The Holy Grail, and Other Poems
By , D. C. L., Poet Laureate. Boston : Fields, Osgood, & Co.
HAS the poet lost somewhat the power to please, or his readers the grace of being pleased ? Have they, if they no longer care for certain arts, grown wiser, or colder merely ? Can the imitations of a school make the master’s work appear poor and stale at last? Do these new poems of Tennyson please the dreaming and hoping age as other poems of his pleased it when they were new and certain people were younger ? But is there no absolute standard, then ? — is inexperience; best fitted to pronounce a poem good or bad, and is the perception of delicate and beautiful feeling the privilege of youth alone ? Forbid it, most respectable after-life! Yet something of these doubts may well attend the critic, who is proverbially a disappointed and prematurely aging man : he will be all the pleasanter, and may be a little the wiser, in his judgments for a touch of self-distrust. He will do well to ask himself, “ Should I have liked any of these idyls of Tennyson’s as much as I liked ' Morte d’Arthur ’ if I had read them, as I did that, long ago, before editors rejected my articles and my book failed ? ” We cannot answer confidently for such an ideal critic; but we think that at least one of these stories is put at no disadvantage by comparison with the beautiful poem mentioned (which is here repeated, with a new beginning and ending, in its proper place among the legends of King Arthur), and that the poet is seen in one of his best moods in “Pelleas and Ettarre.” In this the reader has not the sense of being in
“ A land where no one comes,
Or hath come since the making of the world,”
Or hath come since the making of the world,”
which takes from his delight in the other idyls, and most afflicts him in “ The Holy Grail.” The people have been, — and still are, for that matter; and time and place seem not so irrecoverable. Upon the solider foundation, the fabric rises fairer, and there are throughout the poem such pictures of nature and men as almost win one back to earlier faith in Mr. Tennyson as the poet to be chiefly read and supremely enjoyed. No one else could paint a scene at once so richly and simply as one we must give here : we doubt if he himself ever wrought more skilfully to the end aimed at. Sir Pelleas of the Isles, going to be. knighted by Arthur, —
“ Riding at noon, a day or twain before,
Across the forest call’d of Dean, to find
Caerleon and the king, had felt the sun
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reel’d
Almost to falling from his horse ; but saw
Near him a mound of even-sloping side,
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew,
And here and there great hollies under them.
But for a mile all round was open space,
And fern and heath : and slowly Pelleas drew
To that dim day, then binding his good horse
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay
At random looking over the brown earth
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove,
It seem’d to Pelleas that the fern without
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
Then o’er it crost the dimness of a cloud
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes closed.”
Across the forest call’d of Dean, to find
Caerleon and the king, had felt the sun
Beat like a strong knight on his helm, and reel’d
Almost to falling from his horse ; but saw
Near him a mound of even-sloping side,
Whereon a hundred stately beeches grew,
And here and there great hollies under them.
But for a mile all round was open space,
And fern and heath : and slowly Pelleas drew
To that dim day, then binding his good horse
To a tree, cast himself down ; and as he lay
At random looking over the brown earth
Thro' that green-glooming twilight of the grove,
It seem’d to Pelleas that the fern without
Burnt as a living fire of emeralds,
So that his eyes were dazzled looking at it.
Then o’er it crost the dimness of a cloud
Floating, and once the shadow of a bird
Flying, and then a fawn ; and his eyes closed.”
And here he lies dreaming and longing for some lady to love, and fight for, in the coming tourney; when, —
“ Suddenly waken'd with a sound of talk
And laughter at the limit of the wood,
And glancing thro’ the hoary boles, he saw,
Strange as to some old prophet might have seem’d
A vision hovering on a sea of fire,
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them
On horses, and the horses richly trapt
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood :
And all the damsels talk’d confusedly,
And one was pointing this way, and one that,
Because the way was lost.”
And laughter at the limit of the wood,
And glancing thro’ the hoary boles, he saw,
Strange as to some old prophet might have seem’d
A vision hovering on a sea of fire,
Damsels in divers colors like the cloud
Of sunset and sunrise, and all of them
On horses, and the horses richly trapt
Breast-high in that bright line of bracken stood :
And all the damsels talk’d confusedly,
And one was pointing this way, and one that,
Because the way was lost.”
Is not this exquisitely touched? What tender light, what lovely color, what sweet and sun of all summers past, what charm of the wildness and elegance which we dream to have once coexisted, are in the picture ! After which we have this, also exceedingly beautiful, and quite as delicate, with its deeper feeling : —
“ For large her violet eyes look’d, and her bloom,
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens,
And round her limbs, mature in womanhood,
And slender was her hand, and small her shape ;
And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn,
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle with,
And pass and care no more. But while he gazed,
The beauty of her flesh abash’d the boy,
As tho’ it were the beauty of her soul:
For as the base man, judging of the good,
Puts his own baseness in him by default
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend
All the young beauty of his own soul to hers,
Believing her ; and when she spake to him,
Stammer’d, and could not make her a reply.
