A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems

Title: A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems

Author: A. B. S. Tennyson

Release date: August 14, 2007 [eBook #22322] Most recently updated: January 2, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22322

Credits: Produced by Thierry Alberto and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

A LEGEND OF OLD PERSIA AND OTHER POEMS.

BY

A. B. S. TENNYSON.

LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN. 1912.

TO C. T.

Of the poems in this volume "Adeimantus" and "The Hermit and the Faun" first appeared in The Contemporary Review, and "The Song of Snorro" in The Spectator. They are republished here by kind permission of the Editors.

FANTASIES.

Altruism: A Legend of Old Persia.

In the flowery land of Persia

Long ago, as poets tell,

Where three rivers met together

Did a happy people dwell.

Never did these happy people

Suffer sickness, plague, or dearth,

Living in a golden climate

In the fairest place on earth,

Living thus thro' endless summers

And half-summers hardly colder,

Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it,

Very gradually older.

I can very well imagine

These old Persian lords and ladies

Sitting in their pleasant gardens,

Dreaming, dozing, where the shade is;

Almond trees a mass of blossom,

Roses, roses, red as wine,

With the helmets of the tulips

Flaming in a martial line,

While beside a marble basin,

With a fountain gushing forth,

Stands a red-legged crane, alighted

From the deserts of the North.

So they lived these ancient people,

With the happy harmless faces,

Dreaming till the purple twilight

In their flowery garden-places,

Finding every year the sunshine

And the wind a little colder,

Growing, tho' they hardly guessed it,

Very gradually older,

Till at last they grew so frail

That to their gardens they were carried,

Very feeble and exhausted,

Weak as babes—But still they tarried,

Lying till the purple twilight

Wrapped in wool but hardly warm,

Wearing shawls of costliest texture

Lest the wind might do them harm,

Feeling very faint sensations

Of delight in each old breast,

Twittering with tiny voices

Like young swallows in a nest.

Then the young men spoke together

As they feasted in the taverns,

"It is time to take our Fathers,

We must bear them to the Caverns."

In a mountain were the Caverns,

Fourteen leagues across the sand,

Fourteen leagues across the desert

In a naked golden land.

Black and bold and bare the mountain

Modelled into many shapes,

Cones and pyramids and pillars,

Beetling cliffs and jutting capes.

And within it were the Caverns

Tunnelled into every part,

Some by ancient Persian devils,

Others by a modern art.

Where the terraced lawns lay dreaming,

Underneath a cedar-tree

Dozed an ancient, ancient person

Tiny as a child of three.

Every day a gobbling negro

To his place the old man carried;

Very feeble and exhausted

Did he seem—but still he tarried.

Then Hasan, the young lord, murmured,

As he feasted in the taverns,

"It is time to take my Father,

I must bear him to the Caverns."

So he took his long-maned pony,

Her who wore the silver shoes,

Galloped thro' the crowded highways

Like one with no time to lose.

Purpose in his warning outcry

(Was he not the next of kin?)

Till he reached his palace gateway,

Flung the rein and fled within,

Chose with care a wicker basket

Very strong and deep and wide,

Laying shawls of costliest texture

And an eider quilt inside.

Underneath the spreading cedar,

In an arbour newly built,

Found Hasan his ancient person,

Put him underneath the quilt,

Mounted then his long-maned pony

With the basket on his arm,

Carrying it very firmly

Lest his father might take harm.

Galloped thro' the crowded highway,

Passing by the Street of Taverns,

Fourteen leagues across the desert

Till he came unto the Caverns.

Fastened then his long-maned pony

To a ring-post at the mouth

(Scores and scores of ring-posts were there

Where the Caverns faced the South)

Plunged within the long wide gallery

Tunnelled 'neath the rocky roof,

With a lantern light exploring

All the dark which lay aloof,

Treading swiftly, treading surely,

With the basket on his arm,

Carrying it very firmly

Lest his father might take harm.

Till he came a byway unto

Fashioned from another way,

And a niche seen at the summit

Of a guiding lantern ray.

