2.6 Come into the Garden, Maud

...Being the story of how what I thought was a bland piece of romantic poetry that had been turned into a Victorian parlour song is actually a completely amazing product of the Tennyson brain.

I had not originally intended to write last week’s piece about The Charge of the Light Brigade. After writing about The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck, I had wanted to look at some other half remembered poems that might have been popular long ago, but had faded to obscurity or remained only as the butt of old jokes. I was thinking of Walter the softie from the Beano, singing Oh for the Wings of a Dove and wondering wether there was any mileage in that, when I discovered that Come into the Garden Maud was based on a poem by Tennyson. It seemed like an excellent example of what I was looking for. There is something about poetry turned into those old style songs that really fascinates me, and Come into the Garden was a genuine chart topping hit in the days before the charts were a thing. The lyrics were set to music by the Irish composer Michael William Balfe (1808 - 1870), and quickly became a staple of parlour piano performances. It was recorded in 1915 by the Irish Tenor John McCormack, the recording having the feel of another song beloved of Irish tenors, I’ll Take you Home Again Kathleen.

At first I thought that the song and the poem would be identical. But then I noticed that in some versions of the poem to be found on the web, there were quite a few extra verses. The last stanza in particular really captured my imagination. It wasn’t in the recorded versions, and it seemed really weird. It took the attitude of Maude’s admirer to a different level. It made me wonder what Tennyson had been smoking when he wrote it.

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

Incredible! He loves Maud so much that he imagines that even if he had been dead and buried for a hundred years, the remains of his heart would come to life and burst into some sort of vegetation at her feet. Imagine suggesting that on a Valentines card to the object of your desires. Somehow I don’t think that it would have quite the intended effect.

I started to read more, and discovered that Come into the Garden was just one section of a much, much larger poem, entitled Maud. Running to well over ten thousand words, it is in three parts, each of which is divided into multiple sections, each of which is divided into various other numbered stanzas. That was the point when I thought sod it, and decided to write about the Charge of the Light Brigade instead.

But I couldn’t get the image of the dust of a dead lover’s heart rising up as blood coloured blossoms under the object of his desire’s feet out of my mind. The essay had to be written. I had to sit down and read through the whole poem. Even though I love a bit of poetry, I have to admit that it took some getting through. I also have to say that I’m not entirely sure if my interpretation of the whole thing is entirely accurate. And yet it certainly got me thinking.

Maud is subtitled a Monodrama, which means that it is a dramatic monologue. However it is unlike any episode of Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads. It is extremely dark, and starts with the narrator looking at the pit into which his father hurled himself, committing suicide after losing money through some bad business dealings.

Maud is the daughter of the man who profited by the business, the narrator recalls playing with her when they were children (although he says elsewhere that he is around eight years older than her). She left the area at some point and when she returns as a grown woman of 17 he takes an instant dislike to her. He comes across as a really bitter and twisted individual. Not at all like the person in the song popularised by John McCormack.

Slowly though, his dislike turns into obsession, and then to some sort of romantic desire, or is it lust? This is the part where I wonder whether or not I am going off at a tangent. He tells us that he and Maud start a relationship, but, unreliable narrator that he is, I am not sure that I believe him.

She has been pleasant to him when they have met by chance, she touched his hand with hers, and spoke to him nicely. After that, in my opinion, all further developments between them are pure fantasy. In fact I would go as far as to say that he is a stalker, completely obsessed, seedy and dangerous.

He tells us that her brother doesn’t like him, and that there is another suitor, a richer man, who the brother wants her to marry.

The Come into the Garden verses occur as the narrator waits by the garden gate of her home, whilst a social function is going on inside at which his rival for her affections is present. He waits all night, holding conversations with the roses, the lilies and other flowers in the garden. He is hoping that she will come into the garden, so that he can see her. He imagines that he hears her approaching as part one of the poem concludes.

Did she come to him? He says that she did, but she had spoken hardly a word when the brother runs in his rage to the gate, accompanied by the babe faced Lord who is the preferred suitor. In the heated exchange that follows, the brother strikes the narrator, and is immediately challenged to a duel, which the narrator wins. Gravely wounded, the brother admits his fault and tells him to escape, and Maud is heard to scream in anguish.

Was it he, lay there with a fading eye ? 
“The fault was mine" he whisper'd "fly !" 

Then glided out of the joyous wood 
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know
And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry
A cry for a brother's blood

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die,
till I die

He flees to France. In the subsequent sections, he claims to be dead, and waiting for her to join him, or forgive him, or both. He is exiled, and ruined. He seems to my uncultured mind to be quite mad, raving in fact. To me the poem feels a lot like the 1991 novel American Psycho by Brett Easton Ellis. It has the same unreliable narrator, and the same feeling at the end, that most of what he has told us is complete fantasy, the product of a sick mind.

I could be wrong. In all likelihood I am very wide of the mark, but what I do know is that Tennyson’s piece is nothing like the romantic song that a small section of it became. I wonder if he made some money out of the sheet music sales as the provider of the libretto. I suppose that if he did, he wouldn’t have been too bothered about the gulf between the poem and the song. Who knows?

If anyone can point me in the right direction or educate me in the error of my ways I would be very grateful¹.

And even if I am wrong, it’s still a great story.

Here’s the section in the Garden.

From Maude Part I, Section XXII

Come into the garden, Maud,
      For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
      I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
      And the musk of the rose is blown.

   For a breeze of morning moves,
      And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
      In a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
      To faint in his light, and to die.

   All night have the roses heard
      The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
      To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
      And a hush with the setting moon.

   I said to the lily, "There is but one
      With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
      She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
      And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
      The last wheel echoes away.

   I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
      In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
      For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
      "For ever and ever, mine."

   And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
      As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
      For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
      Our wood, that is dearer than all;

   From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
      That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
      In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
      And the valleys of Paradise.

   The slender acacia would not shake
      One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
      As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
      Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
      They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

   Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
      Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
      Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
      To the flowers, and be their sun.

   There has fallen a splendid tear
      From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
      She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
      And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
      And the lily whispers, "I wait."

   She is coming, my own, my sweet;
      Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
      Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
      Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
      And blossom in purple and red.

1. Since finishing this essay, I have come across another Substack article on the same topic. The Brief Night Goes by Nichola A Deane, suggests that Maud dies in the poem, and finds links between the poem and Shakespeare’s works, including a Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Romeo and Juliet.

Nichola’s article is a fascinating read, and I again wonder how wide of the mark I might be with my interpretation of the poem. I urge anyone interested, to have a read, and get back to me.