For out of the waste islands had he come,
Where saving his own sisters he had known
Scarce any but the women of his isles,
Rough wives, that laugh’d and scream'd against the gulls,
Makers of nets, and living from the sea.”
A rosy dawn kindled in stainless heavens,
And round her limbs, mature in womanhood,
And slender was her hand, and small her shape ;
And but for those large eyes, the haunts of scorn,
She might have seem'd a toy to trifle with,
And pass and care no more. But while he gazed,
The beauty of her flesh abash’d the boy,
As tho’ it were the beauty of her soul:
For as the base man, judging of the good,
Puts his own baseness in him by default
Of will and nature, so did Pelleas lend
All the young beauty of his own soul to hers,
Believing her ; and when she spake to him,
Stammer’d, and could not make her a reply.
For out of the waste islands had he come,
Where saving his own sisters he had known
Scarce any but the women of his isles,
Rough wives, that laugh’d and scream'd against the gulls,
Makers of nets, and living from the sea.”
Other pieces of descriptive art in the poem have pleased us hardly less than these, though all the rest are slighter. It is a tragical theme, Ettarre not being what she should be ; but the story is best left to the poet’s consummate art of telling little and withholding nothing. All the characters in the poem are clearly and firmly drawn, especially that of Pelleas, the most difficult of all, and the portrayal of the pure soul’s shame and anguish in others’ guilt is as strong and good as the descriptive parts.
The other legends of Arthur’s knights here given are “ The Coming of Arthur,” “ The Holy Grail,” and “ The Passing of Arthur.” The last is the old "Morte d’Arthur,” newly set as we have mentioned, and neither of the other two is so good as “ Pelleas and Ettarre,” both being clouded in a remoteness even from the sympathies of men, which go out willingly enough to unrealities of place and time, if only there be human beings there ; though barren shapes of uncertain parable repel them, however fair to see. We get little use or pleasure from “ Lucretius,” one of the poems in this book, for much the same reason that makes the seekers for “ The Holy Grail” a trouble to us ; and for the reason that we like “ Pelleas and Ettarre,” we feel the beauty and excellence of “The Golden Supper.” The story is that old one of Boccaccio’s — when will he cease to enrich the world ? — about the lover who found his lady not dead as her husband thought, and possessed himself of her only to restore her to her lord, with a great magnificence, at the banquet he gave before leaving his land forever. The tale is richly and splendidly told, with that grace and tenderness which we should expect of such a theme in the hands of such a poet, yet with fewer lines or passages than usual to gather up, out of its excellence, for special admiration. We are tempted to give the close, not so much because we are certain it is the best part, as because we know it to be good. The reader is to understand that Lionel is the husband, who has declared that if a supposed analogous case had happened no one could have any claim but the lover, when suddenly his wife appears with her child (born since what seemed her death), and Julian says : —
“ ‘ Take my free gift, my cousin, for your wife ;
And were it only for the giver’s sake,
And tho’ she seem so like the one you lost,
Yet cast her not away so suddenly,
Lest there be none left here to bring her back :
I leave this land forever.' Here he ceased.
And were it only for the giver’s sake,
And tho’ she seem so like the one you lost,
Yet cast her not away so suddenly,
Lest there be none left here to bring her back :
I leave this land forever.' Here he ceased.
“ Then taking his dear lady by one hand,
And bearing on one arm the noble babe,
He slowly brought them both to Lionel.
And there the widower husband and dead wife
Rush’d each at each with a cry, that rather seem’d
For some new death than for a life renew'd ;
At this the very babe began to wail;
At once they turn’d, and caught and brought him in
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing him
With kisses, round him closed and claspt again.
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself
From wife and child, and lifted up a face
All over glowing with the sun of life,
And love, and boundless thanks— the sight of this
So frighted our good friend, that turning to me,
And saying, ‘ It is over : let us go ’ —
There were our horses ready at the doors —
We bade them no farewell, but mounting these,
He past forever from his native land.”
And bearing on one arm the noble babe,
He slowly brought them both to Lionel.
And there the widower husband and dead wife
Rush’d each at each with a cry, that rather seem’d
For some new death than for a life renew'd ;
At this the very babe began to wail;
At once they turn’d, and caught and brought him in
To their charm'd circle, and, half killing him
With kisses, round him closed and claspt again.
But Lionel, when at last he freed himself
From wife and child, and lifted up a face
All over glowing with the sun of life,
And love, and boundless thanks— the sight of this
So frighted our good friend, that turning to me,
And saying, ‘ It is over : let us go ’ —
There were our horses ready at the doors —
We bade them no farewell, but mounting these,
He past forever from his native land.”