Lifted then the basket gently,

Poised, and placed it in the niche,

Saying "Farewell, ancient father,

'Tis the custom" ... after which

Bowed his head before his father

Thrice, and swiftly turned to go,

Knowing that it was the custom,

Thinking it was better so.

Suddenly he heard a droning,

Like a gnat's small plaintive lay,

Somewhere in the dark behind him

Where the "Ancient Persons" lay,

Heard a little ghostly twitter

Like a voice addressing him,

Turned and saw his father staring

Just above the basket rim,

Staring at Hasan, his strong son,

With his filmy red-rimmed eyes,

"What's ado, Oh! ancient father?"

Cried Hasan in great surprise.

"Son," replied the ancient person,

"Tho' a miser is disgraced,

Even in a wealthy household

Monstrous is the crime of waste,

Strong and shapely is the basket

Much hath held and more will take;

If you leave it in the Caverns

Won't it be a great mistake?

So, for once, let custom perish....

Son, 'tis I, your father, ask it,

Lift me out and lay me gently

On the rock and ... take our basket."

Oh! the young lord's wild amazement

As he heard that tiny hum;

Turned the lantern light behind him

Stricken with amazement dumb.

Oh! the young lord's vast confusion

As its meaning gave a flicker—

Oh! the mild iconoclastic

Staring o'er the edge of wicker.

Staring—staring—simply staring

With his filmy red-rimmed eyes—

Down Hasan his father lifted

Silent still in strange surmise.

Never faster had prince ridden

From the place of Persian devils,

Where its huge and inky bastions

Frowned across the golden levels;

Nor before had faster travelled

Scion of the equine brood

Than that day, that day of portent,

Galloped she the silver-shoed.

Saw Hasan the meaning clearly

And a prophet (so they said)

After sunset thro' the taverns

Loud proclaimed the custom dead.

This a legend of old Persia

Of an earlier happier day

Of a happy happy people—

How they ended none can say.

The Enchanted Gipsy.

"Gilda, Gilda, my ragged child,

Where have you been,

In the lane, the green lane, or the heather,

My little queen?"

"Honey mother, sweet little mother,

Oh! my old grey mummy,

It's the blood of berries on my skirt

Makes me look rummy."

"There is no juice on your coral lips,

Your amber eyes are wild,

And why do you dance like an angry jay,

My fairy child?"

"I can tell, I can tell,

Oh! my delicate mam,

I dance to the tune of a blue-bell,

Which told me what I am."

"Gilda, Gilda, my lovely child,

Say how it spoke,

There is nothing well in a flower's spell

On one of our folk."

"Oh! my pet, my beautiful heart,

Oh! my cunning mummy,

My cousin the sun and the wind have begun,

That's why I look rummy."

"I have known one since I have begun,

I have known a dozen,

But never I knew a girl was true

Who called them cousin."

"Oh! my mam, my delicate mam,

Do not scold your daughter,

I only went to the Witch's pool

And looked in the water."

"Oh! my dove, my beautiful elf,

Was the water clear as heaven,

Did you weave a crown of flowers for yourself,

In the magic of even?"

"Oh! my mother, my honey mother,

The water was heaven-clear,

I wove a crown of marigolds....

But why do you look so queer?"

"Oh! my girl, my pitiful girl,

Good-bye to your happy hours,

The Curse of the Pool is on you....

Your ways are not ours."

The Roof of the World.

"Ere the first blush of morning's rose

Had reddened the eternal snows,

I plunged the pines among,

And came down thro' the forest sons

In their deep-ranked battalions

With practised steps and strong.

"Then heard I from the plateau rock

A lowing cow and a crowing cock—

Thin sounds in upper air.

And far below at the valley's end

I saw the morning smoke ascend

That showed me men were there.

"Ho! you lads, arouse, arouse!

He is descended to your house

Of whom wild legend ran.

On the roof of the world I dwelt five year,

Go, tell your master I am here

To be his serving-man.

