This week’s offering is selections from the final book of Tennyson’s ‘Idylls of the King’, a work immensely popular in Victorian times, but I would guess little read now. It is not hard to see why: the poem has its virtues, being characteristically mellifluous, but it is too stuffed with Victorian piety and has just too many words for a more secular age not known for the length of its attention span. The dying Arthur, for example, despite suffering from a fatal head wound manages to sermonise at a length that would put any operatic diva to shame. Yet here and there visual and aural effects combine to create a hauntingly elegiac music.

From ‘The Passing of Arthur’

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s Table, man by man,
Had fall’n in Lyonnesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

    Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
‘The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep – the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made, –  
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword – and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.’

The bold Sir Bedivere duly takes the sword, but twice cannot bring himself to carry out the task, waste of a good sword and all that. The second time he comes back Arthur says he will give him one more chance and if he fails again ‘I will arise and slay thee with my hands’. At this point you feel Sir Bedivere might be excused for saying ‘Look, mate, if you’re feeling that chipper all of a sudden go and throw the damn sword in yourself’, but no, off he goes and this time duly throws the sword far into the lake, at which point out comes an arm, ‘clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful’ and clearly belonging to one who should be playing for the England ladies’ cricket team, and catches it by the hilt.

Sir Bedivere returns and reports, this time to Arthur’s satisfaction, and there is now a bit of a rush to get to the lake to catch a barge which will be coming to take the king away, but Sir Bedivere gives Arthur a piggyback and thanks to some nifty footwork by Sir B. over slippery ground – Tennyson here doing the kind of thing he does best, I think – they make it in time for Arthur to be taken aboard and welcomed by three queens.

    But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels–
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

    Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream – by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Arthur takes his place in the barge, leaving a forlorn Sir Bedivere to make a rather plaintive appeal, which gives Arthur the chance for a final bit of sermonising, while the three queens, one imagines, wait rather impatiently in the background: ‘Don’t want to rush you, Arthur, but we really ought to get that head wound seen to…’

    Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’

    And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:
‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst – if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) –
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’

    So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Some years back I entertained a Japanese pen-friend and his wife, over in the UK on a visit. Their English was very good, just a little stilted, and certainly way better than my Japanese, which was limited, not very usefully, to a few hundred technical terms relating to the game of go. The conversation turned to television.

‘We very much like Tennyson’, said my friend. ‘We watch always. Very strong’.

I was greatly impressed, and a little touched. What a cultured people the Japanese were, huddled round their TV sets watching programmes about one of our national poets. They certainly put our own TV producers to shame. What did we ever get? Betjeman and his bloody teddy-bear. And yes, I supposed that poems like ‘The Charge of The Light Brigade’ and ‘The Revenge: A Ballad of the Fleet’ were indeed pretty stirring stuff. Even ‘Idylls of the King’ had its moments.

‘’Very forceful lady’, chuckled my friend’s wife.

I assumed she must mean the Lady of Shalott. Was ‘forceful’ quite the word though? It’s a good poem, but I always thought the Lady was a bit drippy, sitting in her tower all day weaving and moping after Sir Lancelot. But maybe the Japanese had different notions of female empowerment.

‘We like Jane very much’, said my friend.

Jane? Now I was getting confused. As far as I could recall she wasn’t named in the poem, but in the original legend wasn’t she called Elaine?

At this point my wife stepped in. ‘They’re talking about Jane Tennison’, she said. ‘You know, the woman police chief in “Prime Suspect”. Played by Helen Mirren.’

Ah, right. Sorry, Alfred, it seems that you may not be that big in Japan after all. But to make up, here at least is that colourful, magical poem with its very un-Helen-Mirren-like heroine.

Shallop: a light river boat with sails and oars.
Baldric: An often ornamental belt worn over one shoulder to support a sword or bugle.

The Lady of Shalott

I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road run by
    To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
    The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
    Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
    The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d                 
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
     Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?             
Or is she known in all the land,
     The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
    Down to tower’d Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ‘ ‘Tis the fairy
    Lady of Shalott.’

II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
    To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
    The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
    Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
    Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad
    Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
    The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
    And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
‘I am half sick of shadows,’ said
    The Lady of Shalott.

III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
    Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
    Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
    As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung
    Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
    Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
    As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
‘Tirra lirra,’ by the river
    Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
    She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;
‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried
    The Lady of Shalott.

IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
    Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
    Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
    The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Thro’ the noises of the night,
    She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
    The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
    Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
    The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
    Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
    The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
   All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, ‘She has a lovely face;
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.’

Alfred, Lord Tennyson