Crossing The Bar
Jul. 11th, 2010 04:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ancientandmodernSunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness or farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
[This is not the tune I know; it appears to be by one Samuel William Beazley. My favourite is the one by Parry, which can be heard in a horrible MIDI version here - click on the 'Melody' link in the top left hand corner.)
Death as voyage is a commonplace. According to my father, Lord Tennyson wrote this poem during - or perhaps following - a crossing of the Solent from Lymington (in the New Forest) to Yarmouth (on the Isle of Wight) - or perhaps the other way. It is (for one of my father's) a reasonably plausible story; Tennyson spent a lot of time on the Island, to the extent that he ended up with a down named after him. However, I've crossed this way myself, too many times to count, and, peaceful as it is, I can't say that it has ever moved me to thoughts of death. In an age where a journey took weeks or months, rather than hours, and when a farewell at the docks often meant 'adieu' rather than 'au revoir', a steamer crossing to the Isle of Wight was one of the few that the traveller could reasonably expect to return from relatively unchanged.
This voyage, however, is one that the speaker does not expect to repeat. This harbour is not one that we will see again. We are setting out into the unknown, on a journey that we can only make once, putting our trust in one who knows the way far, far better than we can.
Libby Purves objects to this poem on the following grounds:
"... surely you drop your pilot, not see him face to face, when you have crossed the bar going outwards? And the speaker must be going outwards, because he says 'when I embark', to rhyme with 'dark'?"
Now, I have a lot of time for Libby Purves, but I can't help feeling that in this case she has missed the point. It is not that we do not meet our pilot until we are out of the harbour; rather, when we are finding our way out of the harbour and into the open sea, we do not see the Pilot face to face - because he is beside us, working alongside us to guide us safely through the hazards, through the floods of death (when you walk through the waters I will be with you) and over the bar. Tennyson said, "The Pilot has been on board all the while, but in the dark I have not seen him…[He is] that Divine and Unseen Who is always guiding us." Only when we have crossed the bar will we be free to turn to face each other. Now we see in a glass darkly; then we shall see face to face. Now we know in part; then we shall know fully, even as we are fully known.
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness or farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
[This is not the tune I know; it appears to be by one Samuel William Beazley. My favourite is the one by Parry, which can be heard in a horrible MIDI version here - click on the 'Melody' link in the top left hand corner.)
Death as voyage is a commonplace. According to my father, Lord Tennyson wrote this poem during - or perhaps following - a crossing of the Solent from Lymington (in the New Forest) to Yarmouth (on the Isle of Wight) - or perhaps the other way. It is (for one of my father's) a reasonably plausible story; Tennyson spent a lot of time on the Island, to the extent that he ended up with a down named after him. However, I've crossed this way myself, too many times to count, and, peaceful as it is, I can't say that it has ever moved me to thoughts of death. In an age where a journey took weeks or months, rather than hours, and when a farewell at the docks often meant 'adieu' rather than 'au revoir', a steamer crossing to the Isle of Wight was one of the few that the traveller could reasonably expect to return from relatively unchanged.
This voyage, however, is one that the speaker does not expect to repeat. This harbour is not one that we will see again. We are setting out into the unknown, on a journey that we can only make once, putting our trust in one who knows the way far, far better than we can.
Libby Purves objects to this poem on the following grounds:
"... surely you drop your pilot, not see him face to face, when you have crossed the bar going outwards? And the speaker must be going outwards, because he says 'when I embark', to rhyme with 'dark'?"
Now, I have a lot of time for Libby Purves, but I can't help feeling that in this case she has missed the point. It is not that we do not meet our pilot until we are out of the harbour; rather, when we are finding our way out of the harbour and into the open sea, we do not see the Pilot face to face - because he is beside us, working alongside us to guide us safely through the hazards, through the floods of death (when you walk through the waters I will be with you) and over the bar. Tennyson said, "The Pilot has been on board all the while, but in the dark I have not seen him…[He is] that Divine and Unseen Who is always guiding us." Only when we have crossed the bar will we be free to turn to face each other. Now we see in a glass darkly; then we shall see face to face. Now we know in part; then we shall know fully, even as we are fully known.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-07-12 06:57 am (UTC)