"Ho! all you folk, I climbed above

The boundaries of hate and love.

Ho! such an one was I—

The wind it whistled to my bone.

I was alone, alone, alone

With the mountains and the sky.

"It is a timeless land and still;

The heavens slowly like a wheel

Revolve themselves around;

There are two rulers in that place;

Eternity sits throned by space;

Their law is without sound.

"Ho! you folk, such feats I did

On the world's roof the snow amid,

Ho! such an one as I—

I matched the wild goat in my race,

And underneath the long wise face

I pulled the beard awry.

"Five years I sported undismayed,

But suddenly I was afraid,

Yea, fearfully amazed.

I saw the eye of a dying hare;

Infinity was mirrored there

Ere it was wholly glazed.

"And this shall be my daily good,

To draw your water, hew your wood,

And lighten all your need;

To do your sowing and your tilling;

But to be bright and always willing,

And have no other creed."

All bronzed and bearded was his face;

He had a rapture and a grace

From living in the wild;

As he stared around and strangely spoke

He lookèd not like other folk,

But as an eager child.

The Poet and the Lily.

A poet was born in a modern time,

'Neath Saturn and his Rings,

He was a child of the world's prime,

Knew all beautiful things.

He was a child of morning and mirth,

Laughing for joy of the sun,

His nostrils drank the scent of earth

When rain is over and done.

A lily came from the winter's womb

And grew in its own sweet pride,

But the ruthless steel passed over its bloom,

And low in the dust it died.

And the poet's heart was filled with pain

That a delicate thing and rare

Should be reft of the beauty of which it was fain

And killed by the cruel share.

So he sang of the meadows white with lambs,

And life all young again,

Of the colts which gallop to their dams,

Knowing not any rein.

He sang of the spring upon the sea,

Hedges all white with may,

The year in its sweet infancy,

This our great world at play.

Of shepherds piping to their flocks

Across the fields of thyme,

Of sunlit fields above the rocks,

Where the small waves lap in rhyme.

Of glancing maids and youths their peers,

For ever young and free,

With faces fair, and in their ears

Great music of the sea.

He sang the amber moon a-sail

In an even of misty blue,

The stars which burn, the stars which pale,

The might which holds them true;

The comets in another sky

Which sweep to an unknown morn.

He sang of some vast agony

Or ever a world was born.

He sang a song like a twanging bow,

His head was full of sound

As a dark night when winds are low

And a swell comes from the ground.

He sang a song like a joyous bird

In wooded places and hilly,

While in the hearts of those that heard

Pity grew like a lily.

The Tramp.

Forth from the ill-lit tavern door

Where he had snoozed and boozed before

Stumbled his shambling feet.

A candle gave a guttering light,

And some one growled a hoarse good-night....

The Tramp was in the street.

His boots were blistered, burst and patched,

He had a mildewed hat, which matched

His green, unlovely coat.

Once, too, he caught his foot and swore,

And, tho' the night was warm, he wore

A muffler at his throat.

And as he went his two lips moved

As if he muttered songs he loved

To an old, unquiet tune;

And as he went his eyes were glazed,

Twice, too, he paused like some one dazed

And hiccoughed at the moon.

Thus thro' the empty ways he passed

Until he reached the road at last

With fields at either hand,

And in the heavens bare and bright

The moon stood high and shed her light

Upon the silent land.

And lo! hard by, a lofty rick,

No chance was there of stab or prick,

It makes a pleasant bed.

And so, within, he burrowed deep,

And then upon a fragrant heap

He laid his unclean head.

The moon was swallowed by a cloud,

A nightingale sang sweet and loud

From the middle of a wood;

From its small body swelled a strain

Which flooded all the listening plain.

It trembled as it stood.

Upon his hay the Tramp awoke,

The golden fountain never broke,

The lovely sobbing strain.

The melody of that brown bird

Awoke a delicate, prisoned chord

Within his sodden brain.

The brain of him who lived remote

And dreamed strange things he never wrote

But hoarded in his mind.

