The Gardener's Daughter

or; The Pictures

First published in 1842.

In the 'Gardener's Daughter' we have the first of that delightful series of poems dealing with scenes and characters from ordinary English life, and named appropriately 'English Idylls'. The originator of this species of poetry in England was Southey, in his 'English Eclogues', written before 1799. In the preface to these eclogues, which are in blank verse, Southey says: "The following eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to any poems in our language. This species of composition has become popular in Germany, and I was induced to attempt it by an account of the German idylls given me in conversation." Southey's eclogues are eight in number: 'The Old Mansion House', 'The Grandmother's Tale', 'Hannah', 'The Sailor's Mother', 'The Witch', 'The Ruined Cottage', 'The Last of the Family' and 'The Alderman's Funeral'. Southey was followed by Wordsworth in 'The Brothers' and 'Michael'. Southey has nothing of the charm, grace and classical finish of his disciple, but how nearly Tennyson follows him, as copy and model, may be seen by anyone who compares Tennyson's studies with 'The Ruined Cottage'. But Tennyson's real master was Theocritus, whose influence pervades these poems not so much directly in definite imitation as indirectly in colour and tone.

'The Gardener's Daughter' was written as early as 1835, as it was read to Fitzgerald in that year ('Life of Tennyson', i., 182). Tennyson originally intended to insert a prologue to be entitled 'The Antechamber', which contained an elaborate picture of himself, but he afterwards suppressed it. It is given in the 'Life', i., 233-4. This poem stands alone among the Idylls in being somewhat overloaded with ornament. The text of 1842 remained unaltered through all the subsequent editions except in line 235. After 1851 the form "tho'" is substituted for "though".

This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little;--Juliet, she [1] So light of foot, so light of spirit--oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will _you_ paint like this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest), "'Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he