When I first
heard him at Oxford, I closed my eyes and felt as if the old poet
were with me again.
Tennyson's reading had the lilt, the tenderness and the rhythm
that makes music in the soul. It was neither singing, nor
chanting, nor speaking, but a subtle mixture of the three; and the
effect upon me was one of haunting harmonies that left me
profoundly moved.
He began, "Birds in the high Hall-garden," and, skipping the next
four sections, went on to, "I have led her home, my love, my only
friend," and ended with:
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear,
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthly bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
When he had finished, he pulled me on to his knee and said:
"Many may have written as well as that, but nothing that ever
sounded so well!"
I could not speak.
He then told us that he had had an unfortunate experience with a
young lady to whom he was reading Maud.
"She was sitting on my knee," he said, "as you are doing now, and
after reading,
Birds in the high Hall-garden
When twilight was falling,
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,
They were crying and calling,
I asked her what bird she thought I meant.
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