He would not kill the dreams he loved

For sake of little things that moved

The passions of mankind.

Let the red torches toss and flare,

And all the long-stemmed trumpets blare,

Let brass beat loud on brass.

Let the Kings ride in victory,

Low comes the thought amidst the cry,

"These visions shall but pass."

For, like reflections in a mirror,

Or empty bubbles on a river,

The striving world passed by.

What seemed to others worth the winning

Thro' strong desire or hate of sinning

Brought him no energy.

The thunder muttering on the hills,

The song of birds, the babbling rills,

The painted flowers and stars,

This pageantry of earth did seem

The parcel of a timeless dream.

He lived beyond the bars.

It was to him a vague mirage

Or memory of a storied page

With only that appeal;

But oftentimes a sound or sight

Would bring to him his own delight

More subtle than the real.

And with his sense of entity

Half lost, he raised a vacant eye

Into the empyrean.

And as he lay upon his back

The pealing centuries rolled back....

He saw the blue Ægean.

And thus he dreamt: "My palace home

With minaret and marble dome

Upon the sapphire strait.

My garden full of nightingales,

One singing as the other fails

While evening groweth late.

"And from my watch-tower I behold

Beneath a sky of molten gold

My argosies return.

A homeward wind is in their sails,

Freighted are they with costly bales,

Vast fires behind them burn.

"I have a room with shining floors

And lofty roof and polished doors,

Wherein I love to dine

With two good friends at left and right,

Whose converse is my soul's delight

And glads my heart like wine.

"Or in my marble portico

We sit and watch the summer glow

And talk of love and death;

And when the amber twilight fails

We listen to the nightingales,

And evening holds her breath.

"Oh! Charicles and Charmides,

Much have I dreamt of hours like these,

My friends I never knew—

Whose voices and whose grave, sweet words

Were lovelier than the songs of birds,

And fresher than the dew.

"For Charicles has love and youth,

And all his words are sweet with truth,

Like a garden with the rain;

And Charmides is mild and wise,

But with his tear-washed, violet eyes

Yet can he smile again.

"Perhaps I knew you, ancient lords

Of nobler wit and finer chords—

But this I cannot tell;

For ever lovely things I sought

In some strange borderland of thought,

Content therein to dwell.

"For who could blame or who could praise

If one should choose to pass his days

In a phantasy of dreams,

And, finding thus his own ideal

In things dissevered from the real,

Be happier than he seems?

"Ah! who could praise or who could blame,

Tho' glimmers all my way the same,

Like a dyke-road thro' a fen.

Far on, far on—a ruddy spark—

The toll-light glows adown the dark,

And I, like other men,

"Must pay my toll and pass beyond,—

I made no vow, I signed no bond,

Nor lose my self-esteem,

But pass, unknown, unloved, unlost,

The man who knew and weighed the cost,

The man who dared to dream.

"For what is Fame and what's a Name,

Your cries of sorrow, wrath, and shame,

Your Hamlets and King Lears,

The night must cover them again

Did they last a thousand lives of men,

A thousand thousand years.

"The world may say that I have missed;

Ah! no—I am an egoist

Of subtle, fixed design.

My dreams a garden are to me

To which no other holds the key,

I wish to keep them mine.

"All mine—those tender, half-thought things,

Which flutter gossamer rainbow wings

And hover near, near, near.

Why should I catch and pin them down

And lose their beauty for a crown

Would chafe my brows to wear.

"And thus, a baser alchemist

In some perverted plan persist

To turn my gold to dross.

If I turned my gold their soul were sold

Tho' I wore a crown and cloth of gold,

Their soul were then the loss.

"If I sat high, a crownèd king,

With lofty brows in a royal ring,

A lustrous diadem,

If I wore the titles 'High, Strong, and Wise,'

And garments stained with purple dyes,

All jewelled at the hem

"With emeralds, rubies and jacinth stones,

Such as great kings wear on their golden thrones,

And a royal mantle of vair,

And held a sceptre in my hand,

Which showed me ruler of all the land,

In my palace, where none might dare

"To cross my word, but all must bow

As the courtly throng are bending now,

And give the King his meed,

And slaves waved forests of peacock fans

And a cry went up like a single man's,

'This is the King indeed.'

