“THE LOVER’S TALE.”

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1698, 30 July 1879, Page 3

“THE LOVER’S TALE.”

[From the “ Times.”] Readers of Mr Tennyson’s poem, “The Golden Supper,” will remember that it is the last chapter in the story of a disappointed love. There are a few glimpses of the earlier chapters, but only enough to make the sequel intelligible. It begins suddenly— He flies the event; ho leaves tho event to me : Poor Julian —how he rush’d away ; the bells, Those marriage-bells, echoing in ear and heart — the “ event ” being the marriage of Julian’s cousin and foster-sister Camilla to his friend Lionel. “The Golden Supper” tolls how, when Camilla is believed to have died, a strange chance enables Julian to bring her back from the grave and restore her to her husband.

“The Lover's Tale,” now published ai a whole for the first time, is a poem i« four parts. As many touches show, the scenery is not English but foreign, and this will explain itself to those who recognise the plot of the story as taken from Boccaccio. The fourth part is “The Golden Supper,” a work of the author’s mature life. The other three parts, which form a prelude to it, were written in his nineteenth year. “ Two only of the three parts then written were printed,” says Mr Tennyson, “when, seeing the imperfections of the poem, I withdrew it from the press. One of my friends, however, who, boylike, admired the boy’s work, distributed among our common associates of that hour some copies of these two parts, without my knowledge, without the omissions and amendments which I had in contemplation, and marred by many misprints of the compositor. Seeing that these two parts have of late been mercilessly pirated, and that what I had deemed scarce worthy to live is not allowed to die, may I not be pardoned if I suffer the whole poem at last to come into the light, accompanied with a reprint of the sequel—a work of my mature life—‘ The Golden Supper.’ ” If pirates often conferred such benefits on the public, there would be some danger of their occupation becoming more popular than it has been since the days before Minos. The three new parts, or rather oldest parts, of “ The Lover’s Tale ” contain many passrges of very great beauty and power. _ They are also of the highest interest in relation to the development of Mr Tennyson’s stylo, and their publication adds a new value to “ The Golden Supper.” That noble but hitherto fragmentary poem now takes its proper place as part of a finished whole. Probably the first feeling of many readers will be surprise that a boy in his nineteenth year could have written thus. IN'o one, indeed, can fail to perceive how greatly this early performance is surpassed by his mature work in subtle felicity of expression, in command of metrical and rhythmical resource, in richness of music, in depth of thought and feeling. Still, when this wide interval has been recognised, it may be said that the essential characteristics of the boy’s style are those of the man s. Poetical genius is often precocious in manifesting the imaginative and creative faculties ; but, considered as an artist of language, a poet has seldom, perhaps, been so ripe at such an age. The real lessons which these earliest poems teach is that the form of Mr Tennyson’s work is more spontaneous and original, and less the result of a slowly elaborated art, than some of his critics have been inclined to think. The following passage may be taken as a specimen of what Mr Tennyson could write at eighteen : Last we came _ To what our people call “ The Hill of A. bridge is there, that, look’d at from beneath, Seems but a cobweb filament to link The yawning of an earthquake-cloven chasm. And thence one night, when all the winds were loud, A woeful man (for so the story went) Had thrust his wife and child, and dash d himself Into the dizzy depth below. Below, Pierce in the strength of far descent, a stream , , Flies with a shatter’d foam along the chasm. The path was perilous, loosely strewn with Wo mounted slowly ; yet to both there cams The joy of life in steepness overcome. And victor'es of ascent, and looking down On all that had look’d down on and joy In breathing nearer heaven ; and joy to me, High over all the azure-circled earth. To breathe with her as if in heaven itself; And more than joy that I to her became Hor guardian and her angel, raising her Still higher, past all peril, until she saw

