And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
Tennyson
, viii.
, 549, and elsewhere; but Homer's
and Tennyson's meaning can hardly be the same. In Homer the "bridges of
war" seem to mean the spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in
Tennyson the meaning is probably the obvious one. ]
[Footnote 6: All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of
Faction bay. ]
THE GOOSE
This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in
it.
This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation,
is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed
advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes.
The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the
goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such
advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to
confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price
which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting
from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free
Trade question.
I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season".
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose--'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note! "
Then wax'd her anger stronger:
"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not bear it longer".
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder'd all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning".
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger! "
THE EPIC
First published in 1842; "tho'" for "though" in line 44 has been the
only alteration made since 1850.
This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after "The Epic" had been
composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse "the
faint Homeric echoes," to give a reason for telling an old-world tale.
The poet "mouthing out his hollow oes and aes" is, we are told, a good
description of Tennyson's tone and manner of reading.
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,--
The game of forfeits done--the girls all kiss'd
Beneath the sacred bush and past away--
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners, [1]
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith
Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by".
and Tennyson's meaning can hardly be the same. In Homer the "bridges of
war" seem to mean the spaces between the lines of tents in a bivouac: in
Tennyson the meaning is probably the obvious one. ]
[Footnote 6: All up to and including 1851. Not less, though dogs of
Faction bay. ]
THE GOOSE
This was first published in 1842. No alteration has since been made in
it.
This poem, which was written at the time of the Reform Bill agitation,
is a political allegory showing how illusory were the supposed
advantages held out by the Radicals to the poor and labouring classes.
The old woman typifies these classes, the stranger the Radicals, the
goose the Radical programme, Free Trade and the like, the eggs such
advantages as the proposed Radical measures might for a time seem to
confer, the cluttering goose, the storm and whirlwind the heavy price
which would have to be paid for them in the social anarchy resulting
from triumphant Radicalism. The allegory may be narrowed to the Free
Trade question.
I knew an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.
He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season".
She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose--'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.
She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbours;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labours.
And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But, ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,
And hurl'd the pan and kettle.
"A quinsy choke thy cursed note! "
Then wax'd her anger stronger:
"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,
I will not bear it longer".
Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;
Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.
The goose flew this way and flew that,
And fill'd the house with clamour.
As head and heels upon the floor
They flounder'd all together,
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather:
He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning".
The wild wind rang from park and plain,
And round the attics rumbled,
Till all the tables danced again,
And half the chimneys tumbled.
The glass blew in, the fire blew out,
The blast was hard and harder.
Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,
And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;
And while on all sides breaking loose
Her household fled the danger,
Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,
And God forget the stranger! "
THE EPIC
First published in 1842; "tho'" for "though" in line 44 has been the
only alteration made since 1850.
This Prologue was written, like the Epilogue, after "The Epic" had been
composed, being added, Fitzgerald says, to anticipate or excuse "the
faint Homeric echoes," to give a reason for telling an old-world tale.
The poet "mouthing out his hollow oes and aes" is, we are told, a good
description of Tennyson's tone and manner of reading.
At Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,--
The game of forfeits done--the girls all kiss'd
Beneath the sacred bush and past away--
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honour had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners, [1]
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith
Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by".