"For I could be King and Overlord

In the wondrous realm of the written word,

Am King there ... in my dreams.

So, loving dreams, this life I choose—

The tramp's with tattered coat and shoes,

Yet happier than it seems.

"Thus, oh! my dreams, you grow not old,

No process dims you, leaves you cold,

Immortal, bright, you come,

And if you come not, I am wise,

I have my trusted old allies,

Tobacco, beer, and rum."

His chin sank down upon his breast,

And suddenly the brown bird ceased

To pour her strain abroad.

A sound less sweet to mortal ear

Uprose (had one been there to hear)....

It was the tramp who snored.

The Black Dwarf.

Certain it is that of those qualities

We are enamoured which we most do lack.

So he, fantastic out of human guise,

Bent, broken, bowed, small, apish, humped of back,

Marred in the mint, perfection's contrary,

To sweet perfection found his marred life thrall,

And—the great artist without jealousy—

Knew beauty more than all.

Much he loved flowers and their frail loveliness,

But if they pined thro' blight or thirsty want,

Or spiteful wind had made his blossoms less,

Or mouse or mole had gnawed some tender plant,

Then seemed the edge of life all dull and blunt,

And passion thwarted tore his twisted frame,

And, 'neath the penthouse of the shaggy front,

The yellow eyes flashed flame.

But most he joyed whenever country maid,

Prizing his taste, or damsel highly born

To judgment came, and anxiously displayed

For him submission as for others scorn.

Then, peering keenly from his peat-roofed home,

Calm in his power he scanned her as he chose,

And, if she pleased, the swart and twisted gnome

Gave her a white, white rose.

To an Elephant.

Lord of the trunk and fan-like ears,

Wisest and mightiest next to man,

I see thee hence a million years

Ruling the earth with milder plan.

Dwellers above, beneath the ground,

Shall live contented in that time;

No subtle growths shall e'er confound

Their natural joy and instinct prime.

Not such as those who planned to nought

And groped (wise fools!) beyond their ken

Scarce knowing what they loved or sought—

Those subtle growths, those weary men—

Shall dwell earth's inexperienced brood

In natural joy and instinct prime;

But without evil, without good,

Be each new moment, not all time.

Jungles shall grow where cities stood,

The mighty rivers roar unbridged

The hungry tiger seek his food,

Save for thy bidding, privileged,

Where (weary subtle growths) we bore

Our burden of humanity;

For conscious mind shall work no more

And man himself have ceased to be.

SONGS.

The Palmer's Song.

I will fling ambition away

Like a vain and glittering toy;

With tristful weeping will I pray

And wash my sin's alloy.

I will wear the palmer's weed

And walk in the sandal shoon.

I will walk in the sun by day

And sleep beneath the moon.

I will set forth as the bells toll

And travel to the East,

Because of a sin upon my soul

And the chiding of a priest.

The Song of the Old Men.

We are the old, old men,

Once fierce and high-hearted in frolics,

But now we are three score and ten

Or upwards—mere relics

Of the fine strong pageant of youth,

Which time in his spite and unruth

Has taken.

We are dim and palsied and shaken,

Ah! me—forsaken.

Where are the fair white maids

With flower faces and carriage

Straight as new-smithied blades,

Ripe, ready for marriage?

Now all are withered and grey,

Their beauty has passed away,

Ah! madness—

They are bent like hoops with sadness

And the world's badness.

Our voices are hoarse and drear,

As we sit and mumble together,

We have no good tidings to hear

We had sooner have never

(So we grumble together) been born,

That are so sick and forlorn;

Just shadows—

But once bright fishers of shallows,

Swift hunters of meadows.

We are the old, old men,

We have seen and endured much trouble;

It has turned us children again,

And bent us double.

Now we sit like a circle of stones,