Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found
         Her master cold; for when the morning flush
         Of passion and the first embrace had died
         Between them, tho’ he loved her none the less,
         Yet often when the woman heard his foot
         Return from pacings in the field, and ran
         To greet him with a kiss, the master took
         Small notice, or austerely, for his mind
         Half buried in some weightier argument,
         Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise
         And long roll of the hexameter—he past
         To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls
         Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine.
         She brook’d it not, but wrathful, petulant
         Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch
         Who brew’d the philtre which had power, they said
         To lead an errant passion home again.
         And this, at times, she mingled with his drink,
         And this destroy’d him; for the wicked broth
         Confused the chemic labor of the blood,
         And tickling the brute brain within the man’s
         Made havoc among those tender cells, and check’d
         His power to shape. He loathed himself, and once
         After a tempest woke upon a morn
         That mock’d him with returning calm, and cried:
         “Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain
         Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt—
         Methought I never saw so fierce a fork—
         Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show’d
         A riotous confluence of watercourses
         Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it,
         Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry.
         ”Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams!
         For thrice I waken’d after dreams. Perchance
         We do but recollect the dreams that come
         Just ere the waking. Terrible: for it seem’d
         A void was made in Nature, all her bonds
         Crack’d; and I saw the flaring atom-streams
         And torrents of her myriad universe,
         Ruining along the illimitable inane,
         Fly on to clash together again, and make
         Another and another frame of things
         For ever. That was mine, my dream, I knew it—
         Of and belonging to me, as the dog
         With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies
         His function of the woodland; but the next!
         I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed
         Came driving rainlike down again on earth,
         And where it dash’d the reddening meadow, sprang
         No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth,
         For these I thought my dream would show to me,
         But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art,
         Hired animalisms, vile as those that made
         The mulberry-faced Dictator’s orgies worse
         Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods.
         And hands they mixt, and yell’d and round me drove
         In narrowing circles till I yell’d again
         Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw—
         Was it the first beam of my latest day?
         “Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the
         The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword
         Now over and now under, now direct,
         Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed
         At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire,
         The fire that left a roofless Ilion,
         Shot out of them, and scorch’d me that I woke.
         ”Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine,
         Because I would not one of thine own doves,
         Not even a rose, were offered to thee? thine,
         Forgetful how my rich proemion makes
         Thy glory fly along the Italian field,
         In lays that will outlast thy deity?
         “Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue
         Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these
         Angers thee most, or angers thee at all?
         Not if thou be’st of those who, far aloof
         From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn,
         Live the great life which all our greatest fain
         Would follow, centred in eternal calm.
         ”Nay, if thou canst,
Goddess, like ourselves
         Touch, and be touch’d, then would I cry to thee
         To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms
         Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood
         That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome.
         “Ay, but I meant not thee; I meant riot her
         Whom all the pines of Ida shook to see
         Slide from that quiet heaven of hers, and tempt
         The Trojan, while his neatherds were abroad
         Nor her that o’er her wounded hunter wept
         Her deity false in human-amorous tears;
         Nor whom her beardless apple-arbiter
         Decided fairest. Rather, O ye Gods,
         Poet-like, as the great Sicilian called
         Calliope to grace his golden verse—
         Ay, and this Kypris also—did I take
         That popular name of thine to shadow forth
         The all-generating powers and genial heat
         Of Nature, when she strikes thro’ the thick blood
         Of cattle, and light is large, and lambs are glad
         Nosing the mother’s udder, and the bird
         Makes his heart voice amid the blaze of flowers;
         Which things appear the work of mighty Gods.
         ”The Gods! and if I go my work is left
         Unfinish’d—if I go. The Gods, who haunt
         The lucid interspace of world and world,
         Where never creeps a cloud, or moves a wind,
         Nor ever falls the least white star of mow
         Nor ever lowest roll of thunder moans,
         Nor sound of human sorrow mounts to mar
         Their sacred everlasting calm! and such,
         Not all so fine, nor so divine a calm
         Not such, nor all unlike it, man may gain
         Letting his own life go. The Gods, the Godsl
         If all be atoms, how then should the Gods
         Being atomic not be dissoluble,
         Not follow the great law? My master held
         That Gods there are, for all men so believe.
         I prest my footsteps into his, and meant
         Surely to lead my Memmius in a train
         Of fiowery clauses onward to the proof
         That Gods there are, and deathless. Meant? I meant?
         I have forgotten what I meant, my mind
         Stumbles, and all my faculties are lamed.
         “Look where another of our Gods, the Sun
         Apollo, Delius, or of older use
         All-seeing Hyperion—what you will—
         Has mounted yonder; since he never sware,
         Except his wrath were wreak’d on wretched man,
         That he would only shine among the dead
         Hereafter—tales! for never yet on earth
         Could dead flesh creep, or bits of roasting ox
         Moan round the spit—nor knows he what he sees;
         King of the East altho’ he seem, and girt
         With song and flame and fragrance, slowly lifts
         His golden feet on those empurpled stairs
         That climb into the windy halls of heaven
         And here he glances on an eye new-born,
         And gets for greeting but a wail of pain;
         And here he stays upon a freezing orb
         That fain would gaze upon him to the last;
         And here upon a yellow eyelid fallen
         And closed by those who mourn a friend in vain,
         Not thankful that his troubles are no more.
         And me, altho’ his fire is on my face
         Blinding, he sees not, nor at all can tell
         Whether I mean this day to end myself.