Beneath her feet the region far away Bryond the nearest mountain’s bosky brows, Burst in open prospect—heath and hill, And hollow lined and wooded to the lips, And steep-down walls of battlemented rock Gilded with broom, or shatter’d into spires, And glory of broad waters interfused, "Whence rose as it were breath and steam of gold, And over all the great wood rioting And climbing, streak’d or starr’d at intervals With falling brook or blossom’d bnsh—and last Framing the mighty landscape to the west, A purple range of mountain-cones, between Whose interspaces gush’d in blinding bursts The incorporate blaze of sun and sea. The splendour of this passage, again, is not unworthy of his matured genius : O day which did enwomb that happy hour, Thou art blessed in the years, divinest day ! 0 Genius of that hour which dost uphold Thy coronal of glory like a God, Amid thy melancholy mates far-seen, Who walk before thee, ever turning round To gaze upon thee till their eyes are dim With dwelling on the light and depth of thine, Thy name is ever worshipp’d among hours ! Bad I died then, I had not seem’d to die. For bliss stood round me like the light of heaven, — Had I died then, I had not known the death ; Yea, had the Power from whose right hand the light Of life issueth, and from whoso left hand floweth The Shadow of Death, perennial effluences, Whereof to all that draw the wholesome air, Somewhile the one must overflow the other ; Then had he stemm’d my day with night, and driven My current to the fountain whence it sprang,— Even his own abiding excellence, — On me, methought, that shock of gloom had fall’n Unfelt, and in this glory I had merged The other, like the sun I gazed upon, Which seeming for the moment duo to death, And dipping his head low beneath the verge, Yet bearing round about him bis own day. In confidence of unabated strength, Steppeth from Heaven to Heaven, from light to light, And holdeth his undimmed forehead for Into a clearer zenith, pure of cloud. But certainly the most powerful paisago in the prem is that in which the pathos of the story finds its natural climax —where Camilla confides to Julian her love for his friend : Hither we came, And sitting down upon the golden moss, Held converse sweet and low—low converse sweet, In which [our voices bora least part. The wind Told a lovetalo beside us, how he woo d The waters, and the waters answering lisp’d To kisses of the wind, that,'sick with love, Fainted at intervals, and grow again To utterance of passion. To cannot shape Fancy so fair as is this memory. Methought all excellence that over was Had drawn herself from many thousand years, And all the separate Edens of this earth, To centre in this place and time. X listen’d. And her words stole with most prevailing sweetness Into my heart, as thronging fancies come To boys and girls when summer days are now, And sonl and heart and body are all at ease: What marvel my Camilla told me all ? It was so happy an hour, so swoet a place, And I was as the brother of her.blood, And by that name I moved upon her breath, Dear name, which had too much of nearness in it And heralded the distance of this time ! At first her voice was very sweet and low, As if she were afraid of utterance ; But in the onward current of her speech (As echoes of the hollow-banked brooks Are fashioned by tbe channel which they Her vrords did of their meaning borrow sound, Her cheek did catch the color of her words. 1 heard and trembled, yet I could but hoar; My heart paused—my raised eyelids would not fall, Bat still I kept my eyes upon the sky. _ I seem’d tbe only part of Time stood still. And saw the motion of all other things ; While her words, syllable by syllable. Like water, drop by drop, upon my oar Fell; and I wish’d yet wish’d her not to speak; Bnt she spake on, for I did name no wish. What marvel my Camilla told me all Her maiden dignities of Hepe and Love — 1 Perchance,’ she said, ‘ return’d.’ Even then the stars Did tremble in their stations as I gazed ; But she spake on for I did name no wish, No wish —no hope. Hope was not wholly dead, But breathing hard at the approach of Death— Camilla, my Camilla, who was mine No longer in the dearest sense of mine— For all the secret of her inmost heart, And all the maiden empire of her mind. Lay like a map before me, and I saw There, where I hoped myself to I'eign as king, There, where that day I crown’d myself as king. There in my realm and even on my throne, Another ! then it seem’d as tho’ a link Of some tight chain within my inmost frame Was riven in twain : that life I heeded not Flow’d from me, and the darkness of the grave. The darkness of the grave and utter night, Did swallow up my vision; at her feet, Even the feet of her I loved, I fell, Smlt with exceeding sorrow unto Death. It is an open secret that the friend who distributed a few copies of the partly-printed poem was the same to whom “In Memoriam” is inscribed. If, a* may be inferred, Arthur Hallam warmly admired the poem, it is only another proof that even then his critical insight was true. He was assuredly right in desiring that the poem should live and should bo known. As Arthur Hallam judged nearly half a century ago, so, we believe, the English speaking world will judge now that these first-fruits of Mr Tennyson’s genius have at last been given to it.