Morn in the wake of the morning star

Came furrowing all the orient into gold.

We rose, and each by other drest with care

Descended to the court that lay three parts

In shadow, but the Muses’ heads were touched

Above the darkness from their native East.

There while we stood beside the fount, and watched

Or seemed to watch the dancing bubble, approached

Melissa, tinged with wan from lack of sleep,

Or grief, and glowing round her dewy eyes

The circled Iris of a night of tears;

‘And fly,’ she cried, ‘O fly, while yet you may!

My mother knows:’ and when I asked her ‘how,’

‘My fault’ she wept ‘my fault! and yet not mine;

Yet mine in part. O hear me, pardon me.

My mother, ’tis her wont from night to night

To rail at Lady Psyche and her side.

She says the Princess should have been the Head,

Herself and Lady Psyche the two arms;

And so it was agreed when first they came;

But Lady Psyche was the right hand now,

And the left, or not, or seldom used;

Hers more than half the students, all the love.

And so last night she fell to canvass you:

~Her~ countrywomen! she did not envy her.

“Who ever saw such wild barbarians?

Girls?–more like men!” and at these words the snake,

My secret, seemed to stir within my breast;

And oh, Sirs, could I help it, but my cheek

Began to burn and burn, and her lynx eye

To fix and make me hotter, till she laughed:

“O marvellously modest maiden, you!

Men! girls, like men! why, if they had been men

You need not set your thoughts in rubric thus

For wholesale comment.” Pardon, I am shamed

That I must needs repeat for my excuse

What looks so little graceful: “men” (for still

My mother went revolving on the word)

“And so they are,–very like men indeed–

And with that woman closeted for hours!”

Then came these dreadful words out one by one,

“Why–these–~are~–men:” I shuddered: “and you know it.”

“O ask me nothing,” I said: “And she knows too,

And she conceals it.” So my mother clutched

The truth at once, but with no word from me;

And now thus early risen she goes to inform

The Princess: Lady Psyche will be crushed;

But you may yet be saved, and therefore fly;

But heal me with your pardon ere you go.’

‘What pardon, sweet Melissa, for a blush?’

Said Cyril: ‘Pale one, blush again: than wear

Those lilies, better blush our lives away.

Yet let us breathe for one hour more in Heaven’

He added, ‘lest some classic Angel speak

In scorn of us, “They mounted, Ganymedes,

To tumble, Vulcans, on the second morn.”

But I will melt this marble into wax

To yield us farther furlough:’ and he went.

Melissa shook her doubtful curls, and thought

He scarce would prosper. ‘Tell us,’ Florian asked,

‘How grew this feud betwixt the right and left.’

‘O long ago,’ she said, ‘betwixt these two

Division smoulders hidden; ’tis my mother,

Too jealous, often fretful as the wind

Pent in a crevice: much I bear with her:

I never knew my father, but she says

(God help her) she was wedded to a fool;

And still she railed against the state of things.

She had the care of Lady Ida’s youth,

And from the Queen’s decease she brought her up.

But when your sister came she won the heart

Of Ida: they were still together, grew

(For so they said themselves) inosculated;

Consonant chords that shiver to one note;

One mind in all things: yet my mother still

Affirms your Psyche thieved her theories,

And angled with them for her pupil’s love:

She calls her plagiarist; I know not what:

But I must go: I dare not tarry,’ and light,

As flies the shadow of a bird, she fled.

Then murmured Florian gazing after her,

‘An open-hearted maiden, true and pure.

If I could love, why this were she: how pretty

Her blushing was, and how she blushed again,

As if to close with Cyril’s random wish:

Not like your Princess crammed with erring pride,

Nor like poor Psyche whom she drags in tow.’

‘The crane,’ I said, ‘may chatter of the crane,

The dove may murmur of the dove, but I

An eagle clang an eagle to the sphere.

My princess, O my princess! true she errs,

But in her own grand way: being herself

Three times more noble than three score of men,

She sees herself in every woman else,

And so she wears her error like a crown

To blind the truth and me: for her, and her,

Hebes are they to hand ambrosia, mix

The nectar; but–ah she–whene’er she moves

The Samian Herè rises and she speaks

A Memnon smitten with the morning Sun.’

So saying from the court we paced, and gained

The terrace ranged along the Northern front,

And leaning there on those balusters, high

Above the empurpled champaign, drank the gale

That blown about the foliage underneath,

And sated with the innumerable rose,

Beat balm upon our eyelids. Hither came

Cyril, and yawning ‘O hard task,’ he cried;

‘No fighting shadows here! I forced a way

Through opposition crabbed and gnarled.

Better to clear prime forests, heave and thump

A league of street in summer solstice down,

Than hammer at this reverend gentlewoman.

I knocked and, bidden, entered; found her there

At point to move, and settled in her eyes

The green malignant light of coming storm.

