom” is a favourite one with Tennyson. SeeIn Memoriam, cxiv.;Locksley Hall, 141, and for the same distinction see Cowper,Task, vi., 88-99.[3]Suggested by Theocritus,Id., xv., 104-5.[4]1842 to 1845. O then like those, that clench.[5]Pathos, in the Greek sense, “suffering”. All editions up to and including 1850 have a small “s” and a small “m” for Shadow and Memory, and read thus:—Too sadly for their peace, so put it backFor calmer hours in memory’s darkest hold,If unforgotten! should it cross thy dreams,So might it come, etc.[6]Cf. Princess, iii.:—Morn in the white wake of the morning starCame furrowing all the orient into gold,and with both cf. Greene,Orlando Furioso, i., 2:—Seest thou not Lycaon’s son?The hardy plough-swain unto mighty JoveHathtrac’d his silver furrows in the heaven,which in its turn is borrowed from Ariosto,Orl. Fur., xx., lxxxii.:—Apena avea Licaonia prolePer li solchi del ciel voltoL’aratro.
Published first in 1842.
Whether this beautiful poem is autobiographical and has reference to the compulsory separation of Tennyson and Miss Emily Sellwood, afterwards his wife, in 1840, it is impossible for this editor to say, as Lord Tennyson in hisLifeof his father is silent on the subject.
Of love that never found his earthly close,What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?Or all the same as if he had not been?Not so. Shall Error in the round of timeStill father Truth? O shall the braggart shout[1]For some blind glimpse of freedom work itselfThro’ madness, hated by the wise, to lawSystem and empire? Sin itself be foundThe cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun?And only he, this wonder, dead, becomeMere highway dust? or year by year aloneSit brooding in the ruins of a life,Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself!If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,The staring eye glazed o’er with sapless days,The long mechanic pacings to and fro,The set gray life, and apathetic end.But am I not the nobler thro’ thy love?O three times less unworthy! likewise thouArt more thro’ Love, and greater than thy years.The Sun will run his orbit, and the MoonHer circle. Wait, and Love himself will bringThe drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruitOf wisdom.[2]Wait: my faith is large in Time,And that which shapes it to some perfect end.Will some one say, then why not ill for good?Why took ye not your pastime? To that manMy work shall answer, since I knew the rightAnd did it; for a man is not as God,But then most Godlike being most a man.—So let me think ’tis well for thee and me—Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mineWhose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slowTo feel it! For how hard it seem’d to me,When eyes, love-languid thro’ half-tears, would dwellOne earnest, earnest moment upon mine,Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,Faltering, would break its syllables, to keepMy own full-tuned,—hold passion in a leash,And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!)Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh’dUpon my brain, my senses, and my soul!For love himself took part against himselfTo warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—O this world’s curse—beloved but hated—cameLike Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,And crying, “Who is this? behold thy bride,”She push’d me from thee.If the sense is hardTo alien ears, I did not speak to these—No, not to thee, but to thyself in me:Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.Could Love part thus? was it not well to speak,To have spoken once? It could not but be well.The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,[3]The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,And all good things from evil, brought the nightIn which we sat together and alone,And to the want, that hollow’d all the heart,Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,That burn’d upon its object thro’ such tearsAs flow but once a life.The trance gave wayTo those caresses, when a hundred timesIn that last kiss, which never was the last,Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.Then follow’d counsel, comfort and the wordsThat make a man feel strong in speaking truth;Till now the dark was worn, and overheadThe lights of sunset and of sunrise mix’dIn that brief night; the summer night, that pausedAmong her stars to hear us; stars that hungLove-charm’d to listen: all the wheels of TimeSpun round in station, but the end had come.O then like those, who clench[4]their nerves to rushUpon their dissolution, we two rose,There-closing like an individual life—In one blind cry of passion and of pain,Like bitter accusation ev’n to death,Caught up the whole of love and utter’d it,And bade adieu for ever.Live—yet live—Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing allLife needs for life is possible to will—Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended byMy blessing! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughtsToo sadly for their peace, remand it thouFor calmer hours to Memory’s darkest hold,[5]If not to be forgotten—not at once—Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams,O might it come like one that looks content,With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth,And point thee forward to a distant light,Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heartAnd leave thee frëer, till thou wake refresh’d,Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grownFull quire, and morning driv’n her plow of pearl[6]Far furrowing into light the mounded rack,Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.
[1]As this passage is a little obscure, it may not be superfluous to point out that “shout” is a substantive.
[2]The distinction between “knowledge” and “wisdom” is a favourite one with Tennyson. SeeIn Memoriam, cxiv.;Locksley Hall, 141, and for the same distinction see Cowper,Task, vi., 88-99.
[3]Suggested by Theocritus,Id., xv., 104-5.
[4]1842 to 1845. O then like those, that clench.
[5]Pathos, in the Greek sense, “suffering”. All editions up to and including 1850 have a small “s” and a small “m” for Shadow and Memory, and read thus:—Too sadly for their peace, so put it backFor calmer hours in memory’s darkest hold,If unforgotten! should it cross thy dreams,So might it come, etc.
[6]Cf. Princess, iii.:—Morn in the white wake of the morning starCame furrowing all the orient into gold,and with both cf. Greene,Orlando Furioso, i., 2:—Seest thou not Lycaon’s son?The hardy plough-swain unto mighty JoveHathtrac’d his silver furrows in the heaven,which in its turn is borrowed from Ariosto,Orl. Fur., xx., lxxxii.:—Apena avea Licaonia prolePer li solchi del ciel voltoL’aratro.