         Or lend an ear to Plato where he says,
         That men like soldiers may not quit the post
         Allotted by the Gods. But he that holds
         The Gods are careless, wherefore need he care
         Greatly for them, nor rather plunge at once,
         Being troubled, wholly out of sight, and sink
         Past earthquake—ay, and gout and stone, that break
         Body toward death, and palsy, death-in-life,
         And wretched age—and worst disease of all,
         These prodigies of myriad nakednesses,
         And twisted shapes of lust, unspeakable,
         Abominable, strangers at my hearth
         Not welcome, harpies miring every dish,
         The phantom husks of something foully done,
         And fleeting thro’ the boundless universe,
         And blasting the long quiet of my breast
         With animal heat and dire insanity?
         ”How should the mind, except it loved them, clasp
         These idols to herself? or do they fly
         Now thinner, and now thicker, like the flakes
         In a fall of snow, and so press in, perforce
         Of multitude, as crowds that in an hour
         Of civic tumult jam the doors, and bear
         The keepers down, and throng, their rags and the
         The basest, far into that council-hall
         Where sit the best and stateliest of the land?
         ³Can I not fling this horror off me again,
         Seeing with how great ease Nature can smile
         Balmier and nobler from her bath of storm,
         At random ravage? and how easily
         The mountain there has cast his cloudy slough,
         Now towering o’er him in serenest air,
         A mountain o’er a mountain,—ay, and within
         All hollow as the hopes and fears of men?
         “But who was he that in the garden snared
         Picus and Faunus, rustic Gods? a tale
         To laugh at—more to laugh at in myself—
         For look! what is it? there? yon arbutus
         Totters; a noiseless riot underneath
         Strikes through the wood, sets all the tops quivering—;
         The mountain quickens into Nymph and Faun,
         And here an Oread—how the sun delights
         To glance and shift about her slippery sides,
         And rosy knees and supple roundedness,
         And budded bosom-peaks—who this way runs
         Before the rest!—a satyr, a satyr, see,
         Follows; but him I proved impossible
         Twy-natured is no nature. Yet he draws
         Nearer and nearer, and I scan him now
         Beastlier than any phantom of his kind
         That ever butted his rough brother-brute
         For lust or lusty blood or provender.
         I hate, abhor, spit, sicken at him; and she
         Loathes him as well; such a precipitate heel,
         Fledged as it were with Mercury’s ankle-wing,
         Whirls her to me—;but will she fling herself
         Shameless upon me? Catch her, goatfoot! nay,
         Hide, hide them, million-myrtled wilderness,
         And cavern-shadowing laurels, hide! do I wish—
         What?—;that the bush were leafless? or to whelm
         All of them in one massacre? O ye Gods
         I know you careless, yet, behold, to you
         From childly wont and ancient use I call—
         I thought I lived securely as yourselves—
         No lewdness, narrowing envy, monkey-spite,
         No madness of ambition, avarice, none;
         No larger feast than under plane or pine
         With neighbors laid along the grass, to take
         Only such cups as left us friendly-warm,
         Affirming each his own philosophy
         Nothing to mar the sober majesties
         Of settled, sweet, Epicurean life.
         But now it seems some unseen monster lays
         His vast and filthy hands upon my will,
         Wrenching it backward into his, and spoils
         My bliss in being; and it was not great,
         For save when shutting reasons up in rhythm,
         Or Heliconian honey in living words,
         To make a truth less harsh, I often grew
         Tired of so much within our little life
         Or of so little in our little life—
         Poor little life that toddles half an hour
         Crown’d with a flower or two, and there an end—
         And since the nobler pleasure seems to fade,
         Why should I, beastlike as I find myself,
         Not manlike end myself?—our privilege—;
         What beast has heart to do it? And what man
         What Roman would be dragg’d in triumph thus?
         Not I; not he, who bears one name with her
         Whose death-blow struck the dateless doom of kings,
         When, brooking not the Tarquin in her veins,
         She made her blood in sight of Collatine
         And all his peers, flushing the guiltless air,
         Spout from the maiden fountain in her heart.
         And from it sprang the Commonwealth, which breaks
         As I am breaking now!
           ”And therefore now
         Let her, that is the womb and tomb of all
         Great Nature, take, and forcing far apart
         Those blind beginnings that have made me man,
         Dash them anew together at her will
         Thro’ all her cycles—into man once more,
         Or beast or bird or fish, or opulent flower.
         But till this cosmic order everywhere
         Shatter’d into one earthquake m one day
         Cracks all to pieces,—and that hour perhaps
         Is not so far when momentary man
         Shall seem no more a something to himself,
         But he, his hopes and hates, his homes and fanes
         And even his bones long laid within the grave,
         The very sides of the grave itself shall pass,
         Vanishing, atom and void, atom and void,
         Into the unseen for ever,—till that hour,
         My golden work in which I told a truth
         That stays the rolling Ixionian wheel,
         And numbs the Fury’s ringlet-snake, and plucks
         The mortal soul from out immortal hell
         Shall stand. Ay, surely; then it fails at last
         And perishes as I must, for O Thou
         Passionless bride, divine Tranquillity,
         Yearn’d after by the wisest of the wise
         Who fail to find thee, being as thou art
         Without one pleasure and without one pain,
         Howbeit I know thou surely must be mine
         Or soon or late, yet out of season, thus
         I woo thee roughly, for thou carest not
         How roughly men may woo thee so they win—;
         Thus—thus—the soul flies out and dies in the air
         With that he drove the knife into his side.
         She heard him raging, heard him fall, ran in,
         Beat breast, tore hair, cried out upon herself
         As having fail’d in duty to him, shriek’d
         That she but meant to win him back, fell on him
         Clasp’d, kiss’d him, wail’d. He answer’d, “Care not thou!
         Thy duty? What is duty? Fare thee well!”
Other works by Lord Alfred Tennyson...