Sir, I was courteous, every phrase well-oiled,

As man’s could be; yet maiden-meek I prayed

Concealment: she demanded who we were,

And why we came? I fabled nothing fair,

But, your example pilot, told her all.

Up went the hushed amaze of hand and eye.

But when I dwelt upon your old affiance,

She answered sharply that I talked astray.

I urged the fierce inion on the gate,

And our three lives. True–we had limed ourselves

With open eyes, and we must take the chance.

But such extremes, I told her, well might harm

The woman’s cause. “Not more than now,” she said,

“So puddled as it is with favouritism.”

I tried the mother’s heart. Shame might befall

Melissa, knowing, saying not she knew:

Her answer was “Leave me to deal with that.”

I spoke of war to come and many deaths,

And she replied, her duty was to speak,

And duty duty, clear of consequences.

I grew discouraged, Sir; but since I knew

No rock so hard but that a little wave

May beat admission in a thousand years,

I recommenced; “Decide not ere you pause.

I find you here but in the second place,

Some say the third–the authentic foundress you.

I offer boldly: we will seat you highest:

Wink at our advent: help my prince to gain

His rightful bride, and here I promise you

Some palace in our land, where you shall reign

The head and heart of all our fair she-world,

And your great name flow on with broadening time

For ever.” Well, she balanced this a little,

And told me she would answer us today,

meantime be mute: thus much, nor more I gained.’

He ceasing, came a message from the Head.

‘That afternoon the Princess rode to take

The dip of certain strata to the North.

Would we go with her? we should find the land

Worth seeing; and the river made a fall

Out yonder:’ then she pointed on to where

A double hill ran up his furrowy forks

Beyond the thick-leaved platans of the vale.

Agreed to, this, the day fled on through all

Its range of duties to the appointed hour.

Then summoned to the porch we went. She stood

Among her maidens, higher by the head,

Her back against a pillar, her foot on one

Of those tame leopards. Kittenlike he rolled

And pawed about her sandal. I drew near;

I gazed. On a sudden my strange seizure came

Upon me, the weird vision of our house:

The Princess Ida seemed a hollow show,

Her gay-furred cats a painted fantasy,

Her college and her maidens, empty masks,

And I myself the shadow of a dream,

For all things were and were not. Yet I felt

My heart beat thick with passion and with awe;

Then from my breast the involuntary sigh

Brake, as she smote me with the light of eyes

That lent my knee desire to kneel, and shook

My pulses, till to horse we got, and so

Went forth in long retinue following up

The river as it narrowed to the hills.

I rode beside her and to me she said:

‘O friend, we trust that you esteemed us not

Too harsh to your companion yestermorn;

Unwillingly we spake.’ ‘No–not to her,’

I answered, ‘but to one of whom we spake

Your Highness might have seemed the thing you say.’

‘Again?’ she cried, ‘are you ambassadresses

From him to me? we give you, being strange,

A license: speak, and let the topic die.’

I stammered that I knew him–could have wished–

‘Our king expects–was there no precontract?

There is no truer-hearted–ah, you seem

All he prefigured, and he could not see

The bird of passage flying south but longed

To follow: surely, if your Highness keep

Your purport, you will shock him even to death,

Or baser courses, children of despair.’

‘Poor boy,’ she said, ‘can he not read–no books?

Quoit, tennis, ball–no games? nor deals in that

Which men delight in, martial exercise?

To nurse a blind ideal like a girl,

Methinks he seems no better than a girl;

As girls were once, as we ourself have been:

We had our dreams; perhaps he mixt with them:

We touch on our dead self, nor shun to do it,

Being other–since we learnt our meaning here,

To lift the woman’s fallen divinity

Upon an even pedestal with man.’

She paused, and added with a haughtier smile

‘And as to precontracts, we move, my friend,

At no man’s beck, but know ourself and thee,

O Vashti, noble Vashti! Summoned out

She kept her state, and left the drunken king

To brawl at Shushan underneath the palms.’

‘Alas your Highness breathes full East,’ I said,

‘On that which leans to you. I know the Prince,

I prize his truth: and then how vast a work

To assail this gray preëminence of man!

You grant me license; might I use it? think;

Ere half be done perchance your life may fail;

Then comes the feebler heiress of your plan,

And takes and ruins all; and thus your pains

May only make that footprint upon sand

Which old-recurring waves of prejudice

Resmooth to nothing: might I dread that you,

With only Fame for spouse and your great deeds

For issue, yet may live in vain, and miss,

Meanwhile, what every woman counts her due,

Love, children, happiness?’

And she exclaimed,

‘Peace, you young savage of the Northern wild!

What! though your Prince’s love were like a God’s,

Have we not made ourself the sacrifice?

You are bold indeed: we are not talked to thus:

Yet will we say for children, would they grew

Like field-flowers everywhere! we like them well:

But children die; and let me tell you, girl,

Howe’er you babble, great deeds cannot die;

They with the sun and moon renew their light

For ever, blessing those that look on them.

Children–that men may pluck them from our hearts,

Kill us with pity, break us with ourselves–

O–children–there is nothing upon earth

More miserable than she that has a son

And sees him err: nor would we work for fame;

Though she perhaps might reap the applause of Great,

Who earns the one POU STO whence after-hands

May move the world, though she herself effect

But little: wherefore up and act, nor shrink

For fear our solid aim be dissipated

By frail successors. Would, indeed, we had been,

In lieu of many mortal flies, a race

Of giants living, each, a thousand years,

That we might see our own work out, and watch

The sandy footprint harden into stone.’

I answered nothing, doubtful in myself

If that strange Poet-princess with her grand

Imaginations might at all be won.

And she broke out interpreting my thoughts:

‘No doubt we seem a kind of monster to you;

We are used to that: for women, up till this

Cramped under worse than South-sea-isle taboo,

Dwarfs of the gynæceum, fail so far

In high desire, they know not, cannot guess

How much their welfare is a passion to us.

If we could give them surer, quicker proof–

Oh if our end were less achievable

By slow approaches, than by single act

Of immolation, any phase of death,

We were as prompt to spring against the pikes,

Or down the fiery gulf as talk of it,

To compass our dear sisters’ liberties.’

She bowed as if to veil a noble tear;

And up we came to where the river sloped

To plunge in cataract, shattering on black blocks

A breadth of thunder. O’er it shook the woods,

And danced the colour, and, below, stuck out

The bones of some vast bulk that lived and roared

Before man was. She gazed awhile and said,

‘As these rude bones to us, are we to her

That will be.’ ‘Dare we dream of that,’ I asked,

‘Which wrought us, as the workman and his work,

That practice betters?’ ‘How,’ she cried, ‘you love

The metaphysics! read and earn our prize,

A golden brooch: beneath an emerald plane

Sits Diotima, teaching him that died

Of hemlock; our device; wrought to the life;

She rapt upon her subject, he on her:

For there are schools for all.’ ‘And yet’ I said

‘Methinks I have not found among them all

One anatomic.’ ‘Nay, we thought of that,’

She answered, ‘but it pleased us not: in truth

We shudder but to dream our maids should ape

Those monstrous males that carve the living hound,

And cram him with the fragments of the grave,

Or in the dark dissolving human heart,

And holy secrets of this microcosm,

Dabbling a shameless hand with shameful jest,

Encarnalize their spirits: yet we know

Knowledge is knowledge, and this matter hangs:

Howbeit ourself, foreseeing casualty,

Nor willing men should come among us, learnt,

For many weary moons before we came,

This craft of healing. Were you sick, ourself

Would tend upon you. To your question now,

Which touches on the workman and his work.

Let there be light and there was light: ’tis so:

For was, and is, and will be, are but is;

And all creation is one act at once,

The birth of light: but we that are not all,

As parts, can see but parts, now this, now that,

And live, perforce, from thought to thought, and make

One act a phantom of succession: thus

Our weakness somehow shapes the shadow, Time;

But in the shadow will we work, and mould

The woman to the fuller day.’

She spake

With kindled eyes; we rode a league beyond,

And, o’er a bridge of pinewood crossing, came

On flowery levels underneath the crag,

Full of all beauty. ‘O how sweet’ I said

(For I was half-oblivious of my mask)

‘To linger here with one that loved us.’ ‘Yea,’

She answered, ‘or with fair philosophies

That lift the fancy; for indeed these fields

Are lovely, lovelier not the Elysian lawns,

Where paced the Demigods of old, and saw

The soft white vapour streak the crownèd towers

Built to the Sun:’ then, turning to her maids,

‘Pitch our pavilion here upon the sward;

Lay out the viands.’ At the word, they raised

A tent of satin, elaborately wrought

With fair Corinna’s triumph; here she stood,

Engirt with many a florid maiden-cheek,

The woman-conqueror; woman-conquered there

The bearded Victor of ten-thousand hymns,

And all the men mourned at his side: but we

Set forth to climb; then, climbing, Cyril kept

With Psyche, with Melissa Florian, I

With mine affianced. Many a little hand

Glanced like a touch of sunshine on the rocks,

Many a light foot shone like a jewel set

In the dark crag: and then we turned, we wound

About the cliffs, the copses, out and in,

Hammering and clinking, chattering stony names

Of shales and hornblende, rag and trap and tuff,

Amygdaloid and trachyte, till the Sun

Grew broader toward his death and fell, and all

The rosy heights came out above the lawns.

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.





Lord Alfred Tennyson

More poems by Baron Alfred, Lord Tennyson