No More Learning

The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw
The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out
And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
Then they came in: but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her:
And Allan set him down, and Mary said:
"O Father! --if you let me call you so--
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come
For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said,
He could not ever rue his marrying me--
I have been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus:
'God bless him! ' he said, 'and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro'! ' Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before. "
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:
"I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son.
I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son.
May God forgive me! --I have been to blame.
Kiss me, my children. " Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William. So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.


[Footnote 1: In 1842 thus:--

"Look to't,
Consider: take a month to think, and give
An answer to my wish; or by the Lord
That made me, you shall pack, and nevermore
Darken my doors again. " And William heard,
And answered something madly; bit his lips,
And broke away.

All editions previous to 1853 have

"Look to't. ]







AUDLEY COURT

First published in 1842.

Only four alterations were made in the text after 1842, all of which are
duly noted. Tennyson told his son that the poem was partially suggested
by Abbey Park at Torquay where it was written, and that the last lines
described the scene from the hill looking over the bay. He saw he said
"a star of phosphorescence made by the buoy appearing and disappearing
in the dark sea," but it is curious that the line describing that was
not inserted till long after the poem had been published. The poem,
though a trifle, is a triumph of felicitous description and expression,
whether we regard the pie or the moonlit bay.


"The Bull, the Fleece are cramm'd, and not a room
For love or money. Let us picnic there
At Audley Court. " I spoke, while Audley feast
Humm'd like a hive all round the narrow quay,
To Francis, with a basket on his arm,
To Francis just alighted from the boat,
And breathing of the sea. "With all my heart,"
Said Francis. Then we shoulder'd thro' [1] the swarm,
And rounded by the stillness of the beach
To where the bay runs up its latest horn.
We left the dying ebb that faintly lipp'd
The flat red granite; so by many a sweep
Of meadow smooth from aftermath we reach'd
The griffin-guarded gates and pass'd thro' all
The pillar'd dusk [2] of sounding sycamores
And cross'd the garden to the gardener's lodge,
With all its casements bedded, and its walls
And chimneys muffled in the leafy vine.