[Footnote 3: 1830. Wifehood.]
[Footnote 4: 1830. Blenched.]
[Footnote 5: 1830 and all before 1853. Through.]
[Footnote 6: 1830. Through.]
“Mariana in the moated grange.”—’Measure
for Measure’.
First printed in 1830.
This poem as we know from the motto prefixed to it
was suggested by Shakespeare (’Measure for Measure’,
iii., 1, “at the moated grange resides this
dejected Mariana,”) but the poet may have had
in his mind the exquisite fragment of Sappho:—
[Greek: deduke men ha selanna kai
Plaeiades, mesai de nuktes, para d’
erchet h’ora ego de mona kateud’o.]
“The moon has set and the Pleiades,
and it is midnight: the hour too
is going by, but I sleep alone.”
It was long popularly supposed that the scene of the
poem was a farm near Somersby known as Baumber’s
farm, but Tennyson denied this and said it was a purely
“imaginary house in the fen,” and that
he “never so much as dreamed of Baumbers farm”.
See ‘Life’, i., 28.
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach [1] to the garden-wall.
[2]
The broken sheds look’d sad and
strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
[3]
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, “The night is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen’s low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed [4]
morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, “The day is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken’d waters slept,
And o’er it many, round and small,
The cluster’d marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark [5]
The level waste, the rounding gray.[6]
She only said, “My life is dreary,
He cometh not,” she said;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!”
