This sort of thing happened a lot. I reckon poets inserted short lyrics into
their longer works with the intention that they could and would be lifted
out for separate use, as well as their original purpose. (Like 'songs from
the shows', these days.) 'The Princess' is stuffed with them, including the
well-known 'Sweet and low' and 'Now sleeps the crimson petal'. Composers are
still doing it, too; Britten's 'Serenade for tenor, horn and strings' has a
mind-blowing-setting of 'The splendour falls on castle walls', from this
same Tennyson work.
Mind you, 'The Princess' is subtitled 'A Medley', though apart from the
insertions, of which there are far more, the narrative verse hasn't half the
variety of form and mood that we find in 'Maud'.
Come to think, I don't suppose Shakepeare would have raised a complaint if
he heard songs out of his plays being sung in the street -- 'Where the bee
sucks, there suck I', for instance.
best joanna
----- Original Message -----
From: "Roger Collett" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Tuesday, January 04, 2005 3:19 PM
Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
poetry)
The reason that most people think that "come into the garden, Maud" is a
separate poem is the popular Victorian song by operatic composer Michael
Balfe (around 1870ish) that became a Music Hall hit.
Roger
----- Original Message -----
From: "Rebecca Seiferle" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Tuesday, January 04, 2005 3:06 PM
Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
poetry)
> Hi Joanna,
>
> Oh, I went and looked this up. As near as I can tell, "come into the
> garden,
> Maud" is late in the first part of the long poem, "Maud: A Monodrama" and
> it's
> just as you say about the brother. Though "come into the garden, Maud" is
> sometimes given as a separate poem, perhaps in the usual way, some
> sections
> of sequences go independent. Here's a link for the whole thing, if anyone
> wants
> a dose of Tennyson
>
> http://home.att.net/~TennysonPoetry/mm.htm
>
> best,
>
> Rebecca
>
> ---- Original message ----
>>Date: Tue, 4 Jan 2005 14:55:26 -0000
>>From: Joanna Boulter <[log in to unmask]>
>>Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
> poetry)
>>To: [log in to unmask]
>>
>>As far as I remember it, admittedly from a good many years back, the 'Come
>>into the garden, Maud' bit is the song or what-have-you the bloke
>>sings/recites while waiting 'by the gate alone' for her to come out. Then
>>he
>>gets found by her brother and kills him, hence the guilt that haunts the
>>dreadful hollow.
>>
>>best joanna
>>
>>----- Original Message -----
>>From: "Rebecca Seiferle" <[log in to unmask]>
>>To: <[log in to unmask]>
>>Sent: Tuesday, January 04, 2005 2:17 PM
>>Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
>>poetry)
>>
>>
>>> Ah, that's very funny, Alison, that 'thousand years of Tennyson' and
>>> that
>>"we all
>>> thought he was a golfer."
>>>
>>> Well, there are 7 stanzas in "Mariana" all ending with the 'a-weary,
>>a-weary
>>> lament' and perhaps at the age of 12 that would seem a near-infinitude
>>> of
>>> wearisomeness.
>>>
>>> Though I wonder this morning if it may be not just two poems that were
>>> confused but three? For the Maud of "Come into the Garden, Maud," isn't
>>> neurasthenic; she just never shows up, being in the house, dancing with
>>all the
>>> guests, we never see her in the poem, though the speaker conversing with
>>the
>>> flowers may be neurasthenic. So perhaps the neurasthenic you were
>>thinking of
>>> is in Tennyson's "Maud: A Monodrama" that long sequence in three parts
>>which
>>> begins
>>>
>>> I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
>>> Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
>>> The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
>>> And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers ‘Death.’.
>>>
>>> Enough to convey what follows, haha, well, perhaps it is very difficult
>>> to
>>keep
>>> these Victorian ladies and poems straight, a thousand years of blur,
>>>
>>> Best,
>>>
>>> Rebecca
>>>
>>> ---- Original message ----
>>> >Date: Tue, 4 Jan 2005 20:44:18 +1100
>>> >From: Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]>
>>> >Subject: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
>>poetry)
>>> >To: [log in to unmask]
>>> >
>>> >Thanks for complementing my laziness, Rebecca, and actually looking
> them
>>> up:
>>> >yes, I remember now: Maude and Mariana, exemplary neurasthenic
> Victorian
>>> >ladies...no wonder I confused them. Interesting how my memory drew out
>>> >those weary weary laments, but they're still fairly wearisome.
>>> >
>>> >While I'm rummaging through my dusty attic, I remember also a poem by
>>> Adrian
>>> >Mitchell (?), The Oxford History of English Poetry or somesuch, in
>>> >which
>>the
>>> >verse on Tennyson goes something like
>>> >
>>> >And then there were about a thousand years of Tennyson.
>>> >Funny, really.
>>> >We all thought he was a golfer.
>>> >
>>> >Best
>>> >
>>> >A
>>> >
>>> >
>>> >
>>> >
>>> >
>>> >Alison Croggon
>>> >
>>> >Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
>>> >Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
>>> >Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com
>>>
> Nzfm~'jŮ犻>yˢvvjyVw
|
