Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): The Palace of Arts (1832)

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, The Palace of the Arts, 1857



I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, // Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. // I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,// Dear soul, for all is well."



A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, // I chose. The ranged ramparts bright // From level meadow-bases of deep grass// Suddenly scaled the light.



Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf // The rock rose clear, or winding stair. // My soul would live alone unto herself// In her high palace there.



And "while the world runs round and round," I said, // "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, // Still as, while Saturn whirls his stedfast shade // Sleeps on his luminous ring."



To which my soul made answer readily: // "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide // In this great mansion, that is built for me, // So royal-rich and wide."



Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, // In each a squared lawn, wherefrom // The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth// A flood of fountain-foam.



And round the cool green courts there ran a row // Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, // Echoing all night to that sonorous flow // Of spouted fountain-floods.



And round the roofs a gilded gallery // That lent broad verge to distant lands, // Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky // Dipt down to sea and sands.



From those four jets four currents in one swell // Across the mountain stream'd below // In misty folds, that floating as they fell // Lit up a torrent-bow.



And high on every peak a statue seem'd // To hang on tiptoe, tossing up // A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd // From out a golden cup.



So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon // My palace with unblinded eyes, // While this great bow will waver in the sun, // And that sweet incense rise?"



For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, // And, while day sank or mounted higher, // The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, // Burnt like a fringe of fire.



Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, // Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires // From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, // And tipt with frost-like spires.



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, // over-vaulted grateful gloom, // Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,// Well-pleased, from room to room.



Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, // All various, each a perfect whole // From living Nature, fit for every mood // And change of my still soul.



For some were hung with arras green and blue, // Showing a gaudy summer-morn, // Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew // His wreathed bugle-horn.



One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, // And some one pacing there alone, // Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, // Lit with a low large moon.



One show'd an iron coast and angry waves // You seem'd to hear them climb and fall // And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, // Beneath the windy wall.



And one, a full-fed river winding slow // By herds upon an endless plain, // The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, // With shadow-streaks of rain.



And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. // In front they bound the sheaves. Behind // Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, // And hoary to the wind.



And one a foreground black with stones and slags, // beyond, a line of heights, and higher // All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, // And highest, snow and fire.



And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd // On dewy pastures, dewy trees, // Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, // A haunt of ancient Peace.



Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, // As fit for every mood of mind, // Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, // Not less than truth design'd.



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. // In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. // Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx // Sat smiling, babe in arm.



Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, // Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair // with white roses, slept Saint Cecily;// An angel look'd at her.



Or thronging all one porch of Paradise // A group of Houris bow'd to see // The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes // That said, We wait for thee.



Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son // In some fair space of sloping greens // Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, // And watch'd by weeping queens.



Or hollowing one hand against his ear, // To list a foot-fall, ere he saw // The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear // Of wisdom and of law.




Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, // And many a tract of palm and rice, // The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd // A summer fann'd with spice.



Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, // From off her shoulder backward borne: // From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd // The mild bull's golden horn.



Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh // Half-buried in the Eagle's down, // Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky // Above the pillar'd town.


Nor these alone: but every legend fair // Which the supreme Caucasian mind // Carved out of Nature for itself was there' // Not less than life design'd.



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, // Moved of themselves, with silver sound; // And with choice paintings of wise men I hung // The royal dais round.



For there was Milton like a seraph strong, // Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; // And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, // And somewhat grimly smiled.



And there the Ionian father of the rest; // A million wrinkles carved his skin; // A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, // From cheek and throat and chin.



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set // Many an arch high- up did lift, // And angels rising and descending met // With interchange of gift.



Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd // With cycles of the human tale // Of this wide world, the times of every land // So wrought they will not fail.



The people here, a beast of burden slow, // Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; // Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro // The heads and crowns of kings;



Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind // All force in bonds that might endure, // And here once more like some sick man declined, // And trusted any cure.



But over these she trod: and those great bells // Began to chime. She took her throne: // She sat betwixt the shining Oriels. // To sing her songs alone.



And thro' the topmost Oriels, coloured flame // Two godlike faces gazed below; // Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, // The first of those who know.



And all those names that in their motion were // Full-welling fountain-heads of change, // Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair // In diverse raiment strange:



Thro' which the lights' rose, amber, emerald, blue // Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, // And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew // Rivers of melodies.



No nightingale delighteth to prolong // Her low preamble all alone, // More than my soul to hear her echo'd song // Throb thro' the ribbed stone;



Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, // Joying to feel herself alive, // Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, // Lord of the senses five;



Communing with herself: "All these are mine, // And let the world have peace or wars, //'T is one to me." She — when young night divine // Crown'd dying day with stars,



Making sweet close of his delicious toils — // Lit light in wreaths and anadems, // And pure quintessences of precious oils // In hollow'd moons of gems,



To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, // I marvel if my still delight //In this great house so  // royal-rich, and wide,


Be flatter'd to the height. // "O all things fair to sate my various eyes! // O shapes and hues that please me well! // O silent faces of the Great and Wise,


My Gods, with whom I dwell! // "O God-like isolation which art mine, // I can but count thee perfect gain, // What time I watch the darkening droves of swine


That range on yonder plain.// "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, // They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; // And oft some brainless devil enters in,


And drives them to the deep." // Then of the moral instinct would she prate // And of the rising from the dead, // As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;


And at the last she said: // "I take possession of man's mind and deed. // I care not what the sects may brawl. // I sit as God holding no form of creed,


But contemplating all." // Full oft the riddle of the painful earth // Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, //Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,


And intellectual throne. // And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years // She prosper'd; on the fourth she fell, // Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,


Struck thro' with pangs of hell. // Lest she should fail and perish utterly, // God, before whom ever lie bare // The abysmal deeps of Personality,


Plagued her with sore despair. // When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight // The airy hand confusion wrought, // Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite


The kingdom of her thought. // Deep dread and loathing of her solitude // Fell on her, from which mood was born // Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood


Laughter at her self-scorn. //  "What! is not this my place of strength," she said, // "My spacious mansion built for me, // Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid


Since my first memory." // But in dark corners of her palace stood // uncertain shapes; and unawares // On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,


And horrible nightmares, // And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, // And, with dim fretted foreheads all, // On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,


That stood against the wall. // A spot of dull stagnation, without light // Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, // 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite


Making for one sure goal. //  A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand, // Left on the shore; that hears all night // The plunging seas draw backward from the land


Their moon-led waters white. //  A star that with the choral starry dance // Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw // The hollow orb of moving Circumstance


Roll'd round by one fix'd law. // Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd // "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, // "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:


One deep, deep silence all!" // She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, //Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, // Lay there exiled from eternal God,


Lost to her place and name; // And death and life she hated equally, // And nothing saw, for her despair, // But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,


No comfort anywhere; // Remaining utterly confused with fears, // And ever worse with growing time, // And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,


And all alone in crime:// Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round // With blackness as a solid wall, // Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound


Of human footsteps fall. // As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, // In doubt and great perplexity, // A little before moon-rise hears the low


Moan of an unknown sea;// And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound // Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry // Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found


A new land, but I die." // She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. // There comes no murmur of reply. // What is it that will take away my sin,


And save me lest I die?" //  So when four years were wholly finished,// She threw her royal robes away. // "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,


"Where I may mourn and pray.// "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are // So lightly, beautifully built. //
Perchance I may return with others there //

 When I have purged